ot news that this was not so, but that
he was foremost among those who stirred up sedition and war along the
Scottish border.

"I can well believe it," said Cicely. "The sow must to its wallowing in
the mire. Nature made him a plotter, and he will follow his heart to the
end."

"Ere long he may find it hard to follow his head," answered Emlyn
grimly. "Oh, to think that you had that wolf caged and turned him loose
again to prey on England and on us!"

"I did but show mercy to the fallen, Nurse."

"Mercy? I call it madness. Why, when Jeffrey and Thomas heard of it I
thought they would burst with rage, especially Jeffrey, who loved your
father well and loved not the infidel galleys," answered the fierce
Emlyn.

"Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord," murmured Cicely in a
gentle voice.

"The Lord also said that whoso sheddeth man's blood by man shall his
blood be shed. Why, I've heard this Maldon quote it to your husband at
Cranwell Towers."

"So will it be, Emlyn, if so it is to be, only let others shed that
cruel blood. I would not have it on my hands or on those of any of my
house, for after all he is an ordained priest of my own faith. Moreover,
I had promised. Still, talk not of the matter lest it should bring
trouble on us all, who had no right to loose him. Also these are ill
thoughts for your wedding day. Go, deck yourself in those fine clothes
which Jacob Smith has sent from London, since the clergyman will be
at Blossholme church by four, and I think that Thomas has waited long
enough for you."

Emlyn smiled a little, and shrugged her broad shoulders, muttering
something that would have angered Thomas if he could have heard it,
as Cicely went off to join Christopher, who called to her from another
room.

She found him adding up figures on paper, a very different Christopher
to the broken man they had rescued from the dungeon, though still much
aged by the terrors of the past year and just now looking rueful.

"See, Sweet," he said, "we should give a marriage portion to Emlyn, who
has earned it if ever woman did, but where it is to come from I know
not. Those Abbey lands Jacob Smith bought from the King are not yours
yet, nor Henry's either, though doubtless he will have them soon.
Neither have any rents been paid to you from your own estates, and when
they come they are promised up in London, while the Abbot's razor has
shaved my own poor parsimony bare as a churchyard skull. Also Mother