CHAPTER XVWAKEFIELD BRIDGE

I come to tell you things since then befallen.After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,Where your brave father breathed his latest gasp.Shakespeare,King Henry VI., Part III.

I come to tell you things since then befallen.After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,Where your brave father breathed his latest gasp.

Shakespeare,King Henry VI., Part III.

Christmaswent by sadly in Whitburn Tower, but the succeeding weeks were to be sadder still.  It was on a long dark evening that a commotion was heard at the gate, and Lady Whitburn, who had been sitting by the 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.

In the dark chambère, if the bride was fair,Ye wis, I could not see.. . . .And the bride rose from her kneeAnd kissed the smile of her mother dead.E. B.Browning,The Romaunt of the Page.

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

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

TheLady 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 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 isin 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 isin 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.

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 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.

Thenine 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 Lancaster, and Hardcastle had heard that the question had been discussed whether the forced marriage had been valid, or could be dissolved; but since the bodies of Lord Whitburn and his son had been found on the ground at Wakefield, this had ceased, and it was believed that Queen Margaret had commanded Sir Leonard, on his allegiance, to go and take possession of Whitburn and its vassals in her cause.

But Pierce Hardcastle had come to Ridley’s opinion, that did his knight but shut his eyes, the Lady Grisell was as good a mate as man could wish both in word and deed.

“I would fain,” said he, “have the Lady Eleanor to look at, but this lady to dress my hurts, ay, and talk with me.  Never met I woman who was so good company!  She might almost be a scholar at Oxford for her wit.”

However much solace the lady might find in the courtesy of Master Hardcastle, she was not pleased to find that her hand-maiden Thora exchanged glances with the young men-at-arms; and in a few days Ridley spoke to Grisell, and assured her that mischief would ensue if the silly wench were not checked in her habit of loitering and chattering whenever she could escape from her lady’s presence in the solar, which Grisell used as her bower, only descending to the hall at meal-times.

Grisell accordingly rebuked her the next time she delayed unreasonably over a message, but the girl pouted and muttered something about young Ralph Hart helping her with the heavy pitcher up the stair.

“It is unseemly for a maiden to linger and get help from strange soldiers,” said Grisell.

“No more unseemly than for the dame to be ever holding converse with their captain,” retorted the North Country hand-maiden, free of speech and with a toss of the head.

“Whist, Thora! or you must take a buffet,” said Grisell, clenching a fist unused to striking, and trying to regard chastisement as a duty.  “You know full well that my only speech with Master Hardcastle is as his hostess.”

Thora laughed.  “Ay, lady; I ken well what the men say.  How that poor youth is spell-bound, and that you are casting your glamour over him as of old over my poor old lady and little Master Bernard.”

“For shame, Thora, to bring me such tales!” and Grisell’s hand actually descended on her maiden’s face, but so slight was the force that it only caused a contemptuous laugh, which so angered the young mistress as to give her energy to strike again with all her might.

“And you’d beat me,” observed her victim, roused to anger.  “You are so ill favoured yourself that you cannot bear a man to look on a fair maid!”

“What insolence is this?” cried Grisell, utterly amazed.  “Go into the turret room, spin out this hank, and stay there till I call you to supper.  Say your Ave, and recollect what beseems a modest maiden.”

She spoke with authority, which Thora durst not resist, and withdrew still pouting and grumbling.

Grisell was indeed young herself and inexperienced, and knew not that her wrath with the girl might be perilous to herself, while sympathy might have evoked wholesome confidence.

For the maiden, just developing into northern comeliness, was attractive enough to win the admiration of soldiers in garrison with nothing to do, and on her side their notice, their rough compliments, and even their jests, were delightful compared with the dulness of her mistress’s mourning chamber, and court enough was paid to her completely to turn her head.  If there were love and gratitude lurking in the bottom of her heart towards the lady who had made a fair and skilful maiden out of the wild fisher girl, all was smothered in the first strong impulse of love for this young Ralph Hart, the first to awaken the woman out of the child.

The obstacles which Grisell, like other prudent mistresses in all times, placed in the course of this true love, did but serve to alienate the girl and place her in opposition.  The creature had grown up as wild and untamed as one of the seals on the shore, and though she had had a little training and teaching of late years, it was entirely powerless when once the passion was evoked in her by the new intercourse and rough compliments of the young archer, and she was for the time at his beck and call, regarding her lady as her tyrant and enemy.  It was the old story of many a household.

The lady has gone to her secret bower,The bower that was guarded by word and by spell.Scott,The Lay of the Last Minstrel.

The lady has gone to her secret bower,The bower that was guarded by word and by spell.

Scott,The Lay of the Last Minstrel.

“Master Squire,” said the principal man-at-arms of the garrison to Pierce Hardcastle, “is it known to you what this laidly dame’s practices be?”

“I know her for a dame worthy of all honour and esteem,” returned the esquire, turning hastily round in wrath.  He much disliked this man, a regular mercenary of the free lance description, a fellow of French or Alsatian birth, of middle age, much strength, and on account of a great gash and sideways twist of his snub nose always known as Tordu, and strongly suspected that he had been sent as a sort of spy or check on Sir Leonard Copeland and on himself.  The man replied with a growl:

“Ah ha!  Sans doubt she makes her niggard fare seem dainty cakes to those under her art.”

In fact the evident pleasure young Hardcastle took in the Lady Castellane’s society, the great improvement in his wound under her treatment, and the manner in which the serfs around came to ask her aid in their maladies, had excited the suspicion of the men-at-arms.  They were older men, hardened and roughened, inclined to despise his youth, and to resent the orderly discipline of the household, which under Ridley went on as before, and the murmurs of Thora led to inquiries, answered after the exaggerated fashion of gossip.

There were outcries about provisions and wine or ale, and shouts demanding more, and when Pierce declared that he would not have the lady insulted, there was a hoarse loud laugh.  He was about to order Tordu as ringleader into custody, but Ridley said to him aside, “Best not, sir; his fellows will not lay a finger on him, and if we did so, there would be a brawl, and we might come by the worst.”

So Pierce could only say, with all the force he could, “Bear in mind that Sir Leonard Copeland is lord here, and all miscourtesy to his lady is an offence to himself, which will be visited with his wrath.”

The sneering laugh came again, and Tordu made answer, “Ay, ay, sir; she has bewitched you, and we’ll soon have him and you free.”

Pierce was angered into flying at the man with his sword, but the other men came between, and Ridley held him back.

“You are still a maimed man, sir.  To be foiled would be worse than to let it pass.”

“There, fellow, I’ll spare you, so you ask pardon of me and the lady.”

Perhaps they thought they had gone too far, for there was a sulky growl that might pass for an apology, and Ridley’s counsel was decided that Pierce had better not pursue the matter.

What had been said, however, alarmed him, and set him on the watch, and the next evening, when Hardcastle was walking along the cliffs beyond the castle, the lad who acted as his page came to him, with round, wondering eyes, “Sir,” said he, after a little hesitation, “is it sooth that the lady spake a spell over your arm?”

“Not to my knowledge,” said Pierce smiling.

“It might be without your knowledge,” said the boy.  “They say it healed as no chirurgeon could have healed it, and by magic arts.”

“Ha! the lubbard oafs.  You know better than to believe them, Dick.”

“Nay, sir, but ’tis her bower-woman and Madge, the cook’s wife.  Both aver that the lady hath bewitched whoever comes in her way ever since she crossed the door.  She hath wrought strange things with her father, mother, and brothers.  They say she bound them to her; that the little one could not brook to have her out of sight; yet she worked on him so that he was crooked and shrivelled.  Yet he wept and cried to have her ever with him, while he peaked and pined and dwindled away.  And her mother, who was once a fine, stately, masterful dame, pined to mere skin and bone, and lay in lethargy; and now she is winding her charms on you, sir!”

Pierce made an exclamation of loathing and contempt.  Dick lowered his voice to a whisper of awe.

“Nay, sir, but Le Tordu and Ned of the Bludgeon purpose to ride over to Shields to the wise, and they will deal with her when he has found the witch’s mark.”

“The lady!” cried Hardcastle in horror.  “You see her what she is!  A holy woman if ever there was one!  At mass each morning.”

“Ay, but the wench Thora told Ralph that ’tis prayers backward she says there.  Thora has oft heard her at night, and ’twas no Ave nor Credo as they say them here.”

Pierce burst out laughing.  “I should think not.  They speak gibberish, and she, for I have heard her in Church, speaks words with a meaning, as her priest and nuns taught her.”

“But her face, sir.  There’s the Evil One’s mark.  One side says nay to the other.”

“The Evil One!  Nay, Dick, he is none other than Sir Leonard himself.  ’Twas he that all unwittingly, when a boy, fired a barrel of powder close to her and marred her countenance.  You are not fool and ass enough to give credence to these tales.”

“I said not that I did, sir,” replied the page; “but it is what the men-at-arms swear to, having drawn it from the serving-maid.”

“The adder,” muttered Pierce.

“Moreover,” continued the boy, “they have found out that there is a wise man witch-finder at Shields.  They mean to be revenged for the scanty fare and mean providings; and they deem it will be a merry jest in this weary hold, and that Sir Leonard will be too glad to be quit of his gruesome dame to call them to account.”

It was fearful news, for Pierce well knew his own incompetence to restrain these strong and violent men.  He did not know where his knight was to be found, and, if he had known, it was only too likely that these terrible intentions might be carried out before any messenger could reach him.  Indeed, the belief in sorcery was universal, and no rank was exempt from the danger of the accusation.  Thora’s treachery was specially perilous.  All that the young man could do was to seek counsel with Cuthbert Ridley, and even this he was obliged to do in the stable, bidding Dick keep watch outside.  Ridley too had heard a spiteful whisper or two, but it had seemed too preposterous for him to attend to it.  “You are young, Hardcastle,” he said, with a smile, “or you would know that there is nothing a grumbler will not say, nor how far men’s tongues lie from their hands.”

“Nay, but if their handsdidbegin to act, how should we save the lady?  There’s nothing Tordu would not do.  Could we get her away to some nunnery?”

“There is no nunnery nearer at hand than Gateshead, and there the Prioress is a Musgrove, no friend to my lord.  She might give her up, on such a charge, for holy Church is no guardian in them.  My poor bairn!  That ingrate Thora too!  I would fain wring her neck!  Yet here are our fisher folk, who love her for her bounty.”

“Would they hide her?” asked Pierce.

“That serving-wench—would I had drowned her ere bringing her here—might turn them, and, were she tracked, I ken not who might not be scared or tortured into giving her up!”

Here Dick looked in.  “Tordu is crossing the yard,” he said.

They both became immediately absorbed in studying the condition of Featherstone’s horse, which had never wholly recovered the flight from Wakefield.

After a time Ridley was able to steal away, and visit Grisell in her apartment.  She came to meet him, and he read alarm, incredulous alarm, in her face.  She put her hands in his.  “Is it sooth?” she said, in a strange, awe-stricken voice.

“You have heard, then, my wench?”

“Thora speaks in a strange tone, as though evil were brewing against me.  But you, and Master Hardcastle, and Sir Lucas, and the rest would never let them touch me?”

“They should only do so through my heart’s blood, dear child; but mine would be soon shed, and Hardcastle is a weakly lad, whom those fellows believe to be bewitched.  We must find some other way!”

“Sir Leonard would save me if he knew.  Alas! the good Earl of Salisbury is dead.”

“’Tis true.  If we could hide you till we be rid of these men.  But where?” and he made a despairing gesture.

Grisell stood stunned and dazed as the horrible prospect rose before her of being seized by these lawless men, tortured by the savage hands of the witch-finder, subjected to a cruel death, by fire, or at best by water.  She pressed her hands together, feeling utterly desolate, and prayed her prayer to the God of the fatherless to save her or brace her to endure.

Presently Cuthbert exclaimed, “Would Master Groats, the Poticary, shelter you till this is over-past?  His wife is deaf and must perforce keep counsel.”

“He would!  I verily believe he would,” exclaimed Grisell; “and no suspicion would light on him.  How soon can I go to him, and how?”

“If it may be, this very night,” said Ridley.  “I missed two of the rogues, and who knows whither they may have gone?”

“Will there be time?” said the poor girl, looking round in terror.

“Certes.  The nearest witch-finder is at Shields, and they cannot get there and back under two days.  Have you jewels, lady?  And hark you, trust not to Thora.  She is the worst traitor of all.  Ask me no more, but be ready to come down when you hear a whistle.”

That Thora could be a traitress and turn against her—the girl whom she had taught, trained, and civilised—was too much to believe.  She would almost, in spite of cautions, have asked her if it were possible, and tried to explain the true character of the services that were so cruelly misinterpreted; but as she descended the dark winding stair to supper, she heard the following colloquy:

“You will not deal hardly with her, good Ralph, dear Ralph?”

“That thou shalt see, maid!  On thy life, not a word to her.”

“Nay, but she is a white witch! she does no evil.”

“What!  Going back on what thou saidst of her brother and her mother.  Take thou heed, or they will take order with thee.”

“Thou wilt take care of me, good Ralph.  Oh!  I have done it for thee.”

“Never fear, little one; only shut thy pretty little mouth;” and there was a sound of kissing.

“What will they do to her?” in a lower voice.

“Thou wilt see!  Sink or swim thou knowst.  Ha! ha!  She will have enough of the draught that is so free to us.”

Grisell, trembling and horror-stricken, could only lean against the wall hoping that her beating heart did not sound loud enough to betray her, till a call from the hall put an end to the terrible whispers.

She hurried upwards lest Thora should come up and perceive how near she had been, then descended and took her seat at supper, trying to converse with Pierce as usual, but noting with terror the absence of the two soldiers.

How her evasion was to be effected she knew not.  The castle keys were never delivered to her, but always to Hardcastle, and she saw him take them; but she received from Ridley a look and sign which meant that she was to be ready, and when she left the hall she made up a bundle of needments, and in it her precious books and all the jewels she had inherited.  That Thora did not follow her was a boon.

Yonder is a man in sight—Yonder is a house—but where?No, she must not enter there.To the caves, and to the brooks,To the clouds of heaven she looks.Wordsworth,Feast of Brougham Castle.

Yonder is a man in sight—Yonder is a house—but where?No, she must not enter there.To the caves, and to the brooks,To the clouds of heaven she looks.

Wordsworth,Feast of Brougham Castle.

Long, long did Grisell kneel in an agony of prayer and terror, as she seemed already to feel savage hands putting her to the ordeal.

The castle had long been quiet and dark, so far as she knew, when there was a faint sound and a low whistle.  She sprang to the door and held Ridley’s hand.

“Now is the time,” he said, under his breath; “the squire waits.  That treacherous little baggage is safe locked into the cellar, whither I lured her to find some malvoisie for the rascaille crew.  Come.”

He was without his boots, and silently led the way along the narrow passage to the postern door, where stood young Hardcastle with the keys.  He let them out and crossed the court with them to the little door leading to a steep descent of the cliffs by a narrow path.  Not till the sands were reached did any of the three dare to speak, and then Grisell held out her hands in thanks and farewell.

“May I not guard you on your way, lady?” said Pierce.

“Best not, sir,” returned Ridley; “best not know whither she is gone.  I shall be back again before I am missed or your rogues are stirring.”

“When Sir Leonard knows of their devices, lady,” said Pierce, “then will Ridley tell him where to find you and bring you back in all honour.”

Grisell could only sigh, and try to speak her thanks to the young man, who kissed her hand, and stood watching her and Ridley as the waning moon lighted them over the glistening sands, till they sought the friendly shadows of the cliffs.  And thus Grisell Dacre parted from the home of her fathers.

“Cuthbert,” she said, “should you see Sir Leonard, let him know that if—if he would be free from any bond to me I will aid in breaking it, and ask only dowry enough to obtain entrance to a convent, while he weds the lady he loves.”

Ridley interrupted her with imprecations on the knight, and exhortations to her to hold her own, and not abandon her rights.  “If he keep the lands, he should keep the wife,” was his cry.

“His word and heart—” began Grisell.

“Folly, my wench.  No question but she is bestowed on some one else.  You do not want to be quit of him and be mewed in a nunnery.”

“I only crave to hide my head and not be the bane of his life.”

“Pshaw!  You have seen for yourself.  Once get over the first glance and you are worth the fairest dame that ever was jousted for in the lists.  Send him at least a message as though it were not your will to cast him off.”

“If you will have it so, then,” said Grisell, “tell him that if it be his desire, I will strive to make him a true, loyal, and loving wife.”

The last words came with a sob, and Ridley gave a little inward chuckle, as of one who suspected that the duties of the good and loving wife would not be unwillingly undertaken.

Castle-bred ladies were not much given to long walks, and though the distance was only two miles, it was a good deal for Grisell, and she plodded on wearily, to the sound of the lap of the sea and the cries of the gulls.  The caverns of the rock looked very black and gloomy, and she clung to Ridley, almost expecting something to spring out on her; but all was still, and the pale eastward light began to be seen over the sea before they turned away from it to ascend to the scattered houses of the little rising town.

The bells of the convent had begun to ring for lauds, but it was only twilight when they reached the wall of Lambert’s garden of herbs, where there was a little door that yielded to Ridley’s push.  The house was still closed, and hoar frost lay on the leaves, but Grisell proposed to hide herself in the little shed which served the purpose of tool-house and summer-house till she could make her entrance.  She felt sure of a welcome, and almost constrained Cuthbert to leave her, so as to return to the Tower early enough to avert suspicion—an easier matter as the men-at-arms were given to sleeping as late as they could.  He would make an errand to the Apothecary’s as soon as he could, so as to bring intelligence.

There sat Grisell, looking out on the brightening sky, while the blackbirds and thrushes were bursting into song, and sweet odours rising from the spring buds of the aromatic plants around, and a morning bell rang from the great monastery church.  With that she saw the house door open, and Master Lambert in a fur cap and gown turned up with lambs’-wool come out into the garden, basket in hand, and chirp to the birds to come down and be fed.

It was pretty to see how the mavis and the merle, the sparrow, chaffinch, robin, and tit fluttered round, and Grisell waited a moment to watch them before she stepped forth and said, “Ah!  Master Groot, here is another poor bird to implore your bounty.”

“Lady Grisell,” he cried, with a start.

“Ah! not that name,” she said; “not a word.  O Master Lambert, I came by night; none have seen me, none but good Cuthbert Ridley ken where I am.  There can be no peril to you or yours if you will give shelter for a little while to a poor maid.”

“Dear lady, we will do all we can,” returned Lambert.  “Fear not.  How pale you are.  You have walked all night!  Come and rest.  None will follow.  You are sore spent!  Clemence shall bring you a warm drink!  Condescend, dear lady,” and he made her lean on his arm, and brought her into his large living room, and placed her in the comfortable cross-legged chair with straps and cushions as a back, while he went into some back settlement to inform his wife of her visitor; and presently they brought her warm water, with some refreshing perfume, in a brass basin, and he knelt on one knee to hold it to her, while she bathed her face and hands with a sponge—a rare luxury.  She started at every sound, but Lambert assured her that she was safe, as no one ever came beyond the booth.  His Clemence had no gossips, and the garden could not be overlooked.  While some broth was heated for her she began to explain her peril, but he exclaimed, “Methinks I know, lady, if it was thereanent that a great strapping Hollander fellow from your Tower came to ask me for a charm against gramarie, with hints that ’twas in high places.  ’Twas enough to make one laugh to see the big lubber try to whisper hints, and shiver and shake, as he showed me a knot in his matted locks and asked if it were not the enemy’s tying.  I told him ’twas tied by the enemy indeed, the deadly sin of sloth, and that a stout Dutchman ought to be ashamed of himself for carrying such a head within or without.  But I scarce bethought me the impudent Schelm could have thought of you, lady.”

“Hush again.  Forget the word!  They are gone to Shields in search of the witch-finder, to pinch me, and probe me, and drown me, or burn me,” cried Grisell, clasping her hands.  “Oh! take me somewhere if you cannot safely hide me; I would not bring trouble on you!”

“You need not fear,” he answered.  “None will enter here but by my goodwill, and I will bar the garden door lest any idle lad should pry in; but they come not here.  The tortoise who crawls about in the summer fills them with too much terror for them to venture, and is better than any watch-dog.  Now, let me touch your pulse.  Ah!  I would prescribe lying down on the bed and resting for the day.”

She complied, and Clemence took her to the upper floor, where it was the pride of the Flemish housewife to keep a guest-chamber, absolutely neat, though very little furnished, and indeed seldom or never used; but she solicitously stroked the big bed, and signed to Grisell to lie down in the midst of pillows of down, above and below, taking off her hood, mantle, and shoes, and smoothing her down with nods and sweet smiles, so that she fell sound asleep.

When she awoke the sun was at the meridian, and she came down to the noontide meal.  Master Groot was looking much entertained.

Wearmouth, he said, was in a commotion.  The great Dutch Whitburn man-at-arms had come in full of the wonderful story.  Not only had the grisly lady vanished, but a cross-bow man had shot an enormous hare on the moor, a creature with one ear torn off, and a seam on its face, and Masters Hardcastle and Ridley altogether favoured the belief that it was the sorceress herself without time to change her shape.  Did Mynheer Groot hold with them?

For though Dutch and Flemings were not wholly friendly at home, yet in a strange country they held together, and remembered that they were both Netherlanders, and Hannekin would fain know what thought the wise man.

“Depend on it, there was no time for a change,” gravely said Groot.  “Have not Nostradamus, Albertus Magnus, and Rogerus Bacon” (he was heaping names together as he saw Hannekin’s big gray eyes grow rounder and rounder) “all averred that the great Diabolus can give his minions power to change themselves at will into hares, cats, or toads to transport themselves to the Sabbath on Walpurgs’ night?”

“You deem it in sooth,” said the Dutchman, “for know you that the parish priest swears, and so do the more part of the villein fisher folk, that there’s no sorcery in the matter, but that she is a true and holy maid, with no powers save what the Saints had given her, and that her cures were by skill.  Yet such was scarce like to a mere Jungvrow.”

It went sorely against Master Lambert’s feelings, as well as somewhat against his conscience, to encourage the notion of the death of his guest as a hare, though it ensured her safety and prevented a search.  He replied that her skill certainly was uncommon in a Jungvrow, beyond nature, no doubt, and if they were unholy, it was well that the arblaster had made a riddance of her.

“By the same token,” added Hannekin, “the elf lock came out of my hair this very morn, I having, as you bade me, combed it each morn with the horse’s currycomb.”

Proof positive, as Lambert was glad to allow him to believe.  And the next day all Sunderland and the two Wearmouths believed that the dead hare had shrieked in a human voice on being thrown on a fire, and had actually shown the hands and feet of a woman before it was consumed.

It was all the safer for Grisell as long as she was not recognised, and of this there was little danger.  She was scarcely known in Wearmouth, and could go to mass at the Abbey Church in a deep black hood and veil.  Master Lambert sometimes received pilgrims from his own country on their way to English shrines, and she could easily pass for one of these if her presence were perceived, but except to mass in very early morning, she never went beyond the garden, where the spring beauty was enjoyment to her in the midst of her loneliness and entire doubt as to her future.

It was a grand old church, too, with low-browed arches, reminding her of the dear old chapel of Wilton, and with a lofty though undecorated square tower, entered by an archway adorned with curious twisted snakes with long beaks, stretching over and under one another.

The low heavy columns, the round circles, and the small windows, casting a very dim religious light, gave Grisell a sense of being in the atmosphere of that best beloved place, Wilton Abbey.  She longed after Sister Avice’s wisdom and tenderness, and wondered whether her lands would purchase from her knight, power to return thither with dower enough to satisfy the demands of the Proctor.  It was a hope that seemed like an inlet of light in her loneliness, when no one was faithful save Cuthbert Ridley, and she felt cut to the heart above all by Thora’s defection and cruel accusations, not knowing that half was owning to the intoxication of love, and the other half to a gossiping tongue.

Witness Aire’s unhappy waterWhere the ruthless Clifford fell,And when Wharfe ran red with slaughterOn the day of Towton’s field.Gathering in its guilty floodThe carnage and the ill spilt bloodThat forty thousand lives could yield.Southey,Funeral Song of Princess Charlotte.

Witness Aire’s unhappy waterWhere the ruthless Clifford fell,And when Wharfe ran red with slaughterOn the day of Towton’s field.Gathering in its guilty floodThe carnage and the ill spilt bloodThat forty thousand lives could yield.

Southey,Funeral Song of Princess Charlotte.

Grisellfrom the first took her part in the Apothecary’s household.  Occupation was a boon to her, and she not only spun and made lace with Clemence, but showed her new patterns learned in old days at Wilton; and still more did she enjoy assisting the master of the house in making his compounds, learning new nostrums herself, and imparting others to him, showing a delicacy of finger which the old Fleming could not emulate.  In the fabrication of perfumes for the pouncet box, and sweetmeats prepared with honey and sugar, she proved to have a dainty hand, so that Lambert, who would not touch her jewels, declared that she was fully earning her maintenance by the assistance that she gave to him.

They were not molested by the war, which was decidedly a war of battles, not of sieges, but they heard far more of tidings than were wont to reach Whitburn Tower.  They knew of the advance of Edward to London; and the terrible battle of Towton begun, was fought out while the snow fell far from bloodless, on Palm Sunday; and while the choir boys had been singing theirGloria,laus et honorin the gallery over the church door, shivering a little at the untimely blast, there had been grim and awful work, when for miles around the Wharfe and Aire the snow lay mixed with blood.  That the Yorkists had gained was known, and that the Queen and Prince had fled; but nothing was heard of the fate of individuals, and Master Lambert was much occupied with tidings from Bruges, whence information came, in a messenger sent by a notary that his uncle, an old miser, whose harsh displeasure at his marriage had driven him forth, was just dead, leaving him heir to a fairly prosperous business and a house in the city.

To return thither was of course Lambert’s intention as soon as he could dispose of his English property.  He entreated Grisell to accompany him and Clemence, assuming her that at the chief city of so great a prince as Duke Philip of Burgundy, she would have a better hope of hearing tidings of her husband than in a remote town like Sunderland; and that if she still wished to dispose of her jewels she would have a far better chance of so doing.  He was arguing the point with her, when there was a voice in the stall outside which made Grisell start, and Lambert, going out, brought in Cuthbert Ridley, staggering under the weight of his best suit of armour, and with a bundle and bag under his mantle.

Grisell sprang up eagerly to meet him, but as she put her hands into his he looked sorrowfully at her, and she asked under her breath, “Ah!  Sir Leonard—?”

“No tidings of the recreant,” growled Ridley, “but ill tidings for both of you.  The Dacres of Gilsland are on us, claiming your castle and lands as male heirs to your father.”

“Do they know that I live?” asked Grisell, “or”—unable to control a little laugh—“do they deem that I was slain in the shape of a hare?”

“Or better than that,” put in Lambert; “they have it now in the wharves that the corpse of the hare took the shape and hands of a woman when in the hall.”

“I ken not, the long-tongued rogues,” said Ridley; “but if my young lady were standing living and life-like before them as, thank St. Hilda, I see her now, they would claim it all the more as male heirs, and this new King Edward has granted old Sir John seisin, being that she is the wife of one of King Henry’s men!”

“Are they there?  How did you escape?”

“I got timely notice,” said Cuthbert.  “Twenty strong halted over the night at Yeoman Kester’s farm on Heather Gill—a fellow that would do anything for me since we fought side by side on the day of the Herrings.  So he sends out his two grandsons to tell me what they were after, while they were drinking his good ale to health of their King Edward.  So forewarned, forearmed.  We have left them empty walls, get in as they can or may—unless that traitor Tordu chooses to stay and make terms with them.”

“Master Hardcastle!  Would he fly?  Surely not!” asked Grisell.

“Master Hardcastle, with Dutch Hannekin and some of the better sort, went off long since to join their knight’s banner, and the Saints know how the poor young lad sped in all the bloody work they have had.  For my part, I felt not bound to hold out the castle against my old lord’s side, when there was no saving it for you, so I put what belonged to me together, and took poor old Roan, and my young lady’s pony, and made my way hither, no one letting me.  I doubt me much, lady, that there is little hope of winning back your lands, whatever side may be uppermost, yet there be true hearts among our villeins, who say they will never pay dues to any save their lord’s daughter.”

“Then I am landless and homeless,” sighed Grisell.

“The greater cause that you should make your home with us, lady,” returned Lambert Groot; and he went on to lay before Ridley the state of the case, and his own plans.  House and business, possibly a seat in the city council, were waiting for him at Bruges, and the vessel from Ostend which had continually brought him supplies for his traffic was daily expected.  He intended, so soon as she had made up her cargo of wool, to return in her to his native country, and he was urgent that the Lady Grisell should go with him, representing that all the changes of fortune in the convulsed kingdom of England were sure to be quickly known there, and that she was as near the centre of action in Flanders as in Durham, besides that she would be out of reach of any enemies who might disbelieve the hare transformation.

After learning the fate of her castle, Grisell much inclined to the proposal which kept her with those whom she had learnt to trust and love, and she knew that she need be no burthen to them, since she had profitable skill in their own craft, and besides she had her jewels.  Ridley, moreover, gave her hopes of a certain portion of her dues on the herring-boats and the wool.

“Will not you come with the lady, sir?” asked Lambert.

“Oh, come!” cried Grisell.

“Nay, a squire of dames hath scarce been heard of in a Poticar’s shop,” said Ridley, and there was an irresistible laugh at the rugged old gentleman so terming himself; but as Lambert and Grisell were both about to speak he went on, “I can serve her better elsewhere.  I am going first to my home at Willimoteswick.  I have not seen it these forty year, and whether my brother or my nephew make me welcome or no, I shall have seen the old moors and mosses.  Then methought I would come hither, or to some of the towns about, and see how it fares with the old Tower and the folk; and if they be as good as their word, and keep their dues for my lady, I could gather them, and take or bring them to her, with any other matter which might concern her nearly.”

This was thoroughly approved by Grisell’s little council, and Lambert undertook to make known to the good esquire the best means of communication, whether in person, or by the transmission of payments, since all the eastern ports of England had connections with Dutch and Flemish traffic, which made the payment of monies possible.

Grisell meantime was asking for Thora.  Her uncle, Ridley said, had come up, laid hands on her, and soundly scourged her for her foul practices.  He had dragged her home, and when Ralph Hart had come after her, had threatened him with a quarter-staff, called out a mob of fishermen, and finally had brought him to Sir Lucas, who married them willy-nilly.  He was the runaway son of a currier in York, and had taken heren croupe, and ridden off to his parents at the sign of the Hart, to bespeak their favour.

Grisell grieved deeply over Thora’s ingratitude to her, and the two elder men foreboded no favourable reception for the pair, and hoped that Thora would sup sorrow.

Ridley spent the night at the sign of tire Green Serpent, and before he set out for Willimoteswick, he confided to Master Groot a bag containing a silver cup or two, and a variety of coins, mostly French.  They were, he said, spoils of his wars under King Harry the Fifth and the two Lord Salisburys, which he had never had occasion to spend, and he desired that they might be laid out on the Lady Grisell in case of need, leaving her to think they were the dues from her faithful tenantry.  To the Hausvrow Clemence it was a great grief to leave the peaceful home of her married life, and go among kindred who had shown their scorn in neglect and cold looks; but she kept a cheerful face for her husband, and only shed tears over the budding roses and other plants she had to leave; and she made her guest understand how great a comfort and solace was her company.

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