“Oh!  Christopher,” she answered, weeping, “my poor father is dead—­murdered, or so says Emlyn.”

“Murdered!  By whom?”

“By the Abbot of Blossholme’s soldiers—­so says Emlyn, yonder in the forest last eve.  And the Abbot is coming to Shefton to declare me his ward and thrust me into the Nunnery—­that was Emlyn’s tale.  And so, although it is a strange thing to do, having none to protect me, I have fled to you—­because Emlyn said I ought.”

“She is a wise woman, Emlyn,” broke in Christopher; “I always thought well of her judgment.  But did you only come to me because Emlyn told you?”

“Not altogether, Christopher.  I came because I am distraught, and you are a better friend than none at all, and—­where else should I go?  Also my poor father with his last words to me, although he was so angry with you, bade me seek your help if there were need—­and—­oh!  Christopher, I came because you swore you loved me, and, therefore, it seemed right.  If I had gone to the Nunnery, although the Prioress, Mother Matilda, is good, and my friend, who knows, she might not have let me out again, for the Abbot is her master, and not my friend.  It is our lands he loves, and the famous jewels—­Emlyn has them with her.”

By now they were across the moat and at the steps of the house, so, without answering, Christopher lifted her tenderly from the saddle, pressing her to his breast as he did so, for that seemed his best answer.  A groom came to lead away the horses, touching his bonnet, and staring at them curiously; and, leaning on her lover’s shoulder, Cicely passed through the arched doorway of Cranwell Towers into the hall, where a great fire burned.  Before this fire, warming his thin hands, stood Father Necton, engaged in eager conversation with Emlyn Stower.  As the pair advanced this talk ceased, evidently because it was of them.

“Mistress Cicely,” said the kindly-faced old man, speaking in a nervous fashion, “I fear that you visit us in sad case,” and he paused, not knowing what to add.

“Yes, indeed,” she answered, “if all I hear is true.  They say that my father is killed by cruel men—­I know not for certain why or by whom—­and that the Abbot of Blossholme comes to claim me as his ward and immure me in Blossholme Priory, whither I would not go.  I have fled here to escape him, having no other refuge, though you may think ill of me for this deed.”

“Not I, my child.  I should not speak against yonder Abbot, for he is my superior in the Church, though, mind you, I owe him no allegiance, since this benefice is not in his gift, nor am I a Benedictine.  Therefore I will tell you the truth.  I hold the man not honest.  All is provender that comes to his maw; moreover, he is no Englishman, but a Spaniard, one sent here to work against the welfare of this realm; to suck its wealth, stir up rebellion, and make report of all that passes in it, for the benefit of England’s enemies.”