If Martin Fairley had attempted such a forlorn hope
as this it was unlikely that he would bring much help with him when he
returned. Hour after hour Crosby sat there alone, now staring vacantly
at the opposite wall, now pacing the narrow room like a caged and
impotent animal. The dawn found him asleep in his chair.
News travelled slowly. Messengers, with instructions not to spare their
horses, might ride to London, to the King at Whitehall, yet Lady Lisle
had been executed at Winchester before the story of her trial was known
in parts of Hampshire even. If one were far from the main road, where
news might be had from the driver or guard of a coach, information could
only come from some wandering pedlar to a remote village, and might or
might not be true. Vague stories were told, and forgotten as soon as
told. Men and women, with a hard living to earn, cared little what was
happening fifty or a hundred miles away, unless a son or brother or
friend had had part in the rebellion. At the village of Aylingford no
one appeared to have this personal interest, and they were ignorant of
the fact that at least one messenger had ridden to the Abbey with news
for Sir John.
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