“This to give notice to you, his Grace, and his ministers and all others, that we, Christopher Harflete, Knight, and Jeffrey Stokes, his servant, when journeying from the seaport whither we had come from Spain, were taken by rebels in arms against the King and brought here to Lincoln. These men would win me to their party because the name of Harflete is still strong and known. So violent were they that we have taken some kind of oath. Yet this writing advises you that so I only did to save my life, having no heart that way who am a loyal man and understand little of their quarrel. Life, in sooth, is of small value to me who have lost wife, lands and all. Yet ere I die I would be avenged upon the murderous Abbot of Blossholme, and therefore I seek to keep my breath in me and to escape. “I learn that the said Abbot is afoot with a great following within fifty miles of here. Pray God he does not get his claws in me again, but if so, say to the King, that Harflete died faithful. “Christopher Harflete. “Jeffrey Stokes, X his mark.” “My Lord,” said Cicely, “what shall I do, my Lord?” “There is naught to be done, save trust in God and hope for the best. Doubtless he will escape, and at least his Grace shall see this letter to-morrow morning and send orders to help him if may be. Copy it, Master Smith.” Jacob took the letter and began to write swiftly, while Cromwell thought. “Listen,” he said presently. “Round Blossholme there are no rebels, all of that colour have drawn off north. Now Foterell and Harflete are good names yonder, cannot you journey thither and raise a company?” “Aye, aye, that I can do,” broke in Bolle. “In a week I will have a hundred men at my back. Give commission and money to my Lady there and name me captain and you’ll see.” “The commission and the captaincy under the privy signet shall be at this house by nine of the clock to-morrow,” answered Cromwell. “The money you must find, for there is none outside the coffers of Jacob Smith. Yet pause, Lady Harflete, there is risk and here you are safe.” “I know the risk,” she answered, “but what do I care for risks who have taken so many, when my husband is yonder and I may serve him?” “An excellent spirit, let us trust that it comes from on high,” remarked Cromwell; but old Jacob, as he wrote _vera copia_ for his Lordship’s signature at the foot of the transcript of Christopher’s letter, shook his head sadly. In another minute Cromwell had signed without troubling to compare the two, and with some gentle words of farewell was gone, having bigger matters waiting his attention.