Moreover, the marriage on which he had set his heart between Eve and the
glittering French lord whose future seemed so great had been brought to
naught, and this turbulent, hot-hearted Eve had fled into sanctuary. Her
lover, too, the youngest son of a merchant, had ridden away to London,
doubtless upon some mission which boded no good to him or his, leaving
a blood feud behind him between the wealthy de Cressis and all the
Clavering kin.
There was but one drop of comfort in his cup. By now, as he hoped, Hugh
and his death's-head, Grey Dick, a spawn of Satan that all the country
feared, and who, men said, was a de Cressi bastard by a witch, were
surely slain or taken by those who followed upon their heels.
Sir John rode to the Preceptory and hammered fiercely on its oaken door.
Presently it was opened by Sir Andrew Arnold himself, who stood in the
entrance, grey and grim, a long sword girt about his loins and armour
gleaming beneath his monkish robe.
"What would you, Sir John Clavering, that you knock at this holy house
thus rudely?" he asked.
"My daughter, priest, who, they say, has sheltered here."
"They say well, knight, she has sheltered here beneath the wings of St.
Mary and St. John. Begone and leave her in peace."
"I make no more of such wings than if they were those of farmyard
geese," roared the furious man. "Bring her or I will pluck her forth.
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