Perhaps that is why this fellow died.

Tell me, Abbot, was he not one of those who rode by moonlight round King's Grave lately, and there chanced to meet Sir John Foterell ?" The shot was a random one, yet it seemed that it went home; at least, the Abbot's jaw dropped, and some words that were on his lips never passed them.
"I know naught of the meaning of your talk," he said presently in a quieter voice, "or of how my late friend and neighbour, Sir John--may God rest his soul--came to his end.

Yet it is of him, or rather of his, that we must speak.

It seems that you have stolen his daughter, a woman under age, and by pretence of a false marriage, as I fear, brought her to shame--a crime even fouler than this murder." "Nay, by means of a true marriage I have brought her to such small honour as may be the share of Christopher Harflete's lawful wife.

If there be any virtue in the rites of Holy Church, then God's own hand has bound us fast as man can be tied to woman, and death is the only pope who can loose that knot." "Death!" repeated the Abbot in a slow voice, looking up at him very curiously.