A NEW MASTER
In the dark chambère, if the bride was fair,
Ye wis, I could not see.
. . . .
And the bride rose from her knee
And kissed the smile of her mother dead.
E. B. BROWNING, _The Romaunt of the Page_.
THE Lady 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 is _in 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
is _in 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.