“The same that saved my child and called the Sword of God down upon the murderess. It wore my father’s armour, but its face I did not see. It has gone whence it came, but where that is I know not. Discover if you can.”
“Woman, you trifle with us. What said the Thing?”
“It spoke of the slaughter of Sir John Foterell by King’s Grave Mount and of those who wrought it,” and she looked at him steadily until his eyes fell before hers.
“What else?”
“It told me that my husband is not dead. Neither did you bury him as you put about, but shipped him hence to Spain, whence it prophesied he will return again to be revenged upon you. It told me that he was captured by the infidel Moors, and with him Jeffrey Stokes, my father’s servant, and the priest Martin, your secretary. Then it looked up and vanished, or seemed to vanish, though perhaps it is among us now.”
“Aye,” answered the Abbot, “Satan, with whom you hold converse, is always among us. Cicely Foterell and Emlyn Stower, you are foul witches, self-confessed. The world has borne your sorceries too long, and you shall answer for them before God and man, as I, the Lord Abbot of Blossholme, have right and authority to make you do. Seize these witches and let them be kept fast in their chamber till I constitute the Court Ecclesiastic for their trial.”
So they took hold of Cicely and Emlyn and led them to the Nunnery. As they crossed the garden they were met by Mother Matilda and the nuns, who, for a second time within a month, ran out to see what was the tumult in the chapel.
“What is it now, Cicely?” asked the Prioress.
“Now we are witches, Mother,” she answered, with a sad smile.
“Aye,” broke in Emlyn, “and the charge is that the ghost of the murdered Sir John Foterell was seen speaking to us.”