BERNARD
I do remember an apothecary,—
And hereabouts he dwells.
SHAKESPEARE, _Romeo and Juliet_.
BERNARD’S affection was as strong as his aversion had been. Poor little
boy, no one had been accustomed enough to sickly children, or indeed to
children at all, to know how to make him happy or even comfortable, and
his life had been sad and suffering ever since the blight that had fallen
on him, through either the evil eye of Nan the witch, or through his fall
into a freezing stream. His brother, a great strong lad, had teased and
bullied him; his father, though not actually unkind except when wearied
by his fretfulness, held him as a miserable failure, scarcely worth
rearing; his mother, though her pride was in her elder son, and the only
softness in her heart for the little one, had been so rugged and violent
a woman all the years of her life, and had so despised all gentler habits
of civilisation, that she really did not know how to be tender to the
child who was really her darling. Her infants had been nursed in the
cottages, and not returned to the castle till they were old enough to
rough it—indeed they were soon sent off to be bred up elsewhere. Some
failure in health, too, made it harder for her to be patient with an
ailing child, and her love was apt to take the form of anger with his
petulance or even with his suffering, or else of fierce battles with her
husband in his defence.
The comfort would have been in burning Crooked Nan, but that beldame had
disposed of herself out of reach, though Lady Whitburn still cherished
the hope of forcing the Gilsland Dacres or the Percies to yield the woman
up. Failing this, the boy had been shown to a travelling friar, who had
promised cure through the relics he carried about; but Bernard had only
screamed at him, and had been none the better.
And now the little fellow had got over the first shock, he found that
“Grisly,” as he still called her, but only as an affectionate
abbreviation, was the only person who could relieve his pain, or amuse
him, in the whole castle; and he was incessantly hanging on her. She
must put him to bed and sing lullabies to him, she must rub his limbs
when they ached with rheumatic pains; hers was the only hand which might
touch the sores that continually broke out, and he would sit for long
spaces on her lap, sometimes stroking down the scar and pitying it with
“Poor Grisly; when I am a man, I will throw down my glove, and fight with
that lad, and kill him.”
“O nay, nay, Bernard; he never meant to do me evil. He is a fair, brave,
good boy.”
“He scorned and ran away from you. He is mansworn and recreant,”
persisted Bernard. “Rob and I will make him say that you are the fairest
of ladies.”
“O nay, nay. That he could not.”
“But you are, you are—on this side—mine own Grisly,” cried Bernard, whose
experiences of fair ladies had not been extensive, and who curled himself
on her lap, giving unspeakable rest and joy to her weary, yearning
spirit, as she pressed him to her breast. “Now, a story, a story,” he
entreated, and she was rich in tales from Scripture history and legends
of the Saints, or she would sing her sweet monastic hymns and chants, as
he nestled in her lap.
The mother had fits of jealousy at the exclusive preference, and now and
then would rail at Grisell for cosseting the bairn and keeping him a
helpless baby; or at Bernard for leaving his mother for this
ill-favoured, useless sister, and would even snatch away the boy, and
declare that she wanted no one to deal with him save herself; but Bernard
had a will of his own, and screamed for his Grisly, throwing himself
about in such a manner that Lady Whitburn was forced to submit, and quite
to the alarm of her daughter, on one of these occasions she actually
burst into a flood of tears, sobbing loud and without restraint. Indeed,
though she hotly declared that she ailed nothing, there was a lassitude
about her that made it a relief to have the care of Bernard taken off her
hands; and the Baron’s grumbling at disturbed nights made the removal of
Bernard’s bed to his sister’s room generally acceptable.
Once, when Grisell was found to have taught both him and Thora the
English version of the Lord’s Prayer and Creed, and moreover to be
telling him the story of the Gospel, there came, no one knew from where,
an accusation which made her father tramp up and say, “Mark you, wench,
I’ll have no Lollards here.”
“Lollards, sir; I never saw a Lollard!” said Grisell trembling.
“Where, then, didst learn all this, making holy things common?”
“We all learnt it at Wilton, sir, from the reverend mothers and the holy
father.”
The Baron was fairly satisfied, and muttered that if the bairn was fit
only for a shaveling, it might be all right.
Poor child, would he ever be fit for that or any occupation of manhood?
However, Grisell had won permission to compound broths, cakes, and
possets for him, over the hall fire, for the cook and his wife would not
endure her approach to their domain, and with great reluctance allowed
her the materials. Bernard watched her operations with intense delight
and amusement, and tasted with a sense of triumph and appetite, calling
on his mother to taste likewise; and she, on whose palate semi-raw or
over-roasted joints had begun to pall, allowed that the nuns had taught
Grisell something.
And thus as time went on Grisell led no unhappy life. Every one around
was used to her scars, and took no notice of them, and there was nothing
to bring the thought before her, except now and then when a fishwife’s
baby, brought to her for cure, would scream at her. She never went
beyond the castle except to mass, now and then to visit a sick person,
and to seek some of the herbs of which she had learnt the use, and then
she was always attended by Thora and Ridley, who made a great favour of
going.
Bernard had given her the greater part of his heart, and she soothed his
pain, made his hours happy, and taught him the knowledge she brought from
the convent. Her affections were with him, and though her mother could
scarcely be said to love her, she tolerated and depended more and more on
the daughter who alone could give her more help or solace.
That was Grisell’s second victory, when she was actually asked to
compound a warm, relishing, hot bowl for her father when be was caught in
a storm and came in drenched and weary.
She wanted to try on her little brother the effect of one of Sister
Avice’s ointments, which she thought more likely to be efficacious than
melted mutton fat, mixed with pounded worms, scrapings from the church
bells, and boiled seaweed, but some of her ingredients were out of reach,
unless they were attainable at Sunderland, and she obtained permission to
ride thither under the escort of Cuthbert Ridley, and was provided with a
small purse—the proceeds of the Baron’s dues out of the fishermen’s sales
of herrings.
She was also to purchase a warm gown and mantle for her mother, and
enough of cloth to afford winter garments for Bernard; and a steady old
pack-horse carried the bundles of yarn to be exchanged for these
commodities, since the Whitburn household possessed no member dexterous
with the old disused loom, and the itinerant weavers did not come that
way—it was whispered because they were afraid of the fisher folk, and got
but sorry cheer from the lady.
The commissions were important, and Grisell enjoyed the two miles’ ride
along the cliffs of Roker Bay, looking up at the curious caverns in the
rock, and seeking for the very strangely-formed stones supposed to have
magic power, which fell from the rock. In the distance beyond the river
to the southward, Ridley pointed to the tall square tower of Monks
Wearmouth Church dominating the great monastery around it, which had once
held the venerable Bede, though to both Ridley and Grisell he was only a
name of a patron saint.
The harbour formed by the mouth of the river Wear was a marvel to
Grisell, crowded as it was with low, squarely-rigged and gaily-coloured
vessels of Holland, Friesland, and Flanders, very new sights to one best
acquainted with Noah’s ark or St. Peter’s ship in illuminations.
“Sunderland is a noted place for shipbuilding,” said Ridley. “Moreover,
these come for wool, salt-fish, and our earth coal, and they bring us
fine cloth, linen, and stout armour. I am glad to see yonder Flemish
ensign. If luck goes well with us, I shall get a fresh pair of gauntlets
for my lord, straight from Gaunt, the place of gloves.”
“_Gant_ for glove,” said Grisell.
“How? You speak French. Then you may aid me in chaffering, and I will
straight to the Fleming, with whom I may do better than with Hodge of the
Lamb. How now, here’s a shower coming up fast!”
It was so indeed; a heavy cloud had risen quickly, and was already
bursting overhead. Ridley hurried on, along a thoroughfare across salt
marshes (nowdocks), but the speed was not enough to prevent their being
drenched by a torrent of rain and hail before they reached the
tall-timbered houses of Wearmouth.
“In good time!” cried Ridley; “here’s the Poticary’s sign! You had best
halt here at once.”
In front of a high-roofed house with a projecting upper story, hung a
sign bearing a green serpent on a red ground, over a stall, open to the
street, which the owner was sheltering with a deep canvas awning.
“Hola, Master Lambert Groats,” called Ridley. “Here’s the young
demoiselle of Whitburn would have some dealings with you.”
Jumping off his horse, he helped Grisell to dismount just as a small,
keen-faced, elderly man in dark gown came forward, doffing his green
velvet cap, and hoping the young lady would take shelter in his poor
house.
Grisell, glancing round the little booth, was aware of sundry marvellous
curiosities hanging round, such as a dried crocodile, the shells of
tortoises, of sea-urchins and crabs, all to her eyes most strange and
weird; but Master Lambert was begging her to hasten in at once to his
dwelling-room beyond, and let his wife dry her clothes, and at once there
came forward a plump, smooth, pleasant-looking personage, greatly his
junior, dressed in a tight gold-edged cap over her fair hair, a dark
skirt, black bodice, bright apron, and white sleeves, curtseying low, but
making signs to invite the newcomers to the fire on the hearth. “My
housewife is stone deaf,” explained their host, “and she knows no tongue
save her own, and the unspoken language of courtesy, but she is rejoiced
to welcome the demoiselle. Ah, she is drenched! Ah, if she will honour
my poor house!”
The wife curtsied low, and by hospitable signs prayed the demoiselle to
come to the fire, and take off her wet mantle. It was a very comfortable
room, with a wide chimney, and deep windows glazed with thick circles of
glass, the spaces between leaded around in diamond panes, through which
vine branches could dimly be seen flapping and beating in the storm. A
table stood under one with various glasses and vessels of curious shapes,
and a big book, and at the other was a distaff, a work-basket, and other
feminine gear. Shelves with pewter dishes, and red, yellow, and striped
crocks, surrounded the walls; there was a savoury cauldron on the open
fire. It was evidently sitting-room and kitchen in one, with offices
beyond, and Grisell was at once installed in a fine carved chair by the
fire—a more comfortable seat than had ever fallen to her share.
“Look you here, mistress,” said Ridley; “you are in safe quarters here,
and I will leave you awhile, take the horses to the hostel, and do mine
errands across the river—’tis not fit for you—and come back to you when
the shower is over, and you can come and chaffer for your woman’s gear.”
From the two good hosts the welcome was decided, and Grisell was glad to
have time for consultation. An Apothecary of those days did not rise to
the dignity of a leech, but was more like the present owner of a
chemist’s shop, though a chemist then meant something much more abstruse,
who studied occult sciences, such as alchemy and astrology.
In fact, Lambert Groot, which was his real name, though English lips had
made it Groats, belonged to one of the prosperous guilds of the great
merchant city of Bruges, but he had offended his family by his
determination to marry the deaf, and almost dumb, portionless orphan
daughter of an old friend and contemporary, and to save her from the
scorn and slights of his relatives—though she was quite as well-born as
themselves—he had migrated to England, where Wearmouth and Sunderland had
a brisk trade with the Low Countries. These cities enjoyed the
cultivation of the period, and this room, daintily clean and fresh,
seemed to Grisell more luxurious than any she had seen since the Countess
of Warwick’s. A silver bowl of warm soup, extracted from the _pot au
feu_, was served to her by the Hausfrau, on a little table, spread with a
fine white cloth edged with embroidery, with an earnest gesture begging
her to partake, and a slender Venice glass of wine was brought to her
with a cake of wheaten bread. Much did Grisell wish she could have
transferred such refreshing fare to Bernard. She ventured to ask “Master
Poticary” whether he sold “Balsam of Egypt.” He was interested at once,
and asked whether it were for her own use.
“Nay, good master, you are thinking of my face; but that was a burn long
ago healed. It is for my poor little brother.”
Therewith Grisell and Master Groats entered on a discussions of symptoms,
drugs, ointments, and ingredients, in which she learnt a good deal and
perhaps disclosed more of Sister Avice’s methods than Wilton might have
approved. In the midst the sun broke out gaily after the shower, and
disclosed, beyond the window, a garden where every leaf and spray were
glittering and glorious with their own diamond drops in the sunshine. A
garden of herbs was a needful part of an apothecary’s business, as he
manufactured for himself all of the medicaments which he did not import
from foreign parts, but this had been laid out between its high walls
with all the care, taste, and precision of the Netherlander, and Grisell
exclaimed in perfect ecstasy: “Oh, the garden, the garden! I have seen
nothing so fair and sweet since I left Wilton.”
Master Lambert was delighted, and led her out. There is no describing
how refreshing was the sight to eyes after the bare, dry walls of the
castle, and the tossing sea which the maiden had not yet learnt to love.
Nor was the garden dull, though meant for use. There was a well in the
centre with roses trained over it, roses of the dark old damask kind and
the dainty musk, used to be distilled for the eyes, some flowers
lingering still; there was the brown dittany or fraxinella, whose dried
blossoms are phosphoric at night; delicate pink centaury, good for ague;
purple mallows, good for wounds; leopard’s bane with yellow blossoms;
many and many more old and dear friends of Grisell, redolent of Wilton
cloister and Sister Avice; and she ran from one to the other quite
transported, and forgetful of all the dignities of the young Lady of
Whitburn, while Lambert was delighted, and hoped she would come again
when his lilies were in bloom.
So went the time till Ridley returned, and when the price was asked of
the packet of medicaments prepared for her, Lambert answered that the
value was fully balanced by what he had learnt from the lady. This,
however, did not suit the honour of the Dacres, and Grisell, as well as
her squire, who looked offended, insisted on leaving two gold crowns in
payment. The Vrow kissed her hand, putting into it the last sprays of
roses, which Grisell cherished in her bosom.
She was then conducted to a booth kept by a Dutchman, where she obtained
the warm winter garments that she needed for her mother and brother, and
likewise some linen, for the Lady of Whitburn had never been housewife
enough to keep up a sufficient supply for Bernard, and Grisell was
convinced that the cleanliness which the nuns had taught her would
mitigate his troubles. With Thora to wash for her she hoped to institute
a new order of things.
Much pleased with her achievements she rode home. She was met there by
more grumbling than satisfaction. Her father had expected more coin to
send to Robert, who, like other absent youths, called for supplies.
The yeoman who had gone with him returned, bearing a scrap of paper with
the words:—
“MINE HONOURED LORD AND FATHER—I pray you to send me Black Lightning
and xvj crowns by the hand of Ralf, and so the Saints have you in
their keeping.—Your dutiful sonne,
“ROBERT DACRE.”
xvj crowns were a heavy sum in those days, and Lord Whitburn vowed that
he had never so called on his father except when he was knighted, but
those were the good old days when spoil was to be won in France. What
could Rob want of such a sum?
“Well-a-day, sir, the house of the Duke of York is no place to stint in.
The two young Earls of March and of Rutland, as they call them, walk in
red and blue and gold bravery, and chains of jewels, even like king’s
sons, and none of the squires and pages can be behind them.”
“Black Lightning too, my best colt, when I deemed the lad fitted out for
years to come. I never sent home the like message to my father under the
last good King Henry, but purveyed myself of a horse on the battlefield
more than once. But those good old days are over, and lads think more of
velvet and broidery than of lances and swords. Forsooth, their
coats-of-arms are good to wear on silk robes instead of helm and shield;
and as to our maids, give them their rein, and they spend more than all
the rest on women’s tawdry gear!”
Poor Grisell! when she had bought nothing ornamental, and nothing for
herself except a few needles.
However, in spite of murmurs, the xvj crowns were raised and sent away
with Black Lightning; and as time went on Grisell became more and more a
needful person. Bernard was stronger, and even rode out on a pony, and
the fame of his improvement brought other patients to the Lady Grisell
from the vassals, with whom she dealt as best she might, successfully or
the reverse, while her mother, as her health failed, let fall more and
more the reins of household rule.