o Sir Christopher Harflete, to Mistress Cicely Foterell, to Emlyn
Stower, the waiting-woman, and to all others whom it may concern.

"I, Clement Maldon, Abbot of Blossholme, having heard of the death of
Sir John Foterell, Knt., at the cruel hands of the forest thieves
and outlaws, sent last night to serve the declaration of my wardship,
according to my prerogative established by law and custom, over the
person and property of you, Cicely, his only child surviving. My
messengers returned saying that you had fled from your home of Shefton
Hall. They said further that it was rumoured that you had ridden with
your foster-mother, Emlyn Stower, to Cranwell Towers, the house of Sir
Christopher Harflete. If this be so, for the sake of your good name it
is needful that you should remove from such company at once, as there
is talk about you and the said Sir Christopher Harflete. I purpose,
therefore, God permitting me, to ride this day to Cranwell Towers, and
if you be there, as your lawful guardian and ghostly father, to command
you, being an infant under age, to accompany me thence to the Nunnery
of Blossholme. There I have determined, in the exercise of my authority,
you shall abide until a fitting husband is found for you, unless,
indeed, God should move your heart to remain within its walls as one of
the brides of Christ.

"Clement, Abbot."

Now when the reading of this letter was finished, the three of them
stood a little while staring at each other, knowing well that it meant
trouble for them all, till Cicely said--

"Bring me ink and paper, Nurse. I will answer this Abbot."

So they were brought, and Cicely wrote in her round, girlish hand--

"My Lord Abbot,

"In answer to your letter, I would have you know that as my noble father
(whose cruel death must be inquired of and avenged) bade me with his
last words, I, fearing that a like fate would overtake me at the hands
of his murderers, did, as you suppose, seek refuge at this house. Here,
yesterday, I was married in the face of God and man in the church of
Cranwell, as you may learn from the paper sent herewith. It is not,
therefore, needful that you should seek a husband for me, since my dear
lord, Sir Christopher Harflete, and I are one till death do part us. Nor
do I admit that now, or at any time, you had or have right of wardship
over my person or the lands and goods which I hold and inherit. "Your
humble servant,

"Cicely Harflete."

This letter Cic