Transcribed from the 1906 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org
[Picture: Book cover]
GRISLY GRISELL
OR
THE LAIDLY LADY OF WHITBURN
A TALE OF THE WARS OF THE ROSES
* * * * *
BY
CHARLOTTE M. YONGE
AUTHOR OF ‘THE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE’, ETC. ETC.
* * * * *
London
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1906
_All rights reserved_
* * * * *
Copyright, 1893,
BY MACMILLAN & CO.
* * * * *
Men speak of Job, and for his humblesse,
And clerkes when hem list can well endite,
Namely of men, but as in stedfastnese
Though clerkes preisin women but a lite,
There can no man in humblesse him acquite
As women can, nor can be half so trewe
As women ben.
CHAUCER, _The Clerke’s Tale_.
* * * * *
_First Edition_ (2 _Vols. Crown_ 8_vo_) 1893
_Second Edition_ (1 _Vol. Crown_ 8_vo_) 1894, 1906.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. AN EXPLOSION 1
II. THE BROKEN MATCH 12
III. THE MIRROR 26
IV. PARTING 36
V. SISTER AVICE 46
VI. THE PROCTOR 57
VII. THE PILGRIM OF SALISBURY 68
VIII. OLD PLAYFELLOWS 80
IX. THE KING-MAKER 87
X. COLD WELCOME 101
XI. BERNARD 112
XII. WORD FROM THE WARS 127
XIII. A KNOT 137
XIV. THE LONELY BRIDE 150
XV. WAKEFIELD BRIDGE 159
XVI. A NEW MASTER 169
XVII. STRANGE GUESTS 177
XVIII. WITCHERY 185
XIX. A MARCH HARE 195
XX. A BLIGHT ON THE WHITE ROSE 205
XXI. THE WOUNDED KNIGHT 213
XXII. THE CITY OF BRIDGES 222
XXIII. THE CANKERED OAK GALL 231
XXIV. GRISELL’S PATIENCE 244
XXV. THE OLD DUCHESS 253
XXVI. THE DUKE’S DEATH 260
XXVII. FORGET ME NOT 268
XXVIII. THE PAGEANT 274
XXIX. DUCHESS MARGARET 285
XXX. THE WEDDING CHIMES 295
CHAPTER I
AN EXPLOSION
It was a great pity, so it was, this villanous saltpetre should be
digg’d out of the bowels of the harmless earth.
SHAKESPEARE, _King Henry IV._, Part I.
A TERRIBLE shriek rang through the great Manor-house of Amesbury. It was
preceded by a loud explosion, and there was agony as well as terror in
the cry. Then followed more shrieks and screams, some of pain, some of
fright, others of anger and recrimination. Every one in the house ran
together to the spot whence the cries proceeded, namely, the lower court,
where the armourer and blacksmith had their workshops.
There was a group of children, the young people who were confided to the
great Earl Richard and Countess Alice of Salisbury for education and
training. Boys and girls were alike there, some of the latter crying and
sobbing, others mingling with the lads in the hot dispute as to “who did
it.”
By the time the gentle but stately Countess had reached the place, all
the grown-up persons of the establishment—knights, squires, grooms,
scullions, and females of every degree—had thronged round them, but
parted at her approach, though one of the knights said, “Nay, Lady
Countess, ’tis no sight for you. The poor little maid is dead, or nigh
upon it.”
“But who is it? What is it?” asked the Countess, still advancing.
A confused medley of voices replied, “The Lord of Whitburn’s little
wench—Leonard Copeland—gunpowder.”
“And no marvel,” said a sturdy, begrimed figure, “if the malapert young
gentles be let to run all over the courts, and handle that with which
they have no concern, lads and wenches alike.”
“Nay, how can I stop it when my lady will not have the maidens kept ever
at their distaffs and needles in seemly fashion,” cried a small but stout
and self-assertive dame, known as “Mother of the Maidens,” then starting,
“Oh! my lady, I crave your pardon, I knew not you were in this coil! And
if the men-at-arms be let to have their perilous goods strewn all over
the place, no wonder at any mishap.”
“Do not wrangle about the cause,” said the Countess. “Who is hurt? How
much?”
The crowd parted enough for her to make way to where a girl of about ten
was lying prostrate and bleeding with her head on a woman’s lap.
“Poor maid,” was the cry, “poor maid! ’Tis all over with her. It will
go ill with young Leonard Copeland.”
“Worse with Hodge Smith for letting him touch his irons.”
“Nay, what call had Dick Jenner to lay his foul, burning gunpowder—a
device of Satan—in this yard? A mercy we are not all blown to the
winds.”
The Countess, again ordering peace, reached the girl, whose moans showed
that she was still alive, and between the barber-surgeon and the porter’s
wife she was lifted up, and carried to a bed, the Countess Alice keeping
close to her, though the “Mother of the Maidens,” who was a somewhat
helpless personage, hung back, declaring that the sight of the wounds
made her swoon. There were terrible wounds upon the face and neck, which
seemed to be almost bared of skin. The lady, who had been bred to some
knowledge of surgical skill, together with the barber-surgeon, did their
best to allay the agony with applications of sweet oil. Perhaps if they
had had more of what was then considered skill, it might have been worse
for her.
The Countess remained anxiously trying all that could allay the suffering
of the poor little semi-conscious patient, who kept moaning for “nurse.”
She was Grisell Dacre, the daughter of the Baron of Whitburn, and had
been placed, young as she was, in the household of the Countess of
Salisbury on her mother being made one of the ladies attending on the
young Queen Margaret of Anjou, lately married to King Henry VI.
Attendance on the patient had prevented the Countess from hearing the
history of the accident, but presently the clatter of horses’ feet showed
that her lord was returning, and, committing the girl to her old nurse,
she went down to the hall to receive him.
The grave, grizzled warrior had taken his seat on his cross-legged,
round-backed chair, and a boy of some twelve years old stood before him,
in a sullen attitude, one foot over the other, and his shoulder held fast
by a squire, while the motley crowd of retainers stood behind.
There was a move at the entrance of the lady, and her husband rose, came
forward, and as he gave her the courteous kiss of greeting, demanded,
“What is all this coil? Is the little wench dead?”
“Nay, but I fear me she cannot live,” was the answer.
“Will Dacre of Whitburn’s maid? That’s ill, poor child! How fell it
out?”
“That I know as little as you,” was the answer. “I have been seeing to
the poor little maid’s hurts.”
Lord Salisbury placed her in the chair like his own. In point of fact,
she was Countess in her own right; he, Richard Nevil, had been created
Earl of Salisbury in her right on the death of her father, the staunch
warrior of Henry V. in the siege of Orleans.
“Speak out, Leonard Copeland,” said the Earl. “What hast thou done?”
The boy only growled, “I never meant to hurt the maid.”
“Speak to the point, sir,” said Lord Salisbury sternly; “give yourself at
least the grace of truth.”
Leonard grew more silent under the show of displeasure, and only hung his
head at the repeated calls to him to speak. The Earl turned to those who
were only too eager to accuse him.
“He took a bar of iron from the forge, so please you, my lord, and put it
to the barrel of powder.”
“Is this true, Leonard?” demanded the Earl again, amazed at the frantic
proceeding, and Leonard muttered “Aye,” vouchsafing no more, and looking
black as thunder at a fair, handsome boy who pressed to his side and
said, “Uncle,” doffing his cap, “so please you, my lord, the barrels had
just been brought in upon Hob Carter’s wain, and Leonard said they ought
to have the Lord Earl’s arms on them. So he took a bar of hot iron from
the forge to mark the saltire on them, and thereupon there was this burst
of smoke and flame, and the maid, who was leaning over, prying into his
doings, had the brunt thereof.”
“Thanks to the saints that no further harm was done,” ejaculated the lady
shuddering, while her lord proceeded—“It was not malice, but malapert
meddling, then. Master Leonard Copeland, thou must be scourged to make
thee keep thine hands off where they be not needed. For the rest, thou
must await what my Lord of Whitburn may require. Take him away, John
Ellerby, chastise him, and keep him in ward till we see the issue.”
Leonard, with his head on high, marched out of the hall, not uttering a
word, but shaking his shoulder as if to get rid of the squire’s grasp,
but only thereby causing himself to be gripped the faster.
Next, Lord Salisbury’s severity fell upon Hob the carter and Hodge the
smith, for leaving such perilous wares unwatched in the court-yard.
Servants were not dismissed for carelessness in those days, but soundly
flogged, a punishment considered suitable to the “blackguard” at any age,
even under the mildest rule. The gunner, being somewhat higher in
position, and not in charge at the moment, was not called to account, but
the next question was, how the “Mother of the Maids”—the gouvernante in
charge of the numerous damsels who formed the train of the Lady of
Salisbury, and were under education and training—could have permitted her
maidens to stray into the regions appropriated to the yeomen and archers,
and others of the meiné, where they certainly had no business.
It appeared that the good and portly lady had last seen the girls in the
gardens “a playing at the ball” with some of the pages, and that there,
on a sunny garden seat, slumber had prevented her from discovering the
absence of the younger part of the bevy. The demure elder damsels
deposed that, at the sound of wains coming into the court, the boys had
rushed off, and the younger girls had followed them, whether with or
without warning was not made clear. Poor little Grisell’s condition
might have been considered a sufficient warning, nevertheless the two
companions in her misdemeanour were condemned to a whipping, to enforce
on them a lesson of maidenliness; and though the Mother of the Maids
could not partake of the flagellation, she remained under her lord’s and
lady’s grave displeasure, and probably would have to submit to a severe
penance from the priest for her carelessness. Yet, as she observed,
Mistress Grisell was a North Country maid, never couthly or conformable,
but like a boy, who would moreover always be after Leonard Copeland,
whether he would or no.
It was the more unfortunate, as Lord Salisbury lamented to his wife,
because the Copelands were devoted to the Somerset faction; and the King
had been labouring to reconcile them to the Dacres, and to bring about a
contract of marriage between these two unfortunate children, but he
feared that whatever he could do, there would only be additional feud and
bitterness, though it was clear that the mishap was accidental. The Lord
of Whitburn himself was in Ireland with the Duke of York, while his lady
was in attendance on the young Queen, and it was judged right and seemly
to despatch to her a courier with the tidings of her daughter’s disaster,
although in point of fact, where a house could number sons, damsels were
not thought of great value, except as the means of being allied with
other houses. A message was also sent to Sir William Copeland that his
son had been the death of the daughter of Whitburn; for poor little
Grisell lay moaning in a state of much fever and great suffering, so that
the Lady Salisbury could not look at her, nor hear her sighs and sobs
without tears, and the barber-surgeon, unaccustomed to the effects of
gunpowder, had little or no hope of her life.
Leonard Copeland’s mood was sullen, not to say surly. He submitted to
the chastisement without a word or cry, for blows were the lot of boys of
all ranks, and were dealt out without much respect to justice; and he
also had to endure a sort of captivity, in a dismal little circular room
in a turret of the manorial house, with merely a narrow loophole to look
out from, and this was only accessible by climbing up a steep broken
slope of brick-work in the thickness of the wall.
Here, however, he was visited by his chief friend and comrade, Edmund
Plantagenet of York, who found him lying on the floor, building up
fragments of stone and mortar into the plan of a castle.
“How dost thou, Leonard?” he asked. “Did old Hal strike very hard?”
“I reck not,” growled Leonard.
“How long will my uncle keep thee here?” asked Edmund sympathisingly.
“Till my father comes, unless the foolish wench should go and die. She
brought it on me, the peevish girl. She is always after me when I want
her least.”
“Yea, is not she contracted to thee?”
“So they say; but at least this puts a stop to my being plagued with
her—do what they may to me. There’s an end to it, if I hang for it.”
“They would never hang thee.”
“None knows what you traitor folk of Nevil would do to a loyal house,”
growled Leonard.
“Traitor, saidst thou,” cried Edmund, clenching his fists. “’Tis thy
base Somerset crew that be the traitors.”
“I’ll brook no such word from thee,” burst forth Leonard, flying at him.
“Ha! ha!” laughed Edmund even as they grappled. “Who is the traitor
forsooth? Why, ’tis my father who should be King. ’Tis white-faced
Harry and his Beauforts—”
The words were cut short by a blow from Leonard, and the warder presently
found the two boys rolling on the floor together in hot contest.
And meanwhile poor Grisell was trying to frame with her torn and flayed
cheeks and lips, “O lady, lady, visit it not on him! Let not Leonard be
punished. It was my fault for getting into his way when I should have
been in the garden. Dear Madge, canst thou speak for him?”
Madge was Edmund’s sister, Margaret of York, who stood trembling and
crying by Grisell’s bed.