THE PILGRIM OF SALISBURY
She hadde passed many a strange shrine,
At Rome she had been and at Boleine,
At Galice, at St. James, and at Coleine,
She could moche of wandering by the way.
CHAUCER, _Canterbury Pilgrims_.
GRISELL found herself brought into a hall where a stout oak table
occupied the centre, covered with home-spun napery, on which stood
trenchers, wooden bowls, pewter and a few silver cups, and several large
pitchers of ale, small beer, or milk. A pie and a large piece of bacon,
also a loaf of barley bread and a smaller wheaten one, were there.
Shelves all round the walls shone with pewter and copper dishes, cups,
kettles, and vessels and implements of all household varieties, and
ranged round the floor lay ploughshares, axes, and mattocks, all polished
up. The ring of hammers on the anvil was heard in the court in the rear.
The front of the hall was open for the most part, without windows, but it
could be closed at night.
Breakfast was never a regular meal, and the household had partaken of it,
so that there was no one in the hall excepting Master Hall, a stout,
brawny, grizzled man, with a good-humoured face, and his son, more slim,
but growing into his likeness, also a young notable-looking
daughter-in-law with a swaddled baby tucked under her arm.
They seated Grisell at the table, and implored her to eat. The wheaten
bread and the fowl were, it seemed, provided in her honour, and she could
not but take her little knife from the sheath in her girdle, turn back
her nun-like veil, and prepare to try to drive back her sobs, and swallow
the milk of almonds pressed on her.
“Eh!” cried the daughter-in-law in amaze. “She’s only scarred after
all.”
“Well, what else should she be, bless her poor heart?” said Mrs. Hall the
elder.
“Why, wasn’t it thou thyself, good mother, that brought home word that
they had the pig-faced lady at Wilton there?”
“Bless thee, Agnes, thou should’st know better than to lend an ear to all
the idle tales thy poor old mother may hear at market or fair.”
“Then should we have enough to do,” muttered her husband.
“And as thou seest, ’tis a sweet little face, only cruelly marred by the
evil hap.”
Poor Grisell was crimson at finding all eyes on her, an ordeal she had
never undergone in the convent, and she hastily pulled forward her veil.
“Nay now, my sweet young lady, take not the idle words in ill part,”
pleaded the good hostess. “We all know how to love thee, and what is a
smooth skin to a true heart? Take a bit more of the pasty, ladybird;
we’ll have far to ride ere we get to Wherwell, where the good sisters
will give us a meal for young St. Edward’s sake and thy Prioress’s.
Aye—I turn out of my way for that; I never yet paid my devotion to poor
young King Edward, and he might take it in dudgeon, being a king, and his
shrine so near at hand.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed the smith; “trust my dame for being on the right side
of the account with the Saints. Well for me and Jack that we have little
Agnes here to mind the things on earth meanwhile. Nay, nay, dame, I say
nought to hinder thee; I know too well what it means when spring comes,
and thou beginn’st to moan and tell up the tale of the shrines where thou
hast not told thy beads.”
It was all in good humour, and Master Hall walked out to the city gate to
speed his gad-about or pious wife, whichever he might call her, on her
way, apparently quite content to let her go on her pilgrimages for the
summer quarter.
She rode a stout mule, and was attended by two sturdy varlets—quite
sufficient guards for pilgrims, who were not supposed to carry any
valuables. Grisell sadly rode her pony, keeping her veil well over her
face, yearning over the last view of the beloved spire, thinking of
Sister Avice ministering to her poor, and with a very definite fear of
her own reception in the world and dread of her welcome at home. Yet
there was a joy in being on horseback once more, for her who had ridden
moorland ponies as soon as she could walk.
Goodwife Hall talked on, with anecdotes of every hamlet that they passed,
and these were not very many. At each church they dismounted and said
their prayers, and if there were a hostel near, they let their animals
feed the while, and obtained some refreshment themselves. England was
not a very safe place for travellers just then, but the cockle-shells
sewn to the pilgrim’s hat of the dame, and to that of one of her
attendants, and the tall staff and wallet each carried, were passports of
security. Nothing could be kinder than Mistress Hall was to her charge,
of whom she was really proud, and when they halted for the night at the
nunnery of Queen Elfrida at Wherwell, she took care to explain that this
was no burgess’s daughter but the Lady Grisell Dacre of Whitburn, trusted
to _her_ convoy, and thus obtained for her quarters in the guest-chamber
of the refectory instead of in the general hospitium; but on the whole
Grisell had rather not have been exposed to the shock of being shown to
strangers, even kindly ones, for even if they did not exclaim, some one
was sure to start and whisper.
After another halt for the night the travellers reached London, and
learned at the city gate that the Earl and Countess of Salisbury were
absent, but that their eldest son, the Earl of Warwick, was keeping court
at Warwick House.
Thither therefore Mistress Hall resolved to conduct Grisell. The way lay
through narrow streets with houses overhanging the roadway, but the house
itself was like a separate castle, walled round, enclosing a huge space,
and with a great arched porter’s lodge, where various men-at-arms
lounged, all adorned on the arm of their red jackets with the bear and
ragged staff.
They were courteous, however, for the Earl Richard of Warwick insisted on
civility to all comers, and they respected the scallop-shell on the
dame’s hat. They greeted her good-humouredly.
“Ha, good-day, good pilgrim wife. Art bound for St. Paul’s? Here’s
supper to the fore for all comers!”
“Thanks, sir porter, but this maid is of other mould; she is the Lady
Grisell Dacre, and is company for my lord and my lady.”
“Nay, her hood and veil look like company for the Abbess. Come this way,
dame, and we will find the steward to marshal her.”
Grisell had rather have been left to the guardianship of her kind old
friend, but she was obliged to follow. They dismounted in a fine court
with cloister-like buildings round it, and full of people of all kinds,
for no less than six hundred stout yeomen wore red coats and the bear and
ragged staff. Grisell would fain have clung to her guide, but she was
not allowed to do so. She was marshalled up stone steps into a great
hall, where tables were being laid, covered with white napery and
glittering with silver and pewter.
The seneschal marched before her all the length of the hall to where
there was a large fireplace with a burning log, summer though it was, and
shut off by handsome tapestried and carved screens sat a half circle of
ladies, with a young-looking lady in a velvet fur-trimmed surcoat in
their midst. A tall man with a keen, resolute face, in long robes and
gold belt and chain, stood by her leaning on her chair.
The seneschal announced, “Place, place for the Lady Grisell Dacre of
Whitburn,” and Grisell bent low, putting back as much of her veil as she
felt courtesy absolutely to require. The lady rose, the knight held out
his hand to raise the bending figure. He had that power of recollection
and recognition which is so great an element in popularity. “The Lady
Grisell Dacre,” he said. “She who met with so sad a disaster when she
was one of my lady mother’s household?”
Grisell glowing all over signed acquiescence, and he went on, “Welcome to
my poor house, lady. Let me present you to my wife.”
The Countess of Warwick was a pale, somewhat inane lady. She was the
heiress of the Beauchamps and De Spensers in consequence of the recent
death of her brother, “the King of the Isle of Wight”—and through her
inheritance her husband had risen to his great power. She was delicate
and feeble, almost apathetic, and she followed her husband’s lead, and
received her guest with fair courtesy; and Grisell ventured in a
trembling voice to explain that she had spent those years at Wilton, but
that the new Abbess’s Proctor would not consent to her remaining there
any longer, not even long enough to send to her parents or to the
Countess of Salisbury.
“Poor maiden! Such are the ways of his Holiness where the King is not
man enough to stand in his way,” said Warwick. “So, fair maiden, if you
will honour my house for a few days, as my lady’s guest, I will send you
north in more fitting guise than with this white-smith dame.”
“She hath been very good to me,” Grisell ventured to add to her thanks.
“She shall have good entertainment here,” said the Earl smiling. “No
doubt she hath already, as Sarum born. See that Goodwife Hall, the white
smith’s wife, and her following have the best of harbouring,” he added to
his silver-chained steward.
“You are a Dacre of Whitburn,” he added to Grisell. “Your father has not
taken sides with Dacre of Gilsland and the Percies.” Then seeing that
Grisell knew nothing of all this, he laughed and said, “Little convent
birds, you know nought of our worldly strifes.”
In fact, Grisell had heard nothing from her home for the last five years,
which was the less marvel as neither her father nor her mother could
write if they had cared to do so. Nor did the convent know much of the
state of England, though prayers had been constantly said for the King’s
recovery, and of late there had been thanksgivings for the birth of the
Prince of Wales; but it was as much as she did know that just now the
Duke of York was governing, for the poor King seemed as senseless as a
stone, and the Earl of Salisbury was his Chancellor. Nevertheless
Salisbury was absent in the north, and there was a quarrel going on
between the Nevils and the Percies which Warwick was going to compose,
and thus would be able to take Grisell so far in his company.
The great household was larger than even what she remembered at the
houses of the Countess of Salisbury before her accident, and, fresh from
the stillness of the convent as she was, the noises were amazing to her
when all sat down to supper. Tables were laid all along the vast hall.
She was placed at the upper one to her relief, beside an old lady, Dame
Gresford, whom she remembered to have seen at Montacute Castle in her
childhood, as one of the attendants on the Countess. She was forced to
put back her veil, and she saw some of the young knights and squires
staring at her, then nudging one another and laughing.
“Never mind them, sweetheart,” said Dame Gresford kindly; “they are but
unmannerly lurdanes, and the Lord Earl would make them know what is
befitting if his eye fell on them.”
The good lady must have had a hint from the authorities, for she kept
Grisell under her wing in the huge household, which was like a city in
itself. There was a knight who acted as steward, with innumerable
knights, squires, and pages under him, besides the six hundred red
jacketed yoemen, and servants of all degrees, in the immense court of the
buttery and kitchen, as indeed there had need to be, for six oxen were
daily cooked, with sheep and other meats in proportion, and any friend or
acquaintance of any one in this huge establishment might come in, and not
only eat and drink his fill, but carry off as much meat as he could on
the point of his dagger.
Goodwife Hall, as coming from Salisbury, stayed there in free quarters,
while she made the round of all the shrines in London, and she was
intensely gratified by the great Earl recollecting, or appearing to
recollect, her and inquiring after her husband, that hearty burgess,
whose pewter was so lasting, and he was sure was still in use among his
black guard.
When she saw Grisell on finally departing for St. Albans, she was
carrying her head a good deal higher on the strength of “my Lord Earl’s
grace to her.” She hoped that her sweet Lady Grisell would remain here,
as the best hap she could have in the most noble, excellent, and
open-handed house in the world! Grisell’s own wishes were not the same,
for the great household was very bewildering—a strange change from her
quietly-busy convent. The Countess was quiet enough, but dull and
sickly, and chiefly occupied by her ailments. She seemed to be always
thinking about leeches, wise friars, wonderful nuns, or even wizards and
cunning women, and was much concerned that her husband absolutely forbade
her consulting the witch of Spitalfields.
“Nay, dame,” said he, “an thou didst, the next thing we should hear would
be that thou hadst been sticking pins into King Harry’s waxen image and
roasting him before the fire, and that nothing but roasting thee in life
and limb within a fire would bring him to life and reason.”
“They would never dare,” cried the lady.
“Who can tell what the Queen would dare if she gets her will!” demanded
the Earl. “Wouldst like to do penance with sheet and candle, like
Gloucester’s wife?”
Such a possibility was enough to silence the Lady of Warwick on the score
of witches, and the only time she spoke to Grisell was to ask her about
Sister Avice and her cures. She set herself to persuade her husband to
let her go down to one of his mother’s Wiltshire houses to consult the
nun, but Warwick had business in the north, nor would he allow her to be
separated from him, lest she might be detained as a hostage.
Dame Gresford continued to be Grisell’s protector, and let the girl sit
and spin or embroider beside her, while the other ladies of the house
played at ball in the court, or watched the exercises of the pages and
squires. The dame’s presence and authority prevented Grisell’s being
beset with uncivil remarks, but she knew she was like a toad among the
butterflies, as she overheard some saucy youth calling her, while a laugh
answered him, and she longed for her convent.