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Updated: May 17, 2025
"Jesus, have mercy on his soul!" said Cicely, crossing herself. "Now, if I live, I swear that I will move his bones to the chancel of Blossholme church and build a fair monument to his memory."
Here he stopped and, turning, surveyed them all narrowly, especially Cicely. "I suppose, Master Smith," he said, pointing to Bolle, who was wiping his hands clean with the rushes from the floor, "this is the man that you told me played the devil yonder at Blossholme. Well, he can play the fool also.
"An old companion of mine, your worship, a monk of Blossholme who is weary of Grace and its pilgrimages, and seeks the King's comfort and pardon, which I have made bold to promise to him." "Good," said Jacob, "I'll enter his name, and if he remains faithful your promise shall be kept. But why do you bring him here?" "Because he bears tidings."
Further, by means of notice sent herewith, I warn all that cling to you and abet you in your crimes that they will do so at the peril of their souls and bodies. "Clement Maldon, Abbot of Blossholme." A week had gone by. For the first three days of that time little of note had happened at Cranwell Towers; that is, no assault was delivered.
Wondering what was their business at Blossholme, the pair passed through the last of the woodland and reached the rise whence they could see the gaunt skeleton of the burnt-out Abbey that appeared within fifty paces of them. At this they paused to look, and presently were joined there by Christopher and Cicely, Mother Matilda and her good nuns, Jeffrey Stokes, and others.
There was no mistaking Mother Matilda in her black Benedictine robe and her white whimple, wearing the great silver crucifix which was her badge of office, and the golden ring with an emerald bezel whereon was cut St. Catherine being broken on the wheel the ancient ring which every Prioress of Blossholme had worn from the beginning.
"It should have been granted the more readily if Maldon had fallen also, but let that pass. What more?" "The promise, your Grace, of the lands of the Abbey of Blossholme and of the Priory of Blossholme in consideration of the loan of L1000 advanced to your Grace by the agent of Cicely Harflete, Jacob Smith." "A large demand, my Lord. Have these lands been valued?"
It is of this Abbey and this Nunnery and of those who dwelt around them in a day bygone, and especially of that fair and persecuted woman who came to be known as the Lady of Blossholme, that our story has to tell. It was dead winter in the year 1535 the 31st of December, indeed.
At length they were undone and a sealed inner wrapping also, revealing, amongst other documents, a little packet of parchments covered with crabbed, unreadable writing, on the back of which, however, they could decipher the names of Shefton and Blossholme by reason of the larger letters in which they were engrossed.
Other and worse things were seen, however. One moonlight night a disturbance was heard among the cows, that bellowed and rushed about the field into which they had been turned after milking. Thinking that dogs had got amongst them, the herd and a watchman for now no man would stir alone after sunset at Blossholme went to see what was happening, and presently fell down half dead with fright.
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