“Emlyn, you have heard no tidings for these many months, but I have. Listen; there is much afoot. The King, or the Lord Cromwell, or both, make war upon the lesser Houses, dissolving them, seizing their goods, turning the religious out of them upon the world to starve. His Grace sends Royal Commissioners to visit them, and be judge and jury both. They were coming here, but I have friends and some fortune of my own, who was not born meanly or ill-dowered, and I found a way to buy them off. One of these Commissioners, Thomas Legh, as I heard only to-day, makes inquisition at the monastery of Bayfleet, in Yorkshire, some eighty miles away, of which my cousin, Alfred Stukley, whose letter reached me this morning, is the Prior. Emlyn, I’ll go to this rough man—for rough he is, they say. Old and feeble as I am, I’ll seek him out and offer up the ancient House I rule to save your life and Cicely’s—yes, and Bridget’s also.”
“You will go, Mother! Oh! God’s blessing be on you. But how will you go? They will never suffer it.”
The old nun drew herself up, and answered—
“Who has the right to say to the Prioress of Blossholme that she shall not travel whither she will? No Spanish Abbot, I think. Why, but now that proud priest’s servants would have forbidden me to enter your chamber in my own House, but I read them a lesson they will not forget. Also I have horses at my command, but it is true I need an escort, who am not too strong and little versed in the ways of the outside world, where I have scarcely strayed for many years. Now I have bethought me of that red-haired lay-brother, Thomas Bolle. I am told that though foolish, he is a valiant man whom few care to face; moreover, that he understands horses and knows all roads. Do you think, Emlyn Stower, that Thomas Bolle will be my companion on this journey, with leave from the Abbot, or without it?” and again she looked her in the eyes.
“He might, he might; he is a venturous man, or so I remember him in my youth,” answered Emlyn. “Moreover, his forefathers have served the Harfletes and the Foterells for generations in peace and war, and doubtless, therefore, he loves my lady yonder. But the trouble is to get at him.”
“No trouble at all, Emlyn; he is one of the watch outside the gate. But, woman, what token?”
Emlyn thought for a moment, then drew a ring off her finger in which was set a cornelian heart.
“Give him this,” she said, “and say that the wearer bade him follow the bearer to the death, for the sake of that wearer’s life and another’s. He is a simple soul, and if the Abbot does not catch him first I believe that he will go.”
Mother Matilda took the ring and set it on her own finger. Then she walked to where Cicely lay sleeping, looked at her and the boy upon her breast. Stretching out her thin hands, she called down the blessing and protection of Almighty God upon them both, then turned to depart.
Emlyn caught her by the robe.