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Updated: May 17, 2025
Yes, this was certainly the great guest-chamber of the Blossholme Priory, which, since the nuns had now few guests and many places in which to put them, had been given up to her, Sir John Foterell's heiress, as her schoolroom.
Down she came on them like a whirlwind, for her frightened horse scented its Blossholme stable, clinging grimly to her unaccustomed seat, and crying as she sped "For God's love, stop this mad beast!"
The Abbot Maldon claims the Blossholme lands under some trick of law. It was as to them that your father quarrelled with him the other night; and with the land goes your wardship, as once mine went under this monk's charter. Before sunset the Abbot rides here with his men-at-arms to take them, and to set you for safe-keeping in the Nunnery, where you will find a husband called Holy Church."
All eyes are not blind yonder, nor all ears deaf. That head of yours shall yet be lifted higher than you think so high that it sticks upon the top of Blossholme Towers, a warning to all who would sell England to her enemies. John Foterell lies dead with your knave's arrow in his throat, but Jeffrey Stokes is away with the writings. And now do your worst, Clement Maldon.
"Aye, Sire, freedom from my oath as a lay-brother of the Abbey of Blossholme, and leave to marry." "To marry whom?" "Her, Sire," and he pointed to Emlyn. "What! The other handsome witch? See you not that she has a temper? Nay, woman, be silent, it is written in your face. Well, take your freedom and her with it, but, Thomas Bolle, why did you not ask otherwise when the chance came your way?
Worse of all, the monk Ambrose leaned against a pillar; his feet seemed to go forward but his face looked backward, for his neck was twisted like that of a Michaelmas goose. The Bishop looked about him and felt his hurts; then he called to his people "Bring me my cloak and a horse, for I have had enough of Blossholme and its wizardries.
"Whence came this?" he asked, turning it over suspiciously. "A messenger has brought it from Blossholme Abbey," she answered. "Wife Cicely," he called through the door, "come hither if you will." Presently she appeared, looking quaint and lovely in her long fur cloak, and, having embraced her foster-mother, asked what was the matter. "This, my darling," he answered, handing her the paper.
"Come with me and shift those wet clothes of yours, or you will take harm," and he led him off, still eating, to a tent that stood near by. Meanwhile, Jacob, having studied the letter with bent and anxious brows, read it aloud. It ran thus "To the Captain of the King's men, from Clement, Abbot of Blossholme.
The monks being gone Father Roger Necton, the old vicar of Cranwell, he who had united Christopher and his wife Cicely in strange circumstances, and for that deed been obliged to fly for his life when the last Abbot of Blossholme burned Cranwell Towers, came to tie the knot before his great congregation.
On the following morning, as they sat at their breakfast, Jacob Smith appeared, and began to talk of many things, such as the badness of the weather for it rained the toughness of the ham, which he said was not to be compared to those they cured at Blossholme in his youth, and the likeness of the baby boy to his mother.
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