It is of this Abbey and this Nunnery and of those who dwelt around them in a day bygone, and especially of that fair and persecuted woman who came to be known as the Lady of Blossholme, that our story has to tell.

It was dead winter in the year 1535—­the 31st of December, indeed.  Old Sir John Foterell, a white-bearded, red-faced man of about sixty years of age, was seated before the log fire in the dining-hall of his great house at Shefton, spelling through a letter which had just been brought to him from Blossholme Abbey.  He mastered it at length, and when it was done any one who had been there to look might have seen a knight and gentleman of large estate in a rage remarkable even for the time of the eighth Henry.  He dashed the document to the ground; he drank three cups of strong ale, of which he had already had enough, in quick succession; he swore a number of the best oaths of the period, and finally, in the most expressive language, he consigned the body of the Abbot of Blossholme to the gallows and his soul to hell.

“He claims my lands, does he?” he exclaimed, shaking his fist in the direction of Blossholme.  “What does the rogue say?  That the abbot who went before him parted with them to my grandfather for no good consideration, but under fear and threats.  Now, writes he, this Secretary Cromwell, whom they call Vicar-General, has declared that the said transfer was without the law, and that I must hand over the said lands to the Abbey of Blossholme on or before Candlemas!  What was Cromwell paid to sign that order with no inquiry made, I wonder?”

Sir John poured out and drank a fourth cup of ale, then set to walking up and down the hall.  Presently he halted in front of the fire and addressed it as though it were his enemy.

“You are a clever fellow, Clement Maldon; they tell me that all Spaniards are, and you were taught your craft at Rome and sent here for a purpose.  You began as nothing, and now you are Abbot of Blossholme, and, if the King had not faced the Pope, would be more.  But you forget yourself at times, for the Southern blood is hot, and when the wine is in, the truth is out.  There were certain words you spoke not a year ago before me and other witnesses of which I will remind you presently.  Perhaps when Secretary Cromwell learns them he will cancel his gift of my lands, and mayhap lift that plotting head of yours up higher.  I’ll go remind you of them.”

Sir John strode to the door and shouted; it would not be too much to say that he bellowed like a bull.  It opened after a while, and a serving-man appeared, a bow-legged, sturdy-looking fellow with a shock of black hair.

“Why are you not quicker, Jeffrey Stokes?” he asked.  “Must I wait your pleasure from noon to night?”

“I came as fast as I could, master.  Why, then, do you rate me?”

“Would you argue with me, fellow?  Do it again and I will have you tied to a post and lashed.”