Grisly Grisell

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Salisbury caught her up. "Ay, the roast. Will you partake of these
roast partridges, madam?"

They were brought round skewered on a long spit, held by a page for
the guest to help herself. Whether by her awkwardness or that of the
boy, it so chanced that the bird made a sudden leap from the
impalement, and deposited itself in the lap of Lady Whitburn's
scarlet kirtle! The fact was proclaimed by her loud rude cry, "A
murrain on thee, thou ne'er-do-weel lad," together with a sounding
box on the ear.

"'Tis thine own greed, who dost not--"

"Leonard, be still--know thy manners," cried both at once the Earl
and Sir William, for, unfortunately, the offender was no other than
Leonard Copeland, and, contrary to all the laws of pagedom, he was
too angry not to argue the point. "'Twas no doing of mine! She knew
not how to cut the bird."

Answering again was a far greater fault than the first, and his
father only treated it as his just desert when he was ordered off
under the squire in charge to be soundly scourged, all the more
sharply for his continuing to mutter, "It was her fault."

And sore and furrowed as was his back, he continued to exclaim, when
his friend Edmund of York came to condole with him as usual in all
his scrapes, "'Tis she that should have been scourged for clumsiness!
A foul, uncouth Border dame! Well, one blessing at least is that now
I shall never be wedded to her daughter--let the wench live or die as
she lists!"

That was not by any means the opinion of the Lady of Whitburn, and no
sooner was the meal ended than, in the midst of the hall, the debate
began, the Lady declaring that in all honour Sir William Copeland was
bound to affiance his son instantly to her poor daughter, all the
more since the injuries he had inflicted to her face could never be
done away with. On the other hand, Sir William Copeland was
naturally far less likely to accept such a daughter-in-law, since her
chances of being an heiress had ceased, and he contended that he had
never absolutely accepted the contract, and that there had been no
betrothal of the children.

The Earl of Salisbury could not but think that a strictly honourable
man would have felt poor Grisell's disaster inflicted by his son's
hands all the more reason for holding to the former understanding;
but the loud clamours and rude language of Lady Whitburn were enough
to set any one in opposition to her, and moreover, the words he said
in favour of her side of the question appeared to Copeland merely
spoken out of the general enmity of the Nevils to the Beauforts and
all their following.

Thus, all the evening Lady Whitburn raged, and appealed to the Earl,
whose support she thought cool and unfriendly, while Copeland stood
sullen and silent, but determined.

"My lord," she said, "were you a true friend to York and Raby, you
would deal with this scowling fellow as we should on the Border."

"We are not on the Border, madam," quietly said Salisbury.

"But you are in your own Castle, and can force him to keep faith. No
contract, forsooth! I hate your mincing South Country forms of law."
Then perhaps irritated by a little ironical smile which Salisbury
could not suppress. "Is this your castle, or is it not? Then bring
him and his lad to my poor wench's side, and see their troth
plighted, or lay him by the heels in the lowest cell in your dungeon.
Then will you do good service to the King and the Duke of York, whom
you talk of loving in your shilly-shally fashion."

"Madam," said the Earl, his grave tones coming in contrast to the
shrill notes of the angry woman, "I counsel you, in the south at
least, to have some respect to these same forms of law. I bid you a
fair good-night. The chamberlain will marshal you."

CHAPTER III--THE MIRROR

"Of all the maids, the foulest maid
From Teviot unto Dee.
Ah!" sighing said that lady then,
"Can ne'er young Harden's be."

SCOTT, The Reiver's Wedding.

"They are gone," said Margaret of York, standing half dressed at the
deep-set window of the chamber where Grisell lay in state in her big
bed.

"Who are gone?" asked Grisell, turning as well as she could under the
great heraldically-embroidered covering.

"Leonard Copeland and his father. Did'st not hear the horses' tramp
in the court?"

"I thought it was only my lord's horses going to the water."

"It was the Copelands going off without breaking their fast or taking
a stirrup cup, like discourteous rogues as they be," said Margaret,
in no measured language.

"And are they gone? And wherefore?" asked Grisell.

"Wherefore? but for fear my noble uncle of Salisbury should hold them
to their contract. Sir William sat as surly as a bear just about to
be baited, while thy mother rated and raved at him like a very
sleuth-hound on the chase. And Leonard--what think'st thou he saith?
"That he would as soon wed the loathly lady as thee," the cruel
Somerset villain as he is; and yet my brother Edmund is fain to love
him. So off they are gone, like recreant curs as they are, lest my
uncle should make them hear reason."

"But Lady Madge, dear Lady Madge, am I so very loathly?" asked poor
Grisell.

"Mine aunt of Salisbury bade that none should tell thee," responded
Margaret, in some confusion.

"Ah me! I must know sooner or later! My mother, she shrieked at
sight of me!"

"I would not have your mother," said the outspoken daughter of "proud
Cis." "My Lady Duchess mother is stern enough if we do not bridle
our heads, and if we make ourselves too friendly with the meine, but
she never frets nor rates us, and does not heed so long as we do not
demean ourselves unlike our royal blood. She is no termagant like
yours."

It was not polite, but Grisell had not seen enough of her mother to
be very sensitive on her account. In fact, she was chiefly occupied
with what she had heard about her own appearance--a matter which had
not occurred to her before in all her suffering. She returned again
to entreat Margaret to tell her whether she was so foully ill-
favoured that no one could look at her, and the damsel of York,
adhering to the letter rather young than the spirit of the cautions
which she had received, pursed up her lips and reiterated that she
had been commanded not to mention the subject.

"Then," entreated Grisell, "do--do, dear Madge--only bring me the
little hand mirror out of my Lady Countess's chamber."

"I know not that I can or may."

"Only for the space of one Ave," reiterated Grisell.

"My lady aunt would never--"

"There--hark--there's the bell for mass. Thou canst run into her
chamber when she and the tirewomen are gone down."

"But I must be there."

"Thou canst catch them up after. They will only think thee a slug-a-
bed. Madge, dear Madge, prithee, I cannot rest without. Weeping
will be worse for me."

She was crying, and caressing Margaret so vehemently that she gained
her point. Indeed the other girl was afraid of her sobs being heard,
and inquired into, and therefore promised to make the attempt,
keeping a watch out of sight till she had seen the Lady of Salisbury
in her padded head-gear of gold net, and long purple train, sweep
down the stair, followed by her tirewomen and maidens of every
degree. Then darting into the chamber, she bore away from a stage
where lay the articles of the toilette, a little silver-backed and
handled Venetian mirror, with beautiful tracery in silvered glass
diminishing the very small oval left for personal reflection and
inspection. That, however, was quite enough and too much for poor
Grisell when Lady Margaret had thrown it to her on her bed, and
rushed down the stair so as to come in the rear of the household just
in time.

A glance at the mirror disclosed, not the fair rosy face, set in
light yellow curls, that Grisell had now and then peeped at in a
bucket of water or a polished breast-plate, but a piteous sight. One
half, as she expected, was hidden by bandages, but the other was
fiery red, except that from the corner of the eye to the ear there
was a purple scar; the upper lip was distorted, the hair, eyebrows,
and lashes were all gone! The poor child was found in an agony of
sobbing when, after the service, the old woman who acted as her nurse
came stumping up in her wooden clogs to set the chamber and bed in
order for Lady Whitburn's visit.

The dame was in hot haste to get home. Rumours were rife as to
Scottish invasions, and her tower was not too far south not to need
to be on its guard. Her plan was to pack Grisell on a small litter
slung to a sumpter mule, and she snorted a kind of defiant contempt
when the Countess, backed by the household barber-surgeon, declared
the proceeding barbarous and impossible. Indeed she had probably
forgotten that Grisell was far too tall to be made up into the bundle
she intended; but she then declared that the wench might ride pillion
behind old Diccon, and she would not be convinced till she was taken
up to the sick chamber. There the first sound that greeted them was
a choking agony of sobs and moans, while the tirewoman stood over the
bed, exclaiming, "Aye, no wonder; it serves thee right, thou evil
wench, filching my Lady Countess's mirror from her very chamber, when
it might have been broken for all thanks to thee. The Venice glass
that the merchant gave her! Thou art not so fair a sight, I trow, as
to be in haste to see thyself. At the bottom of all the scathe in
the Castle! We shall be well rid of thee."

So loud was the objurgation of the tirewoman that she did not hear
the approach of her mistress, nor indeed the first words of the
Countess, "Hush, Maudlin, the poor child is not to be thus rated!
Silence!"

"See, my lady, what she has done to your ladyship's Venice glass,
which she never should have touched. She must have run to your
chamber while you were at mass. All false her feigning to be so sick
and feeble."

"Ay," replied Lady Whitburn, "she must up--don her clothes, and away
with me."

"Hush, I pray you, madam. How, how, Grisell, my poor child. Call
Master Miles, Maudlin! Give me that water." The Countess was
raising the poor child in her arms, and against her bosom, for the
shock of that glance in the mirror, followed by the maid's harsh
reproaches, and fright at the arrival of the two ladies, had brought
on a choking, hysterical sort of convulsive fit, and the poor girl
writhed and gasped on Lady Salisbury's breast, while her mother
exclaimed, "Heed her not, Lady; it is all put on to hinder me from
taking her home. If she could go stealing to your room--"

"No, no," broke out a weeping, frightened voice. "It was I, Lady
Aunt. You bade me never tell her how her poor face looked, and when
she begged and prayed me, I did not say, but I fetched the mirror.
Oh! oh! It has not been the death of her."

"Nay, nay, by God's blessing! Take away the glass, Margaret. Go and
tell thy beads, child; thou hast done much scathe unwittingly! Ah,
Master Miles, come to the poor maid's aid. Canst do aught for her?"

"These humours must be drawn off, my lady," said the barber-surgeon,
who advanced to the bed, and felt the pulse of the poor little
patient. "I must let her blood."

Maudlin, whose charge she was, came to his help, and Countess Alice
still held her up, while, after the practice of those days, he bled
the already almost unconscious child, till she fainted and was laid
down again on her pillows, under the keeping of Maudlin, while the
clanging of the great bell called the family down to the meal which
broke fast, whether to be called breakfast or dinner.

It was plain that Grisell was in no state to be taken on a journey,
and her mother went grumbling down the stair at the unchancy bairn
always doing scathe.

Lord Salisbury, beside whom she sat, courteously, though perhaps
hardly willingly, invited her to remain till her daughter was ready
to move.

"Nay, my Lord, I am beholden to you, but I may scarce do that. I be
sorely needed at Whitburn Tower. The knaves go all agee when both my
lord and myself have our backs turned, and my lad bairns--worth a
dozen of yon whining maid--should no longer be left to old Cuthbert
Ridley and Nurse. Now the Queen and Somerset have their way 'tis all
misrule, and who knows what the Scots may do?"

"There are Nevils and Dacres enough between Whitburn and the Border,"
observed the Earl gravely. However, the visitor was not such an
agreeable one as to make him anxious to press her stay beyond what
hospitality demanded, and his wife could not bear to think of giving
over her poor little patient to such usage as she would have met with
on the journey.

Lady Whitburn was overheard saying that those who had mauled the maid
might mend her, if they could; and accordingly she acquiesced, not
too graciously, when the Countess promised to tend the child like her
own, and send her by and by to Whitburn under a safe escort; and as
Middleham Castle lay on the way to Whitburn, it was likely that means
would be found of bringing or sending her.

This settled, Lady Whitburn was restless to depart, so as to reach a
hostel before night.

She donned her camlet cloak and hood, and looked once more in upon
Grisell, who after her loss of blood, had, on reviving, been made to
swallow a draught of which an infusion of poppy heads formed a great
part, so that she lay, breathing heavily, in a deep sleep, moaning
now and then. Her mother did not scruple to try to rouse her with
calls of "Grizzy! Look up, wench!" but could elicit nothing but a
half turn on the pillow, and a little louder moan, and Master Miles,
who was still watching, absolutely refused to let his patient be
touched or shaken.

"Well a day!" said Lady Whitburn, softened for a moment, "what the
Saints will must be, I trow; but it is hard, and I shall let St.
Cuthbert of Durham know it, that after all the candles I have given
him, he should have let my poor maid be so mauled and marred, and
then forsaken by the rascal who did it, so that she will never be
aught but a dead weight on my two fair sons! The least he can do for
me now is to give me my revenge upon that lurdane runaway knight and
his son. But he hath no care for lassies. Mayhap St. Hilda may
serve me better."

Wherewith the Lady of Whitburn tramped down stairs. It may be feared
that in the ignorance in which northern valleys were left she was
very little more enlightened in her ideas of what would please the
Saints, or what they could do for her, than were the old heathen of
some unknown antiquity who used to worship in the mysterious circles
of stones which lay on the downs of Amesbury.

CHAPTER IV--PARTING

There in the holy house at Almesbury
Weeping, none with her save a little maid.

TENNYSON, Idylls of the King.

The agitations of that day had made Grisell so much worse that her
mind hardly awoke again to anything but present suffering from fever,
and in consequence the aggravation of the wounds on her neck and
cheek. She used to moan now and then "Don't take me away!" or cower
in terror, "She is coming!" being her cry, or sometimes "So foul and
loathly." She hung again between life and death, and most of those
around thought death would be far better for the poor child, but the
Countess and the Chaplain still held to the faith that she must be
reserved for some great purpose if she survived so much.

Great families with all their train used to move from one castle or
manor to another so soon as they had eaten up all the produce of one
place, and the time had come when the Nevils must perforce quit
Amesbury. Grisell was in no state for a long journey; she was
exceedingly weak, and as fast as one wound in her face and neck
healed another began to break out, so that often she could hardly
eat, and whether she would ever have the use of her left eye was
doubtful.

Master Miles was at his wits' end, Maudlin was weary of waiting on
her, and so in truth was every one except the good Countess, and she
could not always be with the sufferer, nor could she carry such a
patient to London, whither her lord was summoned to support his
brother-in-law, the Duke of York, against the Duke of Somerset.

The only delay was caused by the having to receive the newly-
appointed Bishop, Richard Beauchamp, who had been translated from his
former see at Hereford on the murder of his predecessor, William
Ayscough, by some of Jack Cade's party.

In full splendour he came, with a train of chaplains and cross-
bearers, and the clergy of Salisbury sent a deputation to meet him,
and to arrange with him for his reception and installation. It was
then that the Countess heard that there was a nun at Wilton Abbey so
skilled in the treatment of wounds and sores that she was thought to
work miracles, being likewise a very holy woman.

The Earl and Countess would accompany the new bishop to be present at
his enthronement and the ensuing banquet, and the lady made this an
opportunity of riding to the convent on her way back, consulting the
Abbess, whom she had long known, and likewise seeing Sister Avice,
and requesting that her poor little guest might be received and
treated there.

There was no chance of a refusal, for the great nobles were
sovereigns in their own domains; the Countess owned half Wiltshire,
and was much loved and honoured in all the religious houses for her
devotion and beneficence.

The nuns were only too happy to undertake to receive the demoiselle
Grisell Dacre of Whitburn, or any other whom my Lady Countess would
entrust to them, and the Abbess had no doubt that Sister Avice could
effect a cure.

Lady Salisbury dreaded that Grisell should lie awake all night
crying, so she said nothing till her whirlicote, as the carriage of
those days was called, was actually being prepared, and then she went
to the chamber where the poor child had spent five months, and where
she was now sitting dressed, but propped up on a sort of settle, and
with half her face still bandaged.

"My little maid, this is well," said the Countess. "Come with me. I
am going to take thee to a kind and holy dame who will, I trust, with
the blessing of Heaven, be able to heal thee better than we have
done."

"Oh, lady, lady, do not send me away!" cried Grisell; "not from you
and Madge."

"My child, I must do so; I am going away myself, with my lord, and
Madge is to go back with her brother to her father the Duke. Thou
couldst not brook the journey, and I will take thee myself to the
good Sister Avice."

"A nun, a nunnery," sighed Grisell. "Oh! I shall be mewed up there
and never come forth again! Do not, I pray, do not, good my lady,
send me thither!"

Perhaps my lady thought that to remain for life in a convent might be
the fate, and perhaps the happiest, of the poor blighted girl, but
she only told her that there was no reason she should not leave
Wilton, as she was not put there to take the vows, but only to be
cured.

Long nursing had made Grisell unreasonable, and she cried as much as
she dared over the order; but no child ventured to make much
resistance to elders in those days, and especially not to the
Countess, so Grisell, a very poor little wasted being, was carried
down, and only delayed in the hall for an affectionate kiss from
Margaret of York.

"And here is a keepsake, Grisell," she said. "Mine own beauteous
pouncet box, with the forget-me-nots in turquoises round each little
hole."

"I will keep it for ever," said Grisell, and they parted, but not as
girls part who hope to meet again, and can write letters constantly,
but with tearful eyes and clinging hands, as little like to meet
again, or even to hear more of one another.

The whirlicote was not much better than an ornamental waggon, and
Lady Salisbury, with the Mother of the Maids, did their best to
lessen the force of the jolts as by six stout horses it was dragged
over the chalk road over the downs, passing the wonderful stones of
Amesbury--a wider circle than even Stonehenge, though without the
triliths, i.e. the stones laid one over the tops of the other two
like a doorway. Grisell heard some thing murmured about Merlin and
Arthur and Guinevere, but she did not heed, and she was quite worn
out with fatigue by the time they reached the descent into the long
smooth valley where Wilton Abbey stood, and the spire of the
Cathedral could be seen rising tall and beautiful.

The convent lay low, among meadows all shut in with fine elm trees,
and the cows belonging to the sisters were being driven home, their
bells tinkling. There was an outer court, within an arched gate kept
by a stout porter, and thus far came the whirlicote and the
Countess's attendants; but a lay porteress, in a cap and veil and
black dress, came out to receive her as the door of the carriage was
opened, and held out her arms to receive the muffled figure of the
little visitor. "Ah, poor maid," she said, "but Sister Avice will
soon heal her."

At the deeply ornamented round archway of the inner gate to the
cloistered court stood the Lady Abbess, at the head of all her
sisters, drawn up in double line to receive the Countess, whom they
took to their refectory and to their chapel.

Of this, however, Grisell saw nothing, for she had been taken into
the arms of a tall nun in a black veil. At first she shuddered and
would have screamed if she had been a little stronger and less tired,
for illness and weakness had brought back the babyish horror of
anything black; but she felt soothed by the sweet voice and tender
words, "Poor little one! she is fore spent. She shall lie down on a
soft bed, and have some sweet milk anon."

Still a deadly feeling of faintness came upon her before she had been
carried to the little bed which had been made ready for her. When
she opened her eyes, while a spoon was held to her lips, the first
thing she saw was the sweetest, calmest, most motherly of faces bent
over her, one arm round her, the other giving her the spoon of some
cordial. She looked up and even smiled, though it was a sad
contorted smile, which brought a tear into the good sister's eyes;
but then she fell asleep, and only half awoke when the Countess came
up to see her for the last time, and bade her farewell with a kiss on
her forehead, and a charge to Sister Avice to watch her well, and be
tender with her. Indeed no one could look at Sister Avice's gentle
face and think there was much need of the charge.

Sister Avice was one of the women who seem to be especially born for
the gentlest tasks of womanhood. She might have been an excellent
wife and mother, but from the very hour of her birth she had been
vowed to be a nun in gratitude on her mother's part for her father's
safety at Agincourt. She had been placed at Wilton when almost a
baby, and had never gone farther from it than on very rare occasions
to the Cathedral at Salisbury; but she had grown up with a wonderful
instinct for nursing and healing, and had a curious insight into the
properties of herbs, as well as a soft deft hand and touch, so that
for some years she had been sister infirmarer, and moreover the sick
were often brought to the gates for her counsel, treatment, or, as
some believed, even her healing touch.

When Grisell awoke she was alone in the long, large, low room, which
was really built over the Norman cloister. The walls were of pale
creamy stone, but at the end where she lay there were hangings of
faded tapestry. At one end there was a window, through the thick
glass of which could be dimly seen, as Grisell raised herself a
little, beautiful trees, and the splendid spire of the Cathedral
rising, as she dreamily thought, like a finger pointing upwards.
Nearer were several more narrow windows along the side of the room,
and that beside her bed had the lattice open, so that she saw a
sloping green bank, with a river at the foot; and there was a trim
garden between. Opposite to her there seemed to be another window
with a curtain drawn across it, through which came what perhaps had
wakened her, a low, clear murmuring tone, pausing and broken by the
full, sweet, if rather shrill response in women's voices. Beneath
that window was a little altar, with a crucifix and two candlesticks,
a holy-water stoup by the side, and there was above the little deep
window a carving of the Blessed Virgin with the Holy Child, on either
side a niche, one with a figure of a nun holding a taper, the other
of a bishop with a book.

Grisell might have begun crying again at finding herself alone, but
the sweet chanting lulled her, and she lay back on her pillows, half
dozing but quite content, except that the wound on her neck felt
stiff and dry; and by and by when the chanting ceased, the kind nun,
with a lay sister, came back again carrying water and other
appliances, at sight of which Grisell shuddered, for Master Miles
never touched her without putting her to pain.

"Benedicite, my little maid, thou art awake," said Sister Avice. "I
thought thou wouldst sleep till the vespers were ended. Now let us
dress these sad wounds of thine, and thou shalt sleep again."

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