“Oh!” cried Cicely, as memory came back to her, “has aught been heard of my husband?”

They shook their heads, and the Prioress said—­

“First you must eat, Sweet, and then we will tell you all we know, which is little.”

So she ate who needed food sadly, and while Emlyn helped her to dress herself, hearkened to the news.  It was of no great account, only confirming that which they had learnt from the Fenmen; that the Abbey was fortified and guarded by strange soldiers, rebellious men from the north or foreigners, and the Abbot supposed to be away.

Bolle, who had been out, reported also that a man he met declared that he had heard a troop of horsemen pass through the village in the night, but of this no proof was forthcoming, since if they had done so the heavy rain that was still falling had washed out all traces of them.  Moreover, in those times people were always moving to and fro in the dark, and none could know if this troop had anything to do with the band they had seen in the forest, which might have gone some other way.

When Cicely was ready they went downstairs, and in Mother Matilda’s private room found Jacob Smith and Thomas Bolle awaiting them.

“Lady Harflete,” said Jacob, with the air of a man who has no time to lose, “things stand thus.  As yet none know that you are here, for we have the gardener and his wife under ward.  But as soon as they learn it at the Abbey there will be risk of an attack, and this place is not defensible.  Now at your hall of Shefton it is otherwise, for there it seems is a deep moat with a drawbridge and the rest.  To Shefton, therefore, you must go at once, unobserved if may be.  Indeed, Thomas has been there already, and spoken to certain of your tenants whom he can trust, who are now hard at work preparing and victualling the place, and passing on the word to others.  By nightfall he hopes to have thirty strong men to defend it, and within three days a hundred, when your commission and his captaincy are made known.  Come, then, for there is no time to tarry and the horses are saddled.”

So Cicely kissed Mother Matilda, who blessed and thanked her for all she had done, or tried to do on behalf of the sisterhood, and within five minutes once more they were on the backs of their weary beasts and riding through the rain to Shefton, which happily was but three miles away.  Keeping under the lee of the woods they left the Priory unobserved, for in that wet few were stirring, and the sentinels at the Abbey, if there were any, had taken shelter in the guard-house.  So thankfully enough they came unmolested to walled and wooded Shefton, which Cicely had last seen when she fled thence to Cranwell on the day of her marriage, oh, years and years ago, or so it seemed to her tormented heart.

It was a strange and a sad home-coming, she thought, as they rode over the drawbridge and through the sodden and weed-smothered pleasaunce to the familiar door.  Yet it might have been worse, for the tenants whom Bolle had warned had not been idle.  For two hours past and more a dozen willing women had swept and cleaned; the fires had been lit, and there was plenteous food of a sort in the kitchen and the store-room.