DUCHESS MARGARET
I beheld the pageants splendid, that adorned those days of old;
Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece of
Gold.
LONGFELLOW, _The Belfry of Bruges_.
IN another week the festivities were over, and she waited anxiously,
dreading each day more and more that her gift had been forgotten or
misunderstood, or that her old companion disdained or refused to take
notice of her; then trying to console herself by remembering the manifold
engagements and distractions of the bride.
Happily, Grisell thought, Ridley was absent when Leonard Copeland came
one evening to supper. He was lodged among the guards of the Duke in the
palace, and had much less time at his disposal than formerly, for Duke
Charles insisted on the most strict order and discipline among all his
attendants. Moreover, there were tokens of enmity on the part of the
French on the border of the Somme, and Leonard expected to be despatched
to the camp which was being formed there. He was out of spirits. The
sight and speech of so many of his countrymen had increased the longing
for home.
“I loathe the mincing French and the fat Flemish tongues,” he owned, when
Master Lambert was out of hearing. “I should feel at home if I could but
hear an honest carter shout ‘Woa’ to his horses.”
“Did you have any speech with the ladies?” asked Grisell.
“I? No! What reck they of a poor knight adventurer?”
“Methought all the chivalry were peers, and that a belted knight was a
comrade for a king,” said Grisell.
“Ay, in the days of the Round Table; but when Dukes and Counts, and great
Marquesses and Barons swarm like mayflies by a trout stream, what chance
is there that a poor, landless exile will have a word or a glance?”
Did this mean that the fair Eleanor had scorned him? Grisell longed to
know, but for that very reason she faltered when about to ask, and turned
her query into one whether he had heard any news of his English
relations.
“My good uncle at Wearmouth hath been dead these four years—so far as I
can gather. Amply must he have supplied Master Groot. I must account
with him. For mine inheritance I can gather nothing clearly. I fancy
the truth is that George Copeland, who holds it, is little better than a
reiver on either side, and that King Edward might grant it back to me if
I paid my homage, save that he is sworn never to pardon any who had a
share in the death of his brother of Rutland.”
“You had not! I know you had not!”
“Hurt Ned? I’d as soon have hurt my own brother! Nay, I got this blow
from Clifford for coming between,” said he, pushing back his hair so as
to show a mark near his temple. “But how did you know?”
“Harry Featherstone told me.” She had all but said, “My father’s
squire.”
“You knew Featherstone? Belike when he was at Whitburn. He is here now;
a good man of his hands,” muttered Leonard. “Anyway the King believes I
had a hand in that cruel business of Wakefield Bridge, and nought but his
witness would save my neck if once I ventured into England—if that would.
So I may resign myself to be the Duke’s captain of archers for the rest
of my days. Heigh ho! And a lonely man; I fear me in debt to good
Master Lambert, or may be to Mistress Grisell, to whom I owe more than
coin will pay. Ha! was that—” interrupting himself, for a trumpet blast
was ringing out at intervals, the signal of summons to the men-at-arms.
Leonard started up, waved farewell, and rushed off.
The summons proved to be a call to the men-at-arms to attend the Duke
early the next morning on an expedition to visit his fortresses in
Picardy, and as the household of the Green Serpent returned from mass,
they heard the tramp and clatter, and saw the armour flash in the sun as
the troop passed along the main street, and became visible at the opening
of that up which they walked.
The next day came a summons from the convent of the Grey Sisters that
Mistress Griselda was to attend the Duchess Isabel.
She longed to fly through the air, but her limbs trembled. Indeed, she
shook so that she could not stand still nor walk slowly. She hurried on
so that the lay sister who had been sent for her was quite out of breath,
and panted after her within gasps of “Stay! stay, mistress! No bear is
after us! She runs as though a mad ox had got loose!”
Her heart was wild enough for anything! She might have to hear from her
kind Duchess that all was vain and unnoticed.
Up the stair she went, to the accustomed chamber, where an additional
chair was on the dais under the canopy, the half circle of ladies as
usual, but before she had seen more with her dazzled, swimming eyes, even
as she rose from her first genuflection, she found herself in a pair of
soft arms, kisses rained on her cheeks and brow, and there was a tender
cry in her own tongue of “My Grisell! my dear old Grisell! I have found
you at last! Oh! that was good in you. I knew the forget-me-nots, and
all your little devices. Ah!” as Grisell, unable to speak for tears of
joy, held up the pouncet box, the childish gift.
The soft pink velvet bodice girdled and clasped with diamonds was pressed
to her, the deep hanging silken sleeves were round her, the white satin
broidered skirt swept about her feet, the pearl-edged matronly cap on the
youthful head leant fondly against her, as Margaret led her up, still in
her embrace, and cried, “It is she, it is she! Dear belle mère, thanks
indeed for bringing us together!”
The Countess of Poitiers looked on scandalised at English impulsiveness,
and the elder Duchess herself looked for a moment stiff, as her
lace-maker slipped to her knees to kiss her hand and murmur her thanks.
“Let me look at you,” cried Margaret. “Ah! have you recovered that
terrible mishap? By my troth, ’tis nearly gone. I should never have
found it out had I not known!”
This was rather an exaggeration, but joy did make a good deal of
difference in Grisell’s face, and the Duchess Margaret was one of the
most eager and warm-hearted people living, fervent alike in love and in
hate, ready both to act on slight evidence for those whose cause she took
up, and to nourish bitter hatred against the enemies of her house.
“Now, tell me all,” she continued in English. “I heard that you had been
driven out of Wilton, and my uncle of Warwick had sped you northward.
How is it that you are here, weaving lace like any mechanical sempstress?
Nay, nay! I cannot listen to you on your knees. We have hugged one
another too often for that.”
Grisell, with the elder Duchess’s permission, seated herself on the
cushion at Margaret’s feet. “Speak English,” continued the bride. “I am
wearying already of French! Ma belle mère, you will not find fault. You
know a little of our own honest tongue.”
Duchess Isabel smiled, and Grisell, in answer to the questions of
Margaret, told her story. When she came to the mention of her marriage
to Leonard Copeland, there was the vindictive exclamation, “Bound to that
blood-thirsty traitor! Never! After the way he treated you, no marvel
that he fell on my sweet Edmund!”
“Ah! madame, he did not! He tried to save him.”
“He! A follower of King Henry! Never!”
“Truly, madame! He had ever loved Lord Edmund. He strove to stay Lord
Clifford’s hand, and threw himself between, but Clifford dashed him
aside, and he bears still the scar where he fell against the parapet of
the bridge. Harry Featherstone told me, when he fled from the piteous
field, where died my father and brother Robin.”
“Your brother, Robin Dacre! I remember him. I would have made him good
cheer for your sake, but my mother was ever strict, and rapped our
fingers, nay, treated us to the rod, if we ever spake to any of my
father’s meiné. Tell on, Grisell,” as her hand found its way under the
hood, and stroked the fair hair. “Poor lonely one!”
Her indignation was great when she heard of Copeland’s love, and still
more of his mission to seize Whitburn, saying, truly enough, that he
should have taken both lady and Tower, or given both up, and lending a
most unwilling ear to the plea that he had never thought his relations to
Grisell binding. She had never loved Lady Heringham, and it was plainly
with good cause.
Then followed the rest of the story, and when it appeared that Grisell
had been instrumental in saving Copeland, and close inquiries elicited
that she had been maintaining him all this while, actually for seven
years, all unknown to him, the young Duchess could not contain herself.
“Grisell! Grisell of patience indeed. Belle mère, belle mère, do you
understand?” and in rapid French she recounted all.
“He is my husband,” said Grisell simply, as the two Duchesses showed
their wonder and admiration.
“Never did tale or ballad show a more saintly wife,” cried Margaret.
“And now what would you have me do for you, my most patient of Grisells?
Write to my brother the King to restore your lands, and—and I suppose you
would have this recreant fellow’s given back since you say he has seen
the error of following that make-bate Queen. But can you prove him free
of Edmund’s blood? Aught but that might be forgiven.”
“Master Featherstone is gone back to England,” said Grisell, “but he can
bear witness; but my father’s old squire, Cuthbert Ridley, is here, who
heard his story when he came to us from Wakefield. Moreover, I have seen
the mark on Sir Leonard’s brow.”
“Let be. I will write to Edward an you will. He has been more prone to
Lancaster folk since he was caught by the wiles of Lady Grey; but I would
that I could hear what would clear this knight of yours by other
testimony than such as your loving heart may frame. But you must come
and be one of mine, my own ladies, Grisell, and never go back to your
Poticary—Faugh!”
This, however, Grisell would not hear of; and Margaret really reverenced
her too much to press her.
However, Ridley was sent for to the Cour des Princes, and returned with a
letter to be borne to King Edward, and likewise a mission to find
Featherstone, and if possible Red Jock.
“’Tis working for that rogue Copeland,” he growled. “I would it were for
you, my sweet lady.”
“It is working for me! Think so with all your heart, good Cuthbert.”
“Well, end as it may, you will at least ken who and what you are, wed or
unwed, fish, flesh or good red herring, and cease to live nameless, like
the Poticary’s serving-woman,” concluded Ridley as his parting grumble.