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

was not there.  For even then, while the priest was crossing the hall, a party of spearmen, with a young knight at their head, rode to the gate and demanded entrance.

The frightened porter hurried to call Master Ridley, who, instead of escorting the priest with the Host to his dying lady, had to go to the gate, where he recognised Sir Leonard Copeland, far from dead, in very different guise from that in which he had been brought to the castle before.  He looked, however, awed, as he said, bending his head—

“Is it sooth, Master Ridley?  Is death beforehand with me?”

“My old lady is in extremis, sir,” replied Ridley.  “Poor soul, she hath never spoken since she heard of my lord’s death and his son’s.”

“The younger lad?  Lives here?” demanded Copeland.  “Is it as I have heard?”

“Aye, sir.  The child passed away on the Eve of St. Luke.  I have my lady’s orders,” he added reluctantly, “to open the castle to you, as of right.”

“It is well,” returned Sir Leonard.  Then, turning round to the twenty men who followed him, he said, “Men-at-arms, as you saw and heard, there is death here.  Draw up here in silence.  This good esquire will see that you have food and fodder for the horses.  Kemp, Hardcastle,” to his squires, “see that all is done with honour and respect as to the lady of the castle and mine.  Aught unseemly shall be punished.”

Wherewith he dismounted, and entered the narrow little court, looking about him with a keen, critical, soldierly eye, but speaking with low, grave tones.

“I may not tarry,” he said to Ridley, “but this place, since it falls to me and mine, must be held for the King and Queen.”

“My lady bows to your will, sir,” returned Ridley.

Copeland continued to survey the walls and very antiquated defences, observing that there could have been few alarms there.  This lasted till the rites in the sick-room were ended, and the priest came forth.

“Sir,” he said to Copeland, “you will pardon the young lady.  Her mother is in articulo mortis, and she cannot leave her.”

“I would not disturb her,” said Leonard.  “The Saints forbid that I should vex her.  I come but as in duty bound to damn this Tower on behalf of King Harry, Queen Margaret, and the Prince of Wales against all traitors.  I will not tarry here longer than to put it into hands who will hold it for them and for me.  How say you, Sir Squire?” he added, turning to Ridley, not discourteously.

“We ever did hold for King Harry, sir,” returned the old esquire.

“Yea, but against his true friends, York and Warwick.  One is cut off, ay, and his aider and defender, Salisbury, who should rather have stood by his King, has suffered a traitor’s end at Pomfret.”

“My Lord of Salisbury!  Ah! that will grieve my poor young lady,” sighed Ridley.

“He was a kind lord, save for his treason to the King,” said Leonard.  “We of his household long ago were happy enough, though strangely divided now.  For the rest, till that young wolf cub, Edward of March, and his mischief-stirring cousin of Warwick be put down, this place must be held against them and theirs—whosoever bears the White Rose.  Wilt do so, Master Seneschal?”

“I hold for my lady.  That is all I know,” said Ridley, “and she holds herself bound to you, sir.”

“Faithful.  Ay?  You will be her guardian, I see; but I must leave half a score of fellows for the defence, and will charge them that they show all respect and honour to the lady, and leave to you, as seneschal, all the household, and of all save the wardship of the Tower, calling on you first to make oath of faith to me, and to do nought to the prejudice of King Henry, the Queen, or Prince, nor to favour the friends of York or Warwick.”

“I am willing, sir,” returned Ridley, who cared a great deal more for the house of Whitburn than for either party, whose cause he by no means understood, perhaps no more than they had hitherto done themselves.  As long as he was left to protect his lady it was all he asked, and more than he expected, and the courtesy, not to say delicacy, of the young knight greatly impressed both him and the priest, though he suspected that it was a relief to Sir Leonard not to be obliged to see his bride of a few months.

The selected garrison were called in.  Ridley would rather have seen them more of the North Country yeoman type than of the regular weather-beaten men-at-arms whom wars always bred up; but their officer was a slender, dainty-looking, pale young squire, with his arm in a sling, named Pierce Hardcastle, selected apparently because his wound rendered rest desirable.  Sir Leonard reiterated his charge that all honour and respect was to be paid to the Lady of Whitburn, and that she was free to come and go as she chose, and to be obeyed in every respect, save in what regarded the defence of the Tower.  He himself was going on to Monks Wearmouth, where he had a kinsman among the monks.

With an effort, just as he remounted his horse, he said to Ridley, “Commend me to the lady.  Tell her that I am grieved for her sorrow and to be compelled to trouble her at such a time; but ’tis for my Queen’s service, and when this troublous times be ended, she shall hear more from me.”  Turning to the priest he added, “I have no coin to spare, but let all be done that is needed for the souls of the departed lord and lady, and I will be answerable.”

Nothing could be more courteous, but as he rode off priest and squire looked at one another, and Ridley said, “He will untie your knot, Sir Lucas.”

“He takes kindly to castle and lands,” was the answer, with a smile; “they may make the lady to be swallowed.”

“I trow ’tis for his cause’s sake,” replied Ridley.  “Mark you, he never once said ‘My lady,’ nor ‘My wife.’”

“May the sweet lady come safely out of it any way,” sighed the priest.  “She would fain give herself and her lands to the Church.”

“May be ’tis the best that is like to befall her,” said Ridley; “but if that young featherpate only had the wit to guess it, he would find that he might seek Christendom over for a better wife.”

They were interrupted by a servant, who came hurrying down to say that my lady was even now departing, and to call Sir Lucas to the bedside.

All was over a few moments after he reached the apartment, and Grisell was left alone in her desolation.  The only real, deep, mutual love had been between her and poor little Bernard; her elder brother she had barely seen; her father had been indifferent, chiefly regarding her as a damaged piece of property, a burthen to the estate; her mother had been a hard, masculine, untender woman, only softened in her latter days by the dependence of ill health and her passion for her sickly youngest; but on her Grisell had experienced Sister Avice’s lesson that ministry to others begets and fosters love.

And now she was alone in her house, last of her household, her work for her mother over, a wife, but loathed and deserted except so far as that the tie had sanctioned the occupation of her home by a hostile garrison.  Her spirit sank within her, and she bitterly felt the impoverishment of the always scanty means, which deprived her of the power of laying out sums of money on those rites which were universally deemed needful for the repose of souls snatched away in battle.  It was a mercenary age among the clergy, and besides, it was the depth of a northern winter, and the funeral rites of the Lady of Whitburn would have been poor and maimed indeed if a whole band of black Benedictine monks had not arrived from Wearmouth, saying they had been despatched at special request and charge of Sir Leonard Copeland.

p. 177CHAPTER XVII
STRANGE GUESTS

The needle, having nought to do,
   Was pleased to let the magnet wheedle,
Till closer still the tempter drew,
   And off at length eloped the needle.

T. Moore.

The nine days of mourning were spent in entire seclusion by Grisell, who went through every round of devotions prescribed or recommended by the Church, and felt relief and rest in them.  She shrank when Ridley on the tenth day begged her no longer to seclude herself in the solar, but to come down to the hall and take her place as Lady of the Castle, otherwise he said he could not answer for the conduct of Copeland’s men.

“Master Hardcastle desires it too,” he said.  “He is a good lad enough, but I doubt me whether his hand is strong enough over those fellows!  You need not look for aught save courtesy from him!  Come down, lady, or you will never have your rights.”

“Ah, Cuthbert, what are my rights?”

“To be mistress of your own castle,” returned Ridley, “and that you will never be unless you take the upper hand.  Here are all our household eating with these rogues of Copeland’s, and who is to keep rule if the lady comes not?”

“Alack, and how am I to do so?”

However, the consideration brought her to appear at the very early dinner, the first meal of the day, which followed on the return from mass.  Pierce Hardcastle met her shyly.  He was a tall slender stripling, looking weak and ill, and he bowed very low as he said, “Greet you well, lady,” and looked up for a moment as if in fear of what he might encounter.  Grisell indeed was worn down with long watching and grief, and looked haggard and drawn so as to enhance all her scars and distortion of feature into more uncomeliness than her wont.  She saw him shudder a little, but his lame arm and wan looks interested her kind heart.  “I fear me you are still feeling your wound, sir,” she said, in the sweet voice which was evidently a surprise to him.

“It is my plea for having been a slug-a-bed this morning,” he answered.

They sat down at the table.  Grisell between Ridley and Hardcastle, the servants and men-at-arms beyond.  Porridge and broth and very small ale were the fare, and salted meat would be for supper, and as Grisell knew but too well already, her own retainers were grumbling at the voracious appetites of the men-at-arms as much as did their unwilling guests at the plainness and niggardliness of the supply.

Thora had begged for a further allowance of beer for them, or even to broach a cask of wine.  “For,” said she, “they are none such fiends as we thought, if one knows how to take them courteously.”

“There is no need that you should have any dealings with them, Thora,” said her lady, with some displeasure; “Master Ridley sees to their provision.”

Thora tossed up her head a little and muttered something about not being mewed out of sight and speech of all men.  And when she attended her lady to the hall there certainly were glances between her and a slim young archer.

The lady’s presence was certainly a restraint on the rude men-at-arms, though two or three of them seemed to her rough, reckless-looking men.  After the meal all her kindly instincts were aroused to ask what she could do for the young squire, and he willingly put himself into her hands, for his hurt had become much more painful within the last day or two, as indeed it proved to be festering, and in great need of treatment.

Before the day was over the two had made friends, and Grisell had found him to be a gentle, scholarly youth, whom the defence of the Queen had snatched from his studies into the battlefield.  He told her a great deal about the good King, and his encouragement of his beloved scholars at Eton, and he spoke of Queen Margaret with an enthusiasm new to Grisell, who had only heard her reviled as the Frenchwoman.  Pierce could speak with the greatest admiration, too, of his own knight, Sir Leonard, whom he viewed as the pink of chivalry, assuring Lady Copeland, as he called her, that she need never doubt for a moment of his true honour and courtesy.  Grisell longed to know, but modest pride forbade her to ask, whether he knew how matters stood with her rival, Lady Eleanor Audley.  Ridley, however, had no such feeling, and he reported to Grisell what he had discovered.

Young Hardcastle had only once seen the lady, and had thought her very beautiful, as she looked from a balcony when King Henry was riding to his Parliament.  Leonard Copeland, then a squire, was standing beside her, and it had been currently reported that he was to be her bridegroom.

He had returned from his captivity after the battle of Northampton exceedingly downcast, but striving vehemently in the cause of