The monk put down his bread, for which he seemed to have no further appetite.
“A dreadful deed,” he said, “for which one day you must answer to God and man.”
“For which we all must answer,” corrected the Abbot, “down to the last lay-brother and soldier—you as much as any of us, Brother, for were you not present at our quarrel?”
“So be it, Abbot. Being innocent, I am ready. But that is not the end of it. The Lady Cicely, on hearing of this murder—nay, be not wrath, I know no other name for it—and learning that you claimed her as your ward, flies to her affianced lover, Sir Christopher Harflete, and that very day is married to him by the parish priest in yonder church.”
“It was no marriage. Due notice had not been given. Moreover, how could my ward be wed without my leave?”
“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.”