Grisly Grisell; Or, The Laidly Lady of Whitburn: A Tale of the Wars of the Roses by - (summer reads .TXT) 📕

smouldering fire in her chamber, seemed suddenly startled into life.

“Tidings,” she cried.  “News of my lord and son.  Bring them, Grisell, bring them up.”

Grisell obeyed, and hurried down to the hall.  All the household, men and maids, were gathered round some one freshly come in, and the first sound she heard was, “Alack!  Alack, my lady!”

“How—what—how—” she asked breathlessly, just recognising Harry Featherstone, pale, dusty, blood-stained.

“It is evil news, dear lady,” said old Ridley, turning towards her with outstretched hands, and tears flowing down his cheeks.  “My knight.  Oh! my knight!  And I was not by!”

“Slain?” almost under her breath, asked Grisell.

“Even so!  At Wakefield Bridge,” began Featherstone, but at that instant, walking stiff, upright, and rigid, like a figure moved by mechanism, Lady Whitburn was among them.

“My lord,” she said, still as if her voice belonged to some one else.  “Slain?  And thou, recreant, here to tell the tale!”

“Madam, he fell before I had time to strike.”  She seemed to hear no word, but again demanded, “My son.”

He hesitated a moment, but she fiercely reiterated.

“My son!  Speak out, thou coward loon.”

“Madam, Robert was cut down by the Lord Clifford beside the Earl of Rutland.  ’Tis a lost field!  I barely ’scaped with a dozen men.  I came but to bear the tidings, and see whether you needed an arm to hold out the castle for young Bernard.  Or I would be on my way to my own folk on the Border, for the Queen’s men will anon be everywhere, since the Duke is slain!”

“The Duke!  The Duke of York!” was the cry, as if a tower were down.

“What would you.  We were caught by Somerset like deer in a buck-stall.  Here!  Give me a cup of ale, I can scarce speak for chill.”

He sank upon the settle as one quite worn out.  The ale was brought by some one, and he drank a long draught, while, at a sign from Ridley, one of the serving-men began to draw off his heavy boots and greaves, covered with frosted mud, snow, and blood, all melting together, but all the time he talked, and the hearers remained stunned and listening to what had hardly yet penetrated their understanding.  Lady Whitburn had collapsed into her own chair, and was as still as the rest.

He spoke incoherently, and Ridley now and then asked a question, but his fragmentary narrative may be thus expanded.

All had, in Yorkist opinion, gone well in London.  Henry was in the power of the White Rose, and had actually consented that Richard of York should be his next heir, but in the meantime Queen Margaret had been striving her utmost to raise the Welsh and the Border lords on behalf of her son.  She had obtained aid from Scotland, and the Percies, the Dacres of Gilsland, and many more, had followed her standard.  The Duke of York and Earl of Salisbury set forth to repress what they called a riot, probably unaware of the numbers who were daily joining the Queen.  With them went Lord Whitburn, hoping thence to return home, and his son Robert, still a squire of the Duke’s household.

They reached York’s castle of Sendal, and there merrily kept Christmas, but on St. Thomas of Canterbury’s Day they heard that the foe were close at hand, many thousands strong, and on the morrow Queen Margaret, with her boy beside her, and the Duke of Somerset, came before the gate and called on the Duke to surrender the castle, and his own vaunting claims with it, or else come out and fight.

Sir Davy Hall entreated the Duke to remain in the castle till his son Edward, Earl of March, could bring reinforcements up from Wales, but York held it to be dishonourable to shut himself up on account of a scolding woman, and the prudence of the Earl of Salisbury was at fault, since both presumed on the easy victories they had hitherto gained.  Therefore they sallied out towards Wakefield Bridge, to confront the main body of Margaret’s army, ignorant or careless that she had two wings in reserve.  These closed in on them, and their fate was certain.

“My lord fell in the melée among the first,” said Featherstone.  “I was down beside him, trying to lift him up, when a big Scot came with his bill and struck at my head, and I knew no more till I found my master lying stark dead and stripped of all his armour.  My sword was gone, but I got off save for this cut” (and he pushed back his hair) “and a horse’s kick or two, for the whole battle had gone over me, and I heard the shouting far away.  As my lord lay past help, methought I had best shift myself ere more rascaille came to strip the slain.  And as luck or my good Saint would have it, as I stumbled among the corpses I heard a whinnying, and saw mine own horse, Brown Weardale, running masterless.  Glad enough was he, poor brute, to have my hand on his rein.

“The bridge was choked with fighting men, so I was about to put him to the river, when whom should I see on the bridge but young Master Robin, and with him young Lord Edmund of Rutland.  There, on the other side, holding parley with them, was the knight Mistress Grisell wedded, and though he wore the White Rose, he gave his hand to them, and was letting them go by in safety.  I was calling to Master Rob to let me pass as one of his own, when thundering on came the grim Lord Clifford, roaring like the wind in Roker caves.  I heard him howl at young Copeland for a traitor, letting go the accursed spoilers of York.  Copeland tried to speak, but Clifford dashed him aside against the wall, and, ah! woe’s me, lady, when Master Robin threw himself between, the fellow—a murrain on his name—ran the fair youth through the neck with his sword, and swept him off into the river.  Then he caught hold of Lord Edmund, crying out, “Thy father slew mine, and so do I thee,” and dashed out his brains with his mace.  For me, I rode along farther, swam my horse over the river in the twilight, with much ado to keep clear of the dead horses and poor slaughtered comrades that cumbered the stream, and what was even worse, some not yet dead, borne along and crying out.  A woful day it was to all who loved the kindly Duke of York, or this same poor house!  As luck would have it, I fell in with Jock of Redesdale and a few more honest fellows, who had ’scaped.  We found none but friends when we were well past the river.  They succoured us at the first abbey we came to.  The rest have sped to their homes, and here am I.”

Such was the tenor of Featherstone’s doleful history of that blood-thirsty Lancastrian victory.  All had hung in dire suspense on his words, and not till they were ended did Grisell become conscious that her mother was sitting like a stone, with fixed, glassy eyes and dropped lip, in the high-backed chair, quite senseless, and breathing strangely.

They took her up and carried her upstairs, as one who had received her death stroke as surely as had her husband and son on the slopes between Sendal and Wakefield.

Grisell and Thora did their utmost, but without reviving her, and they watched by her, hardly conscious of anything else, as they tried their simple, ineffective remedies one after another, with no thought or possibility of sending for further help, since the roads would be impassable in the long January night, and besides, the Lancastrians might make them doubly perilous.  Moreover, this dumb paralysis was accepted as past cure, and needing not the doctor but the priest.  Before the first streak of dawn on that tardy, northern morning, Ridley’s ponderous step came up the stair, into the feeble light of the rush candle which the watchers tried to shelter from the draughts.

The sad question and answer of “No change” passed, and then Ridley, his gruff voice unnecessarily hushed, said, “Featherstone would speak with you, lady.  He would know whether it be your pleasure to keep him in your service to hold out the Tower, or whether he is free to depart.”

“Mine!” said Grisell bewildered.

“Yea!” exclaimed Ridley.  “You are Lady of Whitburn!”

“Ah!  It is true,” exclaimed Grisell, clasping her hands.  “Woe is me that it should be so!  And oh!  Cuthbert! my husband, if he lives, is a Queen’s man!  What can I do?”

“If it were of any boot I would say hold out the Tower.  He deserves no better after the scurvy way he treated you,” said Cuthbert grimly.  “He may be dead, too, though Harry fears he was but stunned.”

“But oh!” cried Grisell, as if she saw one gleam of light, “did not I hear something of his trying to save my brother and Lord Edmund?”

“You had best come down and hear,” said Ridley.  “Featherstone cannot go till he has spoken with you, and he ought to depart betimes, lest the Gilsland folk and all the rest of them be ravening on their way back.”

Grisell looked at her mother, who lay in the same state, entirely past her reach.  The hard, stern woman, who had seemed to have no affection to bestow on her daughter, had been entirely broken down and crushed by the loss of her sons and husband.

Probably neither had realised that by forcing Grisell on young Copeland they might be giving their Tower to their enemy.

She went down to the hall, where Harry Featherstone, whose night had done him more good than hers had, came to meet her, looking much freshened, and with a bandage over his forehead.  He bent low before her, and offered her his services, but, as he told her, he and Ridley had been talking it over, and they thought it vain to try to hold out the Tower, even if any stout men did straggle back from the battle, for the country round was chiefly Lancastrian, and it would be scarcely possible to get provisions, or to be relieved.  Moreover, the Gilsland branch of the family, who would be the male heirs, were on the side of the King and Queen, and might drive her out if she resisted.  Thus there seemed no occasion for the squire to remain, and he hoped to reach his own family, and save himself from the risk of being captured.

“No, sir, we do not need you,” said Grisell.  “If Sir Leonard Copeland lives and claims this Tower, there is no choice save to yield it to him.  I would not delay you in seeking your own safety, but only thank you for your true service to my lord and father.”

She held out her hand, which Featherstone kissed on his knee.

His horse was terribly jaded, and he thought he could make his way more safely on foot than in the panoply of an esquire, for in this war, the poorer sort were hardly touched; the attacks were chiefly made on nobles and gentlemen.  So he prepared to set forth, but Grisell obtained from him what she had scarcely understood the night before, the entire history of the fall of her father and brother, and how gallantly Leonard Copeland had tried to withstand Clifford’s rage.

“He did his best for them,” she said, as if it were her one drop of hope and comfort.

Ridley very decidedly hoped that Clifford’s blow had freed her from her reluctant husband; and mayhap the marriage would give her claims on the Copeland property.  But Grisell somehow could not join in the wish.  She could only remember the merry boy at Amesbury and the fair face she had seen sleeping in the hall, and she dwelt on Featherstone’s assurance that no wound had pierced the knight, and that he would probably be little the worse for his fall against the parapet of the bridge.  Use her as he might, she could not wish him dead, though it was a worthy death in defence of his old playfellow and of her own brother.

p. 169CHAPTER XVI
A NEW MASTER

In the dark chambère, if the bride was fair,
   Ye wis, I could not see.
   . . . .
   And the bride rose from her knee
And kissed the smile of her mother dead.

E. B. Browning, The Romaunt of the Page.

The Lady of Whitburn lingered from day to day, sometimes showing signs of consciousness, and of knowing her daughter, but never really reviving.  At the end of a fortnight she seemed for one day somewhat better, but that night she had a fresh attack, and was so evidently dying that the priest, Sir Lucas, was sent for to bring her the last Sacrament.  The passing bell rang out from the church, and the old man, with his little server before him, came up the stair, and was received by Grisell, Thora, and one or two other servants on their knees.

Ridley