THE DUKE’S DEATH
Wither one Rose, and let the other flourish;
If you contend, a thousand lives must wither.
SHAKESPEARE, _King Henry VI._, Part III.
SO time went on, and the rule of the House of York in England seemed
established, while the exiles had settled down in Burgundy, Grisell to
her lace pillow, Leonard to the suite of the Count de Charolais. Indeed
there was reason to think that he had come to acquiesce in the change of
dynasty, or at any rate to think it unwise and cruel to bring on another
desperate civil war. In fact, many of the Red Rose party were making
their peace with Edward IV. Meanwhile the Duchess Isabel became
extremely fond of Grisell, and often summoned her to come and work by her
side, and talk to her; and thus came on the summer of 1467, when Duke
Philip returned from the sack of unhappy Dinant in a weakened state, and
soon after was taken fatally ill. All the city of Bruges watched in
anxiety for tidings, for the kindly Duke was really loved where his hand
did not press. One evening during the suspense when Master Lambert was
gone out to gather tidings, there was the step with clank of spurs which
had grown familiar, and Leonard Copeland strode in hot and dusty,
greeting Vrow Clemence as usual with a touch of the hand and inclination
of the head, and Grisell with hand and courteous voice, as he threw
himself on the settle, heated and weary, and began with tired fingers to
unfasten his heavy steel cap.
Grisell hastened to help him, Clemence to fetch a cup of cooling Rhine
wine. “There, thanks, mistress. We have ridden all day from Ghent, in
the heat and dust, and after all the Count got before us.”
“To the Duke?”
“Ay! He was like one demented at tidings of his father’s sickness. Say
what they will of hot words and fierce passages between them, that father
and son have hearts loving one another truly.”
“It is well they should agree at the last,” said Grisell, “or the Count
will carry with him the sorest of memories.”
And indeed Charles the Bold was on his knees beside the bed of his
speechless father in an agony of grief.
Presently all the bells in Bruges began to clash out their warning that a
soul was passing to the unseen land, and Grisell made signs to Clemence,
while Leonard lifted himself upright, and all breathed the same for the
mighty Prince as for the poorest beggar, the intercession for the dying.
Then the solemn note became a knell, and their prayer changed to the De
Profundis, “Out of the depths.”
Presently Lambert Groot came in, grave and saddened, with the
intelligence that Philip the Good had departed in peace, with his wife
and son on either side of him, and his little granddaughter kneeling
beside the Duchess.
There was bitter weeping all over Bruges, and soon all over Flanders and
the other domains united under the Dukedom of Burgundy, for though Philip
had often deeply erred, he had been a fair ruler, balancing discordant
interests justly, and maintaining peace, while all that was splendid or
luxurious prospered and throve under him. There was a certain dread of
the future under his successor.
“A better man at heart,” said Leonard, who had learnt to love the Count
de Charolais. “He loathes the vices and revelry that have stained the
Court.”
“That is true,” said Lambert. “Yet he is a man of violence, and with
none of the skill and dexterity with which Duke Philip steered his
course.”
“A plague on such skill,” muttered Leonard. “Caring solely for his own
gain, not for the right!”
“Yet your Count has a heavy hand,” said Lambert. “Witness Dinant!
unhappy Dinant.”
“The rogues insulted his mother,” said Leonard. “He offered them terms
which they would not have in their stubborn pride! But speak not of
that! I never saw the like in England. There we strike at the great,
not at the small. Ah well, with all our wars and troubles England was
the better place to live in. Shall we ever see it more?”
There was something delightful to Grisell in that “we,” but she made
answer, “So far as I hear, there has been quiet there for the last two
years under King Edward.”
“Ay, and after all he has the right of blood,” said Leonard. “Our King
Henry is a saint, and Queen Margaret a peerless dame of romance, but
since I have come to years of understanding I have seen that they neither
had true claim of inheritance nor power to rule a realm.”
“Then would you make your peace with the White Rose?”
“The _rose en soleil_ that wrought us so much evil at Mortimer’s Cross?
Methinks I would. I never swore allegiance to King Henry. My father was
still living when last I saw that sweet and gracious countenance which I
must defend for love and reverence’ sake.”
“And he knighted you,” said Grisell.
“True,” with a sharp glance, as if he wondered how she was aware of the
fact; “but only as my father’s heir. My poor old house and tenants! I
would I knew how they fare; but mine uncle sends me no letters, though he
does supply me.”
“Then you do not feel bound in honour to Lancaster?” said Grisell.
“Nay; I did not stir or strive to join the Queen when last she called up
the Scots—the Scots indeed!—to aid her. I could not join them in a foray
on England. I fear me she will move heaven and earth again when her son
is of age to bear arms; but my spirit rises against allies among Scots or
French, and I cannot think it well to bring back bloodshed and
slaughter.”
“I shall pray for peace,” said Grisell. All this was happiness to her,
as she felt that he was treating her with confidence. Would she ever be
nearer to him?
He was a graver, more thoughtful man at seven and twenty than he had been
at the time of his hurried marriage, and had conversed with men of real
understanding of the welfare of their country. Such talks as these made
Grisell feel that she could look up to him as most truly her lord and
guide. But how was it with the fair Eleanor, and whither did his heart
incline? An English merchant, who came for spices, had said that the
Lord Audley had changed sides, and it was thus probable that the damsel
was bestowed in marriage to a Yorkist; but there was no knowing, nor did
Grisell dare to feel her way to discovering whether Leonard knew, or felt
himself still bound to constancy, outwardly and in heart.
Every one was taken up with the funeral solemnities of Duke Philip; he
was to be finally interred with his father and grandfather in the grand
tombs at Dijon, but for the present the body was to be placed in the
Church of St. Donatus at Bruges, at night.
Sir Leonard rode at a foot’s pace in the troop of men-at-arms, all in
full armour, which glanced in the light of the sixteen hundred torches
which were borne before, behind, and in the midst of the procession,
which escorted the bier. Outside the coffin, arrayed in ducal coronet
and robes, with the Golden Fleece collar round the neck, lay the exact
likeness of the aged Duke, and on shields around the pall, as well as on
banners borne waving aloft, were the armorial bearings of all his
honours, his four dukedoms, seven counties, lordships innumerable,
besides the banners of all the guilds carried to do him honour.
More than twenty prelates were present, and shared in the mass, which
began in the morning hour, and in the requiem. The heralds of all the
domains broke their white staves and threw them on the bier, proclaiming
that Philip, lord of all these lands, was deceased. Then, as in the case
of royalty, Charles his son was proclaimed; and the organ led an
acclamation of jubilee from all the assembly which filled the church, and
a shout as of thunder arose, “Vivat Carolus.”
Charles knelt meanwhile with hands clasped over his brow, silent,
immovable. Was he crushed at thought of the whirlwinds of passion that
had raged between him and the father whom he had loved all the time? or
was there on him the weight of a foreboding that he, though free from the
grosser faults of his father, would never win and keep hearts in the same
manner, and that a sad, tumultuous, troubled career and piteous, untimely
end lay before him?
His mother, Grisell’s Duchess, according to the rule of the Court, lay in
bed for six weeks—at least she was bound to lie there whenever she was
not in entire privacy. The room and bed were hung with black, but a
white covering was over her, and she was fully dressed in the black and
white weeds of royal widowhood. The light of day was excluded, and hosts
of wax candles burnt around.
Grisell did not see her during this first period of stately mourning, but
she heard that the good lady had spent her time in weeping and praying
for her husband, all the more earnestly that she had little cause
personally to mourn him.