Grisly Grisell; Or, The Laidly Lady of Whitburn: A Tale of the Wars of the Roses, - [reading books for 6 year olds TXT] 📗

The Prioress thought she ought to begin her journey by kneeling in the Cathedral, so they crossed the shaded close and entered by the west door with the long vista of clustered columns and pointed arches before them.

Low sounds of mass being said at different altars met their ears, for it was still early in the day.  The Prioress passed the length of nave, and went beyond the choir to the lady chapel, with its slender supporting columns and exquisite arches, and there she, with Grisell by her side, joined in earnest supplications for the child.

The Chaplain touched her as she rose, and made her aware that the dame arrayed in a scarlet mantle and hood and dark riding-dress was Mistress Hall.

Silence was not observed in cathedrals or churches, especially in the naves, except when any sacred rite was going on, and no sooner was the mass finished and “Ite missa est” pronounced than the scarlet cloak rose, and hastened into the south transept, where she waited for the Chaplain, Prioress, and Grisell.  No introduction seemed needed.  “The Holy Mother Prioress,” she began, bending her knee and kissing the lady’s hand.  “Much honoured am I by the charge of this noble little lady.”  Grisell by the by was far taller than the plump little goodwoman Hall, but that was no matter, and the Prioress had barely space to get in a word of thanks before she went on: “I will keep her and tend her as the apple of mine eye.  She shall pray with me at all the holy shrines for the good of her soul and mine.  She shall be my bedfellow wherever we halt, and sit next me, and be cherished as though she were mine own daughter—ladybird as she is—till I can give her into the hands of the good Lady Countess.  Oh yes—you may trust Joan Hall, dame reverend mother.  She is no new traveller.  I have been in my time to all our shrines—to St. Thomas of Canterbury, to St. Winifred’s Well, aye, and, moreover, to St. James of Compostella, and St. Martha of Provence, not to speak of lesser chantries and Saints.  Aye, and I crossed the sea to see the holy coat of Trèves, and St. Ursula’s eleven thousand skulls—and a gruesome sight they were.  Nay, if the Lady Countess be not in London it would cost me little to go on to the north with her.  There’s St. Andrew of Ely, Hugh, great St. Hugh and little St. Hugh, both of them at Lincoln, and there’s St. Wilfred of York, and St. John of Beverly, not to speak of St. Cuthbert of Durham and of St. Hilda of Whitby, who might take it ill if I pray at none of their altars, when I have been to so many of their brethren.  Oh, you may trust me, reverend mother; I’ll never have the young lady, bless her sweet face, out of my sight till I have safe bestowed her with my Lady Countess, our good customer for all manner of hardware, or else with her own kin.”

The good woman’s stream of conversation lasted almost without drawing breath all the way down the nave.  It was a most good-humoured hearty voice, and her plump figure and rosy face beamed with good nature, while her bright black eyes had a lively glance.

The Chaplain had inquired about her, and found that she was one of the good women to whom pilgrimage was an annual dissipation, consecrated and meritorious as they fondly believed, and gratifying their desire for change and variety.  She was a kindly person of good reputation, trustworthy, and kind to the poor, and stout John Hall, her husband, could manage the business alone, and was thought not to regret a little reprieve from her continual tongue.

She wanted the Prioress to do her the honour of breaking her fast with her, but the good nun was in haste to return, after having once seen her charge in safe hands, and excused herself, while Grisell, blessed by the Chaplain, and hiding her tears under her veil, was led away to the substantial smith’s abode, where she was to take a first meal before starting on her journey on the strong forest pony which the Chaplain’s care had provided for her.

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