“Take her this with my duty, my Lord,” said Cicely.

“I will, I will.  Oh! fear not, it shall reach her for my own sake as well as yours.  You are a wise giver, Lady Harflete, who know when and where to cast your bread upon the waters.  And now I have a gift for you that perchance will please you more than gems.  Your husband, Christopher Harflete, accompanied by a servant, has landed in the north safe and well.”

“Oh, my Lord,” she cried, “then where is he now?”

“Alas! the rest of the tale is not so pleasing, for as he journeyed, from Hull I think, he was taken prisoner by the rebels, who have him fast at Lincoln, wishing to make him, whose name is of account, one of their company.  But he being a wise and loyal man, contrived to send a letter to the King’s captain in those parts, which has reached me this night.  Here it is, do you know the writing?”

“Aye, aye,” gasped Cicely, staring at the scrawl that was ill writ and worse spelt, for Christopher was no scholar.

“Then I’ll read it to you, and afterwards certify a copy to multiply the evidence.”

“To the Captain of the King’s Forces outside Lincoln.

“This to give notice to you, his Grace, and his ministers and all others, that we, Christopher Harflete, Knight, and Jeffrey Stokes, his servant, when journeying from the seaport whither we had come from Spain, were taken by rebels in arms against the King and brought here to Lincoln.  These men would win me to their party because the name of Harflete is still strong and known.  So violent were they that we have taken some kind of oath.  Yet this writing advises you that so I only did to save my life, having no heart that way who am a loyal man and understand little of their quarrel.  Life, in sooth, is of small value to me who have lost wife, lands and all.  Yet ere I die I would be avenged upon the murderous Abbot of Blossholme, and therefore I seek to keep my breath in me and to escape.

“I learn that the said Abbot is afoot with a great following within fifty miles of here.  Pray God he does not get his claws in me again, but if so, say to the King, that Harflete died faithful.

“Christopher Harflete.

“Jeffrey Stokes, X his mark.”

“My Lord,” said Cicely, “what shall I do, my Lord?”

“There is naught to be done, save trust in God and hope for the best.  Doubtless he will escape, and at least his Grace shall see this letter to-morrow morning and send orders to help him if may be.  Copy it, Master Smith.”

Jacob took the letter and began to write swiftly, while Cromwell thought.

“Listen,” he said presently.  “Round Blossholme there are no rebels, all of that colour have drawn off north.  Now Foterell and Harflete are good names yonder, cannot you journey thither and raise a company?”

“Aye, aye, that I can do,” broke in Bolle.  “In a week I will have a hundred men at my back.  Give commission and money to my Lady there and name me captain and you’ll see.”