Grisly Grisell; Or, The Laidly Lady of Whitburn: A Tale of the Wars of the Roses

CHAPTER VII
THE PILGRIM OF SALISBURY

 
She hadde passed many a strange shrine,
At Rome she had been and at Boleine,
At Galice, at St. James, and at Coleine,
She could moche of wandering by the way.
 

Chaucer, Canterbury Pilgrims.

Grisell found herself brought into a hall where a stout oak table occupied the centre, covered with home-spun napery, on which stood trenchers, wooden bowls, pewter and a few silver cups, and several large pitchers of ale, small beer, or milk.  A pie and a large piece of bacon, also a loaf of barley bread and a smaller wheaten one, were there.

Shelves all round the walls shone with pewter and copper dishes, cups, kettles, and vessels and implements of all household varieties, and ranged round the floor lay ploughshares, axes, and mattocks, all polished up.  The ring of hammers on the anvil was heard in the court in the rear.  The front of the hall was open for the most part, without windows, but it could be closed at night.

Breakfast was never a regular meal, and the household had partaken of it, so that there was no one in the hall excepting Master Hall, a stout, brawny, grizzled man, with a good-humoured face, and his son, more slim, but growing into his likeness, also a young notable-looking daughter-in-law with a swaddled baby tucked under her arm.

They seated Grisell at the table, and implored her to eat.  The wheaten bread and the fowl were, it seemed, provided in her honour, and she could not but take her little knife from the sheath in her girdle, turn back her nun-like veil, and prepare to try to drive back her sobs, and swallow the milk of almonds pressed on her.

“Eh!” cried the daughter-in-law in amaze.  “She’s only scarred after all.”

“Well, what else should she be, bless her poor heart?” said Mrs. Hall the elder.

“Why, wasn’t it thou thyself, good mother, that brought home word that they had the pig-faced lady at Wilton there?”

“Bless thee, Agnes, thou should’st know better than to lend an ear to all the idle tales thy poor old mother may hear at market or fair.”

“Then should we have enough to do,” muttered her husband.

“And as thou seest, ’tis a sweet little face, only cruelly marred by the evil hap.”

Poor Grisell was crimson at finding all eyes on her, an ordeal she had never undergone in the convent, and she hastily pulled forward her veil.

“Nay now, my sweet young lady, take not the idle words in ill part,” pleaded the good hostess.  “We all know how to love thee, and what is a smooth skin to a true heart?  Take a bit more of the pasty, ladybird; we’ll have far to ride ere we get to Wherwell, where the good sisters will give us a meal for young St. Edward’s sake and thy Prioress’s.  Aye—I turn out of my way for that; I never yet paid my devotion to poor young King Edward, and he might take it in dudgeon, being a king, and his shrine so near at hand.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the smith; “trust my dame for being on the right side of the account with the Saints.  Well for me and Jack that we have little Agnes here to mind the things on earth meanwhile.  Nay, nay, dame, I say nought to hinder thee; I know too well what it means when spring comes, and thou beginn’st to moan and tell up the tale of the shrines where thou hast not told thy beads.”

It was all in good humour, and Master Hall walked out to the city gate to speed his gad-about or pious wife, whichever he might call her, on her way, apparently quite content to let her go on her pilgrimages for the summer quarter.

She rode a stout mule, and was attended by two sturdy varlets—quite sufficient guards for pilgrims, who were not supposed to carry any valuables.  Grisell sadly rode her pony, keeping her veil well over her face, yearning over the last view of the beloved spire, thinking of Sister Avice ministering to her poor, and with a very definite fear of her own reception in the world and dread of her welcome at home.  Yet there was a joy in being on horseback once more, for her who had ridden moorland ponies as soon as she could walk.

Goodwife Hall talked on, with anecdotes of every hamlet that they passed, and these were not very many.  At each church they dismounted and said their prayers, and if there were a hostel near, they let their animals feed the while, and obtained some refreshment themselves.  England was not a very safe place for travellers just then, but the cockle-shells sewn to the pilgrim’s hat of the dame, and to that of one of her attendants, and the tall staff and wallet each carried, were passports of security.  Nothing could be kinder than Mistress Hall was to her charge, of whom she was really proud, and when they halted for the night at the nunnery of Queen Elfrida at Wherwell, she took care to explain that this was no burgess’s daughter but the Lady Grisell Dacre of Whitburn, trusted to her convoy, and thus obtained for her quarters in the guest-chamber of the refectory instead of in the general hospitium; but on the whole Grisell had rather not have been exposed to the shock of being shown to strangers, even kindly ones, for even if they did not exclaim, some one was sure to start and whisper.

After another halt for the night the travellers reached London, and learned at the city gate that the Earl and Countess of Salisbury were absent, but that their eldest son, the Earl of Warwick, was keeping court at Warwick House.

Thither therefore Mistress Hall resolved to conduct Grisell.  The way lay through narrow streets with houses overhanging the roadway, but the house itself was like a separate castle, walled round, enclosing a huge space, and with a great arched porter’s lodge, where various men-at-arms lounged, all adorned on the arm of their red jackets with the bear and ragged staff.

They were courteous, however, for the Earl Richard of Warwick insisted on civility to all comers, and they respected the scallop-shell on the dame’s hat.  They greeted her good-humouredly.

“Ha, good-day, good pilgrim wife.  Art bound for St. Paul’s?  Here’s supper to the fore for all comers!”

“Thanks, sir porter, but this maid is of other mould; she is the Lady Grisell Dacre, and is company for my lord and my lady.”

“Nay, her hood and veil look like company for the Abbess.  Come this way, dame, and we will find the steward to marshal her.”

Grisell had rather have been left to the guardianship of her kind old friend, but she was obliged to follow.  They dismounted in a fine court with cloister-like buildings round it, and full of people of all kinds, for no less than six hundred stout yeomen wore red coats and the bear and ragged staff.  Grisell would fain have clung to her guide, but she was not allowed to do so.  She was marshalled up stone steps into a great hall, where tables were being laid, covered with white napery and glittering with silver and pewter.

The seneschal marched before her all the length of the hall to where there was a large fireplace with a burning log, summer though it was, and shut off by handsome tapestried and carved screens sat a half circle of ladies, with a young-looking lady in a velvet fur-trimmed surcoat in their midst.  A tall man with a keen, resolute face, in long robes and gold belt and chain, stood by her leaning on her chair.

The seneschal announced, “Place, place for the Lady Grisell Dacre of Whitburn,” and Grisell bent low, putting back as much of her veil as she felt courtesy absolutely to require.  The lady rose, the knight held out his hand to raise the bending figure.  He had that power of recollection and recognition which is so great an element in popularity.  “The Lady Grisell Dacre,” he said.  “She who met with so sad a disaster when she was one of my lady mother’s household?”

Grisell glowing all over signed acquiescence, and he went on, “Welcome to my poor house, lady.  Let me present you to my wife.”

The Countess of Warwick was a pale, somewhat inane lady.  She was the heiress of the Beauchamps and De Spensers in consequence of the recent death of her brother, “the King of the Isle of Wight”—and through her inheritance her husband had risen to his great power.  She was delicate and feeble, almost apathetic, and she followed her husband’s lead, and received her guest with fair courtesy; and Grisell ventured in a trembling voice to explain that she had spent those years at Wilton, but that the new Abbess’s Proctor would not consent to her remaining there any longer, not even long enough to send to her parents or to the Countess of Salisbury.

“Poor maiden!  Such are the ways of his Holiness where the King is not man enough to stand in his way,” said Warwick.  “So, fair maiden, if you will honour my house for a few days, as my lady’s guest, I will send you north in more fitting guise than with this white-smith dame.”

“She hath been very good to me,” Grisell ventured to add to her thanks.

“She shall have good entertainment here,” said the Earl smiling.  “No doubt she hath already, as Sarum born.  See that Goodwife Hall, the white smith’s wife, and her following have the best of harbouring,” he added to his silver-chained steward.

“You are a Dacre of Whitburn,” he added to Grisell.  “Your father has not taken sides with Dacre of Gilsland and the Percies.”  Then seeing that Grisell knew nothing of all this, he laughed and said, “Little convent birds, you know nought of our worldly strifes.”

In fact, Grisell had heard nothing from her home for the last five years, which was the less marvel as neither her father nor her mother could write if they had cared to do so.  Nor did the convent know much of the state of England, though prayers had been constantly said for the King’s recovery, and of late there had been thanksgivings for the birth of the Prince of Wales; but it was as much as she did know that just now the Duke of York was governing, for the poor King seemed as senseless as a stone, and the Earl of Salisbury was his Chancellor.  Nevertheless Salisbury was absent in the north, and there was a quarrel going on between the Nevils and the Percies which Warwick was going to compose, and thus would be able to take Grisell so far in his company.

The great household was larger than even what she remembered at the houses of the Countess of Salisbury before her accident, and, fresh from the stillness of the convent as she was, the noises were amazing to her when all sat down to supper.  Tables were laid all along the vast hall.  She was placed at the upper one to her relief, beside an old lady, Dame Gresford, whom she remembered to have seen at Montacute Castle in her childhood, as one of the attendants on the Countess.  She was forced to put back her veil, and she saw some of the young knights and squires staring at her, then nudging one another and laughing.

“Never mind them, sweetheart,” said Dame Gresford kindly; “they are but unmannerly lurdanes, and the Lord Earl would make them know what is befitting if his eye fell on them.”

The good lady must have had a hint from the authorities, for she kept Grisell under her wing in the huge household, which was like a city in itself.  There was a knight who acted as steward, with innumerable knights, squires, and pages under him, besides the six hundred red jacketed yoemen, and servants of all degrees, in the immense court of the buttery and kitchen, as indeed there had need to be, for six oxen were daily cooked, with sheep and other meats in proportion, and any friend or acquaintance of any one in this huge establishment might come in, and not only eat and drink his fill, but carry off as much meat as he could on the point of his dagger.

Goodwife Hall, as coming from Salisbury, stayed there in free quarters, while she made the round of all the shrines in London, and she was intensely gratified by the great Earl recollecting, or appearing to recollect, her and inquiring after her husband, that hearty burgess, whose pewter was so lasting, and he was sure was still in use among his black guard.

When she saw Grisell on finally departing for St. Albans, she was carrying her head a good deal higher on the strength of “my Lord Earl’s grace to her.”  She hoped that her sweet Lady Grisell would remain here, as the best hap she could have in the most noble, excellent, and open-handed house in the world!  Grisell’s own wishes were not the same, for the great household was very bewildering—a strange change from her quietly-busy convent.  The Countess was quiet enough, but dull and sickly, and chiefly occupied by her ailments.  She seemed to be always thinking about leeches, wise friars, wonderful nuns, or even wizards and cunning women, and was much concerned that her husband absolutely forbade her consulting the witch of Spitalfields.

“Nay, dame,” said he, “an thou didst, the next thing we should hear would be that thou hadst been sticking pins into King Harry’s waxen image and roasting him before the fire, and that nothing but roasting thee in life and limb within a fire would bring him to life and reason.”

“They would never dare,” cried the lady.

“Who can tell what the Queen would dare if she gets her will!” demanded the Earl.  “Wouldst like to do penance with sheet and candle, like Gloucester’s wife?”

Such a possibility was enough to silence the Lady of Warwick on the score of witches, and the only time she spoke to Grisell was to ask her about Sister Avice and her cures.  She set herself to persuade her husband to let her go down to one of his mother’s Wiltshire houses to consult the nun, but Warwick had business in the north, nor would he allow her to be separated from him, lest she might be detained as a hostage.

Dame Gresford continued to be Grisell’s protector, and let the girl sit and spin or embroider beside her, while the other ladies of the house played at ball in the court, or watched the exercises of the pages and squires.  The dame’s presence and authority prevented Grisell’s being beset with uncivil remarks, but she knew she was like a toad among the butterflies, as she overheard some saucy youth calling her, while a laugh answered him, and she longed for her convent.

CHAPTER VIII
OLD PLAYFELLOWS

 
Alone thou goest forth,
Thy face unto the north,
Moor and pleasance all around thee and beneath thee.
 

E. Barrett Browning, A Valediction.

One great pleasure fell to Grisell’s share, but only too brief.  The family of the Duke of York on their way to Baynard’s Castle halted at Warwick House, and the Duchess Cecily, tall, fair, and stately, sailed into the hall, followed by three fair daughters, while Warwick, her nephew, though nearly of the same age, advanced with his wife to meet and receive her.

In the midst of the exchange of affectionate but formal greetings a cry of joy was heard, “My Grisell! yes, it is my Grisell!” and springing from the midst of her mother’s suite, Margaret Plantagenet, a tall, lovely, dark-haired girl, threw her arms round the thin slight maiden with the scarred face, which excited the scorn and surprise of her two sisters.

“Margaret!  What means this?” demanded the Duchess severely.

“It is my Grisell Dacre, fair mother, my dear companion at my aunt of Salisbury’s manor,” said Margaret, trying to lead forward her shrinking friend.  “She who was so cruelly scathed.”

Grisell curtsied low, but still hung back, and Lord Warwick briefly explained.  “Daughter to Will Dacre of Whitburn, a staunch baron of the north.  My mother bestowed her at Wilton, whence the creature of the Pope’s intruding Abbess has taken upon him to expel her.  So I am about to take her to Middleham, where my mother may see to her further bestowal.”

“We have even now come from Middleham,” said the Duchess.  “My Lord Duke sent for me, but he looks to you, my lord, to compose the strife between your father and the insolent Percies.”

The Duke was at Windsor with the poor insane King, and the Earl and the Duchess plunged into a discussion of the latest news of the northern counties and of the Court.  The elder daughters were languidly entertained by the Countess, but no one disturbed the interview of Margaret and Grisell, who, hand in hand, had withdrawn into the embrasure of a window, and there fondled each other, and exchanged tidings of their young lives, and Margaret told of friends in the Nevil household.

All too soon the interview came to an end.  The Duchess, after partaking of a manchet, was ready to proceed to Baynard’s Castle, and the Lady Margaret was called for.  Again, in spite of surprised, not to say displeased looks, she embraced her dear old playfellow.  “Don’t go into a convent, Grisell,” she entreated.  “When I am wedded to some great earl, you must come and be my lady, mine own, own dear friend.  Promise me!  Your pledge, Grisell.”

There was no time for the pledge.  Margaret was peremptorily summoned.  They would not meet again.  The Duchess’s intelligence had quickened Warwick’s departure, and the next day the first start northwards was to be made.

It was a mighty cavalcade.  The black guard, namely, the kitchen ménage, with all their pots and pans, kettles and spits, were sent on a day’s march beforehand, then came the yeomen, the knights and squires, followed by the more immediate attendants of the Earl and Countess and their court.  She travelled in a whirlicote, and there were others provided for her elder ladies, the rest riding singly or on pillions according to age or taste.  Grisell did not like to part with her pony, and Dame Gresford preferred a pillion to the bumps and jolts of the waggon-like conveyances called chariots, so Grisell rode by her side, the fresh spring breezes bringing back the sense of being really a northern maid, and she threw back her veil whenever she was alone with the attendants, who were used to her, though she drew it closely round when she encountered town or village.  There were resting-places on the way.  In great monasteries all were accommodated, being used to close quarters; in castles there was room for the “Gentles,” who, if they fared well, heeded little how they slept, and their attendants found lairs in the kitchens or stables.  In towns there was generally harbour for the noble portion; indeed in some, Warwick had dwellings of his own, or his father’s, but these, at first, were at long distances apart, such as would be ridden by horsemen alone, not encumbered with ladies, and there were intermediate stages, where some of the party had to be dispersed in hostels.

It was in one of these, at Dunstable, that Dame Gresford had taken Grisell, and there were also sundry of the gentlemen of the escort.  A minstrel was esconced under the wide spread of the chimney, and began to sound his harp and sing long ballads in recitative to the company.  Whether he did it in all innocence and ignorance, or one of the young squires had mischievously prompted him, there was no knowing; Dame Gresford suspected the latter, when he began the ballad of “Sir Gawaine’s Wedding.”  She would have silenced it, but feared to draw more attention on her charge, who had never heard the song, and did not know what was coming, but listened with increasing eagerness as she heard of King Arthur, and of the giant, and the secret that the King could not guess, till as he rode—

 
He came to the green forest,
Underneath a green hollen tree,
There sat that lady in red scarlet
That unseemly was to see.
 

Some eyes were discourteously turned on the maiden, but she hardly saw them, and at any rate her nose was not crooked, nor had her eyes and mouth changed places, as in the case of the “Loathly Lady.”  She heard of the condition on which the lady revealed the secret, and how King Arthur bound himself to bring a fair young knight to wed the hideous being.  Then when he revealed to his assembled knights—

 
Then some took up their hawks,
And some took up their hounds,
And some sware they would not marry her
For cities nor for towns.
 

Glances again went towards the scarred visage, but Grisell was heedless of them, only listening how Sir Gawaine, Arthur’s nephew, felt that his uncle’s oath must be kept, and offered himself as the bridegroom.

Then after the marriage, when he looked on the lady, instead of the loathly hag he beheld a fair damsel!  And he was told by her that he might choose whether she should be foul at night and fair by day, or fair each evening and frightful in the daylight hours.  His choice at first was that her beauty should be for him alone, in his home, but when she objected that this would be hard on her, since she could thus never show her face when other dames ride with their lords—

 
Then buke him gentle Gawayne,
Said, “Lady, that’s but a shill;
Because thou art mine own lady
Thou shalt have all thy will.”
 

And his courtesy broke the spell of the stepdame, as the lady related—

 
“She witched me, being a fair young lady,
To the green forest to dwell,
And there must I walk in woman’s likeness,
Most like a fiend in hell.”
 

Thenceforth the enchantment was broken, and Sir Gawaine’s bride was fair to see.

Grisell had listened intently, absorbed in the narrative, so losing personal thought and feeling that it was startling to her to perceive that Dame Gresford was trying to hush a rude laugh, and one of the young squires was saying, “Hush, hush! for very shame.”

Then she saw that they were applying the story to her, and the blood rushed into her face, but the more courteous youth was trying to turn away attention by calling on the harper for “The Beggar of Bethnal Green,” or “Lord Thomas and Fair Annet,” or any merry ballad.  So it was borne in on Grisell that to these young gentlemen she was the lady unseemly to see.  Yet though a few hot tears flowed, indignant and sorrowful, the sanguine spirit of youth revived.  “Sister Avice had told her how to be not loathly in the sight of those whom she could teach to love her.”

There was one bound by a pledge!  Ah, he would never fulfil it.  If he should, Grisell felt a resolute purpose within her that though she could not be transformed, he should not see her loathly in his sight, and in that hope she slept.