Now things were changed again, however, for the Spanish letter in his hand told him that the Great Yarmouth had not sunk, since two members of her crew who escaped—­how, it was not said—­declared that she had been captured by Turkish or other infidel pirates and taken away through the Straits of Gibraltar to some place unknown.  Therefore, if he had survived the voyage, Christopher Harflete might still be living, and so might Jeffrey Stokes and Brother Martin.  Yet this was not likely, for probably they would have perished in the fight, being hot-headed Englishmen, all three of them, or at the best have been committed to the Turkish galleys, whence not one man in a thousand ever returned.

On the whole, then, he had little cause to fear them, who were dead, or as good as dead, especially in the midst of so many more pressing dangers.  All he had to fear, all that stood between him, or rather the Church, and a very rich inheritance was the girl in the Nunnery and an unborn child, and—­yes, Emlyn Stower.  Well, he was sure that the child would not live, and probably the mother would not live.  As for Emlyn, as she deserved, she would be burned for a witch, ere long too, now that he had time to see to it, and, if she survived her sickness, although he grieved for her, Cicely, her accomplice, should justly accompany her to the stake.  Meanwhile, as Mother Matilda’s message told him, this matter of the child was urgent.

The Abbot called a monk who was waiting on him and bade him send word to a woman known as Goody Megges, bidding her come at once.  Within ten minutes she entered, having, as she explained, been warned to be close at hand.

This Goody Megges, who had some local repute as a “wise woman,” was a person of about fifty years of age, remarkable for her enormous size, a flat face with small oblong eyes and a little, twisted mouth, which had caused her to be nicknamed “the Flounder.”  She greeted the Abbot with much reverence, curtseying till he thought she would fall backwards, and having received his fatherly blessing, sank into a chair, that seemed to vanish beneath her bulk.

“You will wonder why I summon you here, friend, since this is no place for the services of those of your trade,” began the Abbot, with a smile.

“Oh, no, my Lord,” answered the woman; “I’ve heard it is to wait upon Sir Christopher Harflete’s wife in her trouble.”

“I wish that I could call her by the honoured name of wife,” said the Abbot, with a sigh.  “But a mock-marriage does not make a wife, Mistress Megges, and, alas! the poor babe, if ever it should be born, will be but a bastard, marked from its birth with the brand of shame.”

Now, the Flounder, who was no fool, began to take her cue.