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

and clasped with diamonds was pressed to her, the deep hanging silken sleeves were round her, the white satin broidered skirt swept about her feet, the pearl-edged matronly cap on the youthful head leant fondly against her, as Margaret led her up, still in her embrace, and cried, “It is she, it is she!  Dear belle mère, thanks indeed for bringing us together!”

The Countess of Poitiers looked on scandalised at English impulsiveness, and the elder Duchess herself looked for a moment stiff, as her lace-maker slipped to her knees to kiss her hand and murmur her thanks.

“Let me look at you,” cried Margaret.  “Ah! have you recovered that terrible mishap?  By my troth, ’tis nearly gone.  I should never have found it out had I not known!”

This was rather an exaggeration, but joy did make a good deal of difference in Grisell’s face, and the Duchess Margaret was one of the most eager and warm-hearted people living, fervent alike in love and in hate, ready both to act on slight evidence for those whose cause she took up, and to nourish bitter hatred against the enemies of her house.

“Now, tell me all,” she continued in English.  “I heard that you had been driven out of Wilton, and my uncle of Warwick had sped you northward.  How is it that you are here, weaving lace like any mechanical sempstress?  Nay, nay!  I cannot listen to you on your knees.  We have hugged one another too often for that.”

Grisell, with the elder Duchess’s permission, seated herself on the cushion at Margaret’s feet.  “Speak English,” continued the bride.  “I am wearying already of French!  Ma belle mère, you will not find fault.  You know a little of our own honest tongue.”

Duchess Isabel smiled, and Grisell, in answer to the questions of Margaret, told her story.  When she came to the mention of her marriage to Leonard Copeland, there was the vindictive exclamation, “Bound to that blood-thirsty traitor!  Never!  After the way he treated you, no marvel that he fell on my sweet Edmund!”

“Ah! madame, he did not!  He tried to save him.”

“He!  A follower of King Henry!  Never!”

“Truly, madame!  He had ever loved Lord Edmund.  He strove to stay Lord Clifford’s hand, and threw himself between, but Clifford dashed him aside, and he bears still the scar where he fell against the parapet of the bridge.  Harry Featherstone told me, when he fled from the piteous field, where died my father and brother Robin.”

“Your brother, Robin Dacre!  I remember him.  I would have made him good cheer for your sake, but my mother was ever strict, and rapped our fingers, nay, treated us to the rod, if we ever spake to any of my father’s meiné.  Tell on, Grisell,” as her hand found its way under the hood, and stroked the fair hair.  “Poor lonely one!”

Her indignation was great when she heard of Copeland’s love, and still more of his mission to seize Whitburn, saying, truly enough, that he should have taken both lady and Tower, or given both up, and lending a most unwilling ear to the plea that he had never thought his relations to Grisell binding.  She had never loved Lady Heringham, and it was plainly with good cause.

Then followed the rest of the story, and when it appeared that Grisell had been instrumental in saving Copeland, and close inquiries elicited that she had been maintaining him all this while, actually for seven years, all unknown to him, the young Duchess could not contain herself.  “Grisell!  Grisell of patience indeed.  Belle mère, belle mère, do you understand?” and in rapid French she recounted all.

“He is my husband,” said Grisell simply, as the two Duchesses showed their wonder and admiration.

“Never did tale or ballad show a more saintly wife,” cried Margaret.  “And now what would you have me do for you, my most patient of Grisells?  Write to my brother the King to restore your lands, and—and I suppose you would have this recreant fellow’s given back since you say he has seen the error of following that make-bate Queen.  But can you prove him free of Edmund’s blood?  Aught but that might be forgiven.”

“Master Featherstone is gone back to England,” said Grisell, “but he can bear witness; but my father’s old squire, Cuthbert Ridley, is here, who heard his story when he came to us from Wakefield.  Moreover, I have seen the mark on Sir Leonard’s brow.”

“Let be.  I will write to Edward an you will.  He has been more prone to Lancaster folk since he was caught by the wiles of Lady Grey; but I would that I could hear what would clear this knight of yours by other testimony than such as your loving heart may frame.  But you must come and be one of mine, my own ladies, Grisell, and never go back to your Poticary—Faugh!”

This, however, Grisell would not hear of; and Margaret really reverenced her too much to press her.

However, Ridley was sent for to the Cour des Princes, and returned with a letter to be borne to King Edward, and likewise a mission to find Featherstone, and if possible Red Jock.

“’Tis working for that rogue Copeland,” he growled.  “I would it were for you, my sweet lady.”

“It is working for me!  Think so with all your heart, good Cuthbert.”

“Well, end as it may, you will at least ken who and what you are, wed or unwed, fish, flesh or good red herring, and cease to live nameless, like the Poticary’s serving-woman,” concluded Ridley as his parting grumble.

p. 295CHAPTER XXX
THE WEDDING CHIMES

Low at times and loud at times,
Changing like a poet’s rhymes,
Rang the beautiful wild chimes,
From the belfry in the market
Of the ancient town of Bruges.

Longfellow, The Carillon.

No more was heard of the Duchess for some weeks.  Leonard was absent with the Duke, who was engaged in that unhappy affair of Peroune and Liège, the romantic version of which may be read in Quentin Durward, and with which the present tale dares not to meddle, though it seemed to blast the life of Charles the Bold, all unknowing.

The Duchess Margaret was youthful enough to have a strong taste for effect, and it was after a long and vexatious delay that Grisell was suddenly summoned to her presence, to be escorted by Master Groot.  There she sat, on her chair of state, with the high tapestried back and the square canopy, and in the throng of gentlemen around her Grisell at a glance recognised Sir Leonard, and likewise Cuthbert Ridley and Harry Featherstone, though of course it was not etiquette to exchange any greetings.

She knelt to kiss the Duchess’s hand, and as she did so Margaret raised her, kissing her brow, and saying with a clear full voice, “I greet you, Lady Copeland, Baroness of Whitburn.  Here is a letter from my brother, King Edward, calling on the Bishop of Durham, Count Palatine, to put you in possession of thy castle and lands, whoever may gainsay it.”

That Leonard started with amazement and made a step forward Grisell was conscious, as she bent again to kiss the hand that gave the letter; but there was more to come, and Margaret continued—

“Also, to you, as to one who has the best right, I give this parchment, sealed and signed by my brother, the King, containing his full and free pardon to the good knight, Sir Leonard Copeland, and his restoration to all his honours and his manors.  Take it, Lady of Whitburn.  It was you, his true wife, who won it for him.  It is you who should give it to him.  Stand forth, Sir Leonard.”

He did stand forth, faltering a little, as his first impulse had been to kneel to Grisell, then recollecting himself, to fall at the Duchess’s feet in thanks.

“To her, to her,” said the Duchess; but Grisell, as he turned, spoke, trying to clear her voice from a rising sob.

“Sir Leonard, wait, I pray.  Her Highness hath not spoken all.  I am well advised that the wedlock into which you were forced against your will was of no avail to bind us, as you in mind and will were contracted to the Lady Eleanor Audley.”

Leonard opened his lips, but she waved him to silence.  “True, I know that she was likewise constrained to wed; but she is a widow, and free to choose for herself.  Therefore, either by the bishop, or it may be through our Holy Father the Pope, by mutual consent, shall the marriage at Whitburn be annulled and declared void, and I pray you to accept seisin thereof, while my lady, her Highness the Duchess Isabel, with the Lady Prioress, will accept me as a Grey Sister.”

There was a murmur.  Margaret utterly amazed would have sprung forward and exclaimed, but Leonard was beforehand with her.

“Never! never!” he cried, throwing himself on his knees and mastering his wife’s hand.  “Grisell, Grisell, dost think I could turn to the feather-pated, dull-souled, fickle-hearted thing I know now Eleanor of Audley to be, instead of you?”

There was a murmur of applause, led by the young Duchess herself, but Grisell tried still to withdraw her hand, and say in low broken tones, “Nay, nay; she is fair, I am loathly.”

“What is her fair skin to me?” he cried; “to me, who have learnt to know, and love, and trust to you with a very different love from the boy’s passion I felt for Eleanor in youth, and the cure whereof was the sight and words of the Lady Heringham!  Grisell, Grisell, I was about to lay my very heart at your feet when the Duke’s trumpet called me away, ere I guessed, fool that I was, that mine was the hand that left the scar that now I love, but which once I treated with a brute’s or a boy’s lightness.  Oh! pardon me!  Still less did I know that it was my own forsaken wife who saved my life, who tended my sickness, nay, as I verily believed, toiled for me and my bread through these long seven years, all in secret.  Yea, and won my entire soul and deep devotion or ever I knew that it was to you alone that they were due.  Grisell, Grisell,” as she could not speak for tears.  “Oh forgive!  Pardon me!  Turn not away to be a Grey Sister.  I cannot do without you!  Take me!  Let me strive throughout my life to merit a little better all that you have done and suffered for one so unworthy!”

Grisell could not speak, but she turned towards him, and regardless of all spectators, she was for the first time clasped in her husband’s arms, and the joyful tears of her friends high and low.

What more shall be told of that victory?  Shall it be narrated how this wedlock was blest in the chapel, while all the lovely bells of Bruges rang out in rejoicing, how Mynheer Groot and Clemence rejoiced though they lost their guest, how Caxton gave them a choice specimen of his printing, how Ridley doffed his pilgrim’s garb and came out as a squire of dames, how the farewells were sorrowfully exchanged with the Duchess, and how the Duke growled that from whichever party he took his stout English he was sure to lose them?

Then there was homage to King Edward paid not very willingly, and a progress northward.  At York, Thora, looking worn and haggard, came and entreated forgiveness, declaring that she had little guessed what her talk was doing, and that Ralph made her believe whatever he chose!  She had a hard life, treated like a slave by the burgesses, who despised the fisher maid.  Oh that she could go back to serve her dear good lady!

There was a triumph at Whitburn to welcome the lady after the late reign of misrule, and so did the knight and dame govern their estates that for long years the time of ‘Grisly Grisell’ was remembered as Whitburn’s golden age.