“You are a clever fellow, Clement Maldon; they tell me that all Spaniards are, and you were taught your craft at Rome and sent here for a purpose. You began as nothing, and now you are Abbot of Blossholme, and, if the King had not faced the Pope, would be more. But you forget yourself at times, for the Southern blood is hot, and when the wine is in, the truth is out. There were certain words you spoke not a year ago before me and other witnesses of which I will remind you presently. Perhaps when Secretary Cromwell learns them he will cancel his gift of my lands, and mayhap lift that plotting head of yours up higher. I’ll go remind you of them.” Sir John strode to the door and shouted; it would not be too much to say that he bellowed like a bull. It opened after a while, and a serving-man appeared, a bow-legged, sturdy-looking fellow with a shock of black hair. “Why are you not quicker, Jeffrey Stokes?” he asked. “Must I wait your pleasure from noon to night?” “I came as fast as I could, master. Why, then, do you rate me?” “Would you argue with me, fellow? Do it again and I will have you tied to a post and lashed.” “Lash yourself, master, and let out the choler and good ale, which you need to do,” replied Jeffrey in his gruff voice. “There be some men who never know when they are well served, and such are apt to come to ill and lonely ends. What is your pleasure? I’ll do it if I can, and if not, do it yourself.” Sir John lifted his hand as though to strike him, then let it fall again. “I like one who braves me to my teeth,” he said more gently, “and that was ever your nature. Take it not ill, man; I was angered, and have cause to be.” “The anger I see, but not the cause, though, as a monk came from the Abbey but now, perhaps I can hazard a guess.” “Aye, that’s it, that’s it, Jeffrey. Hark; I ride to yonder crows’-nest, and at once. Saddle me a horse.” “Good, master. I’ll saddle two horses.” “Two? I said one. Fool, can I ride a pair at once, like a mountebank?” “I know not, but you can ride one and I another. When the Abbot of Blossholme visits Sir John Foterell of Shefton he comes with hawk on wrist, with chaplains and pages, and ten stout men-at-arms, of whom he keeps more of late than a priest would seem to need about him. When Sir John Foterell visits the Abbot of Blossholme, at least he should have one serving-man at his back to hold his nag and bear him witness.” Sir John looked at him shrewdly. “I called you fool,” he said, “but you are none except in looks. Do as you will, Jeffrey, but be swift. Stop. Where is my daughter?” “The Lady Cicely sits in her parlour. I saw her sweet face at the window but now staring out at the snow as though she thought to see a ghost in it.” “Um,” grunted Sir John, “the ghost she thinks to see rides a grand grey mare, stands over six feet high, has a jolly face, and a pair of arms well made for sword and shield, or to clip a girl in. Yet that ghost must be laid, Jeffrey.”