“She had not been served with notice of your wardship, if such exists, or so she declared,” replied Martin in his quiet, obstinate voice.  “I think that there is no court in Europe which would void this open marriage when it learned that the parties lived a while as man and wife, and were so received by those about them—­no, not the Pope himself.”

“He who says that he is no lawyer still sets out the law,” broke in Maldon sarcastically.  “Well, what does it matter, seeing that death has voided it?  Husband and wife, if such they were, are both dead; it is finished.”

“No; for now they lay their appeal in the Court of Heaven, to which every one of us is summoned; and Heaven can stir up its ministers on earth.  Oh!  I like it not, I like it not; and I mourn for those two, so loving, brave, and young.  Their blood and that of many more is on our hands—­for what?  A stretch of upland and of marsh which the King or others may seize to-morrow.”

The Abbot seemed to cower beneath the weight of these sad, earnest words, and for a little while there was silence.  Then he plucked up courage, and said—­

“I am glad that you remember that their blood is on your hands as well as mine, since now, perhaps, you will keep them hidden.”

He rose and walked to the door and the window to see that none were without, then returned and exclaimed fiercely—­

“Fool, do you then think that these deeds were done to win a new estate?  True it is that those lands are ours by right, and we need their revenues; but there is more behind.  The whole Church of this realm is threatened by that accursed son of Belial who sits upon the throne.  Why, what is it now, man?”

“Only that I am an Englishman, and love not to hear England’s king called a son of Belial.  His sins, I know, are many and black, like those of others—­still, ‘son of Belial!’ Let his Highness hear it, and that name alone is enough to hang you!”

“Well, then, angel of grace, if it suits you better.  At the least we are threatened.  Against the law of God and man our blessed Queen, Catherine of Spain, is thrust away in favour of the slut who fills her place.  Even now I have tidings from Kimbolton that she lies dying there of slow poison; so they say and I believe.  Also I have other tidings.  Fisher and More being murdered, Parliament next month will be moved to strike at the lesser monasteries and steal their goods, and after them our turn will come.  But we will not bear it tamely, for ere this new year is out all England shall be ablaze, and I, Clement Maldon, I—­I will light the fire.  Now you have the truth, Martin.  Will you betray me, as that dead knight would have done?”

“Nay, my Lord Abbot, your secrets are safe with me.  Am I not your chaplain, and does not this wilful and rebellious King of ours work much mischief against God and His servants?  Yet I tell you that I like it not, and cannot see the end.  We English are a stiff-necked folk whom you of Spain do not understand and will never break, and Henry is strong and subtle; moreover, his people love him.”