“So be it.  What I vowed, I vowed.  With God be the rest.  He has watched us well heretofore, and I think,” she added, with one of her bursts of triumphant faith, “will do so to the end.  Abbot Maldon, sinful, fallen Abbot Maldon, you are as you were made, and Martin, the saint, said that there is good in your heart, though you have shown none of it to me or mine.  Now, look you; yonder is a wooden summer-house, thatched and warm.  Get you there, and I’ll send you food and wine and new clothing by one who will not talk; also a pass to Lincoln.  By to-morrow’s dawn you will be refreshed, and then you will find a good horse tied to yonder tree, and so away to sanctuary at Lincoln, and, if aught of ill befalls you afterwards, know it is not our doing, but that of some other enemy, or of God, with Whom I pray you make your peace.  May He forgive you, as I do, Who knows all hearts, which I do not.  Now, farewell.  Nay, say nothing.  There is nothing to be said.  Come, Christopher, for this once you obey me, not I you.”

So they went, and the wretched man raised himself upon his hands and looked after them, but what passed in his heart at that moment none will ever learn.

Some months had gone by and Blossholme, with all the country round, was once more at peace.  The tide of trouble had rolled away northward, whence came rumours of renewed rebellion.  Abbot Maldon had been seen no more, and for a while it was believed that although he never took sanctuary at Lincoln, he had done a wiser thing and fled to Spain.  Then Emlyn, who heard everything, got news that this was not so, but that he was foremost among those who stirred up sedition and war along the Scottish border.

“I can well believe it,” said Cicely.  “The sow must to its wallowing in the mire.  Nature made him a plotter, and he will follow his heart to the end.”

“Ere long he may find it hard to follow his head,” answered Emlyn grimly.  “Oh, to think that you had that wolf caged and turned him loose again to prey on England and on us!”

“I did but show mercy to the fallen, Nurse.”

“Mercy?  I call it madness.  Why, when Jeffrey and Thomas heard of it I thought they would burst with rage, especially Jeffrey, who loved your father well and loved not the infidel galleys,” answered the fierce Emlyn.

“Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord,” murmured Cicely in a gentle voice.

“The Lord also said that whoso sheddeth man’s blood by man shall his blood be shed.  Why, I’ve heard this Maldon quote it to your husband at Cranwell Towers.”

“So will it be, Emlyn, if so it is to be, only let others shed that cruel blood.  I would not have it on my hands or on those of any of my house, for after all he is an ordained priest of my own faith.  Moreover, I had promised.  Still, talk not of the matter lest it should bring trouble on us all, who had no right to loose him.  Also these are ill thoughts for your wedding day.  Go, deck yourself in those fine clothes which Jacob Smith has sent from London, since the clergyman will be at Blossholme church by four, and I think that Thomas has waited long enough for you.”