THE CITY OF BRIDGES
So for long hours sat Enid by her lord,
There in the naked hall, propping his head,
And chafing his pale hands, and calling to him.
And at the last he waken’d from his swoon.
TENNYSON, _Enid_.
THE transit was happily effected, and closely hidden in wool, Leonard
Copeland was lifted out the boat, more than half unconscious, and
afterwards transferred to the vessel, and placed in wrappings as softly
and securely as Grisell and Clemence could arrange before King Edward’s
men came to exact their poundage on the freight, but happily did not
concern themselves about the sick man.
He might almost be congratulated on his semi-insensibility, for though he
suffered, he would not retain the recollection of his suffering, and the
voyage was very miserable to every one, though the weather was far from
unfavourable, as the captain declared. Grisell indeed was so entirely
taken up with ministering to her knight that she seemed impervious to
sickness or discomfort. It was a great relief to enter on the smooth
waters of the great canal from Ostend, and Lambert stood on the deck
recognising old landmarks, and pointing them out with the joy of
homecoming to Clemence, who perhaps felt less delight, since the joys of
her life had only begun when she turned her back on her unkind kinsfolk.
Nor did her face light up as his did while he pointed out to Grisell the
beauteous belfry, rising on high above the many-peaked gables, though she
did smile when a long-billed, long-legged stork flapped his wings
overhead, and her husband signed that it was in greeting. The greeting
that delighted him she could not hear, the sweet chimes from that same
tower, which floated down the stream, when he doffed his cap, crossed
himself, and clasped his hands in devout thanksgiving.
It was a wonderful scene of bustle; where vessels of all kinds thronged
together were drawn up to the wharf, the beautiful tall painted ships of
Venice and Genoa pre-eminent among the stoutly-built Netherlanders and
the English traders. Shouts in all languages were heard, and Grisell
looked round in wonder and bewilderment as to how the helpless and
precious charge on the deck was ever to be safely landed.
Lambert, however, was truly at home and equal to the occasion. He
secured some of the men who came round the vessel in barges clamouring
for employment, and—Grisell scarce knew how—Leonard on his bed was lifted
down, and laid in the bottom of the barge. The big bundles and cases
were committed to the care of another barge, to follow close after
theirs, and on they went under, one after another, the numerous
high-peaked bridges to which Bruges owes its name, while tall
sharp-gabled houses, walls, or sometimes pleasant green gardens, bounded
the margins, with a narrow foot-way between. The houses had often
pavement leading by stone steps to the river, and stone steps up to the
door, which was under the deep projecting eaves running along the front
of the house—a stoop, as the Low Countries called it. At one of
these—not one of the largest or handsomest, but far superior to the old
home at Sunderland—hung the large handsome painted and gilded sign of the
same serpent which Grisell had learnt to know so well, and here the barge
hove to, while two servants, the man in a brown belted jerkin, the old
woman in a narrow, tight, white hood, came out on the steps with
outstretched hands.
“Mein Herr, my dear Master Lambert. Oh, joy! Greet thee well. Thanks
to our Lady that I have lived to see this day,” was the old woman’s cry.
“Greet thee well, dear old Mother Abra. Greet thee, trusty Anton. You
had my message? Have you a bed and chamber ready for this gentleman?”
Such was Lambert’s hasty though still cordial greeting, as he gave his
hand to the man-servant, his cheek to his old nurse, who was mother to
Anton. Clemence in her gentle dumb show shared the welcome, and directed
as Leonard was carried up an outside stone stair to a guest-chamber, and
deposited in a stately bed with fresh, cool, lace-bordered,
lavender-scented sheets, and Grisell put between his lips a spoonful of
the cordial with which Lambert had supplied her.
More distinctly than before he murmured, “Thanks, sweet Eleanor.”
The move in the open air had partly revived him, partly made him
feverish, and he continued to murmur complacently his thanks to Eleanor
for tending her “wounded knight,” little knowing whom he wounded by his
thanks.
On one point this decided Grisell. She looked up at Lambert, and when he
used her title of “Lady,” in begging her to leave old Mother Abra in
charge and to come down to supper, she made a gesture of silence, and as
she came down the broad stair—a refinement scarce known in England—she
entreated him to let her be Grisell still.
“Unless he accept me as his wife I will never bear his name,” she said.
“Nay, madame, you are Lady of Whitburn by right.”
“By right, may be, but not in fact, nor could I be known as mine own self
without cumbering him with my claims. No, let me alone to be Grisell as
ever before, an English orphan, bower-woman to Vrow Clemence if she will
have me.”
Clemence would not consent to treat her as bower-woman, and it was agreed
that she should remain as one of the many orphans made by the civil war
in England, without precise definition of her rank, and be only called by
her Christian name. She was astonished at the status of Master Groot,
the size and furniture of the house, and the servants who awaited him;
all so unlike his little English establishment, for the refinements and
even luxuries were not only far beyond those of Whitburn, but almost
beyond all that she had seen even in the households of the Earls of
Salisbury and Warwick. He had indeed been bred to all this, for the
burghers of Bruges were some of the most prosperous of all the rich
citizens of Flanders in the golden days of the Dukes of Burgundy; and he
had left it all for the sake of his Clemence, but without forfeiting his
place in his Guild, or his right to his inheritance.
He was, however, far from being a rich man, on a level with the great
merchants, though he had succeeded to a modest, not unprosperous trade in
spices, drugs, condiments and other delicacies.
He fetched a skilful Jewish physician to visit Sir Leonard Copeland, but
there was no great difference in the young man’s condition for many days.
Grisell nursed him indefatigably, sitting by him so as to hear the sweet
bells chime again and again, and the storks clatter on the roofs at
sunrise.
Still, whenever her hand brought him some relief, or she held drink to
his lips, his words and thanks were for Eleanor, and more and more did
the sense sink down upon her like lead that she must give him up to
Eleanor.
Yes, it was like lead, for, as she watched his face on the pillow her
love went out to him. It might have done so even had he been disfigured
like herself; but his was a beautiful countenance of noble outlines, and
she felt a certain pride in it as hers, while she longed to see it light
up with reason, and glow once more with health. Then she thought she
could rejoice, even if there were no look of love for her.
The eyes did turn towards her again with the mind looking out of them,
and he knew her for the nurse on whom he depended for comfort and relief.
He thanked her courteously, so that she felt a thrill of pleasure every
time. He even learnt her name of Grisell, and once he asked whether she
were not English, to which she replied simply that she was, and on a
further question she said that she had been at Sunderland with Master
Groot, and that she had lost her home in the course of the wars.
There for some time it rested—rested at least with the knight. But with
the lady there was far from rest, for every hour she was watching for
some favourable token which might draw them nearer, and give opportunity
for making herself known. Nearer they certainly drew, for he often
smiled at her. He liked her to wait on him, and to beguile the weariness
of his recovery by singing to him, telling some of her store of tales, or
reading to him, for books were more plentiful at Bruges than at
Sunderland, and there were even whispers of a wonderful mode of
multiplying them far more quickly than by the scrivener’s hand.
How her heart beat every time she thus ministered to him, or heard his
voice call to her, but it was all, as she could plainly see, just as he
would have spoken to Clemence, if she could have heard him, and he
evidently thought her likewise of burgher quality, and much of the same
age as the Vrow Groot. Indeed, the long toil and wear of the past months
had made her thin and haggard, and the traces of her disaster were all
the more apparent, so that no one would have guessed her years to be
eighteen.
She had taken her wedding-ring from her finger, and wore it on a chain,
within her kirtle, so as to excite no inquiry. But many a night, ere she
lay down, she looked at it, and even kissed it, as she asked herself
whether her knight would ever bid her wear it. Until he did so her
finger should never again be encircled by it.
Meantime she scarcely ever went beyond the nearest church and the garden,
which amply compensated Clemence for that which she had left at
Sunderland. Indeed, that had been as close an imitation of this one as
Lambert could contrive in a colder climate with smaller means. Here was
a fountain trellised over by a framework rich in roses and our lady’s
bower; here were pinks, gilly-flowers, pansies, lavender, and the new
snowball shrub recently produced at Gueldres, and a little bush shown
with great pride by Anton, the snow-white rose grown in King Réne’s
garden of Provence.
These served as borders to the green walks dividing the beds of useful
vegetables and fruits and aromatic herbs which the Groots had long been
in the habit of collecting from all parts and experimenting on. Much did
Lambert rejoice to find himself among the familiar plants he had often
needed and could not procure in England, and for some of which he had a
real individual love. The big improved distillery and all the jars and
bottles of his youth were a joy to him, almost as much as the old friends
who accepted him again after a long “wander year.”
Clemence had her place too, but she shrank from the society she could not
share, and while most of the burghers’ wives spent the summer evening
sitting spinning or knitting on the steps of the stoop, conversing with
their gossips, she preferred to take her distaff or needle among the
roses, sometimes tending them, sometimes beguiling Grisell to come and
take the air in company with her, for they understood one another’s mute
language; and when Lambert Groot was with his old friends they sufficed
for one another—so far as Grisell’s anxious heart could find solace, and
perhaps in none so much as the gentle matron who could caress but could
not talk.