Grisly Grisell

choice save to yield it to him. I would not delay you in seeking your own safety, but only thank you for your true service to my lord and father.'

She held out her hand, which Featherstone kissed on his knee.

His horse was terribly jaded, and he thought he could make his way more safely on foot than in the panoply of an esquire, for in this war, the poorer sort were hardly touched; the attacks were chiefly made on nobles and gentlemen. So he prepared to set forth, but Grisell obtained from him what she had scarcely understood the night before, the entire history of the fall of her father and brother, and how gallantly Leonard Copeland had tried to withstand Clifford's rage.

'He did his best for them,' she said, as if it were her one drop of hope and comfort.

Ridley very decidedly hoped that Clifford's blow had freed her from her reluctant husband; and mayhap the marriage would give her claims on the Copeland property. But Grisell somehow could not join in the wish. She could only remember the merry boy at Amesbury and the fair face she had seen sleeping in the hall, and she dwelt on Featherstone's assurance that no wound had pierced the knight, and that he would probably be little the worse for his fall against the parapet of the bridge. Use her as he might, she could not wish him dead, though it was a worthy death in defence of his old playfellow and of her own brother.

CHAPTER XVI-A NEW MASTER

In the dark chambère, if the bride was fair,

Ye wis, I could not see.

. . . .

And the bride rose from her knee

And kissed the smile of her mother dead.

E. B. BROWNING, The Romaunt of the Page.

The Lady of Whitburn lingered from day to day, sometimes showing signs of consciousness, and of knowing her daughter, but never really reviving. At the end of a fortnight she seemed for one day somewhat better, but that night she had a fresh attack, and was so evidently dying that the priest, Sir Lucas, was sent for to bring her the last Sacrament. The passing bell rang out from the church, and the old man, with his little server before him, came up the stair, and was received by Grisell, Thora, and one or two other servants on their knees.

Ridley was not there. For even then, while the priest was crossing the hall, a party of spearmen, with a young knight at their head, rode to the gate and demanded entrance.

The frightened porter hurried to call Master Ridley, who, instead of escorting the priest with the Host to his dying lady, had to go to the gate, where he recognised Sir Leonard Copeland, far from dead, in very different guise from that in which he had been brought to the castle before. He looked, however, awed, as he said, bending his head-

'Is it sooth, Master Ridley? Is death beforehand with me?'

'My old lady is in extremis, sir,' replied Ridley. 'Poor soul, she hath never spoken since she heard of my lord's death and his son's.'

'The younger lad? Lives here?' demanded Copeland. 'Is it as I have heard?'

'Aye, sir. The child passed away on the Eve of St. Luke. I have my lady's orders,' he added reluctantly, 'to open the castle to you, as of right.'

'It is well,' returned Sir Leonard. Then, turning round to the twenty men who followed him, he said, 'Men-at- arms, as you saw and heard, there is death here. Draw up here in silence. This good esquire will see that you have food and fodder for the horses. Kemp, Hardcastle,' to his squires, 'see that all is done with honour and respect as to the lady of the castle and mine. Aught unseemly shall be punished.'

Wherewith he dismounted, and entered the narrow little court, looking about him with a keen, critical, soldierly eye, but speaking with low, grave tones.

'I may not tarry,' he said to Ridley, 'but this place, since it falls to me and mine, must be held for the King and Queen.'

'My lady bows to your will, sir,' returned Ridley.

Copeland continued to survey the walls and very antiquated defences, observing that there could have been few alarms there. This lasted till the rites in the sick-room were ended, and the priest came forth.

'Sir,' he said to Copeland, 'you will pardon the young lady. Her mother is in articulo mortis, and she cannot leave her.'

'I would not disturb her,' said Leonard. 'The Saints forbid that I should vex her. I come but as in duty bound to damn this Tower on behalf of King Harry, Queen Margaret, and the Prince of Wales against all traitors. I will not tarry here longer than to put it into hands who will hold it for them and for me. How say you, Sir Squire?' he added, turning to Ridley, not discourteously.

'We ever did hold for King Harry, sir,' returned the old esquire.

'Yea, but against his true friends, York and Warwick. One is cut off, ay, and his aider and defender, Salisbury, who should rather have stood by his King, has suffered a traitor's end at Pomfret.'

'My Lord of Salisbury! Ah! that will grieve my poor young lady,' sighed Ridley.

'He was a kind lord, save for his treason to the King,' said Leonard. 'We of his household long ago were happy enough, though strangely divided now. For the rest, till that young wolf cub, Edward of March, and his mischief- stirring cousin of Warwick be put down, this place must be held against them and theirs-whosoever bears the White Rose. Wilt do so, Master Seneschal?'

'I hold for my lady. That is all I know,' said Ridley, 'and she holds herself bound to you, sir.'

'Faithful. Ay? You will be her guardian, I see; but I must leave half a score of fellows for the defence, and will charge them that they show all respect and honour to the lady, and leave to you, as seneschal, all the household, and of all save the wardship of the Tower, calling on you first to make oath of faith to me, and to do nought to the prejudice of King Henry, the Queen, or Prince, nor to favour the friends of York or Warwick.'

'I am willing, sir,' returned Ridley, who cared a great deal more for the house of Whitburn than for either party, whose cause he by no means understood, perhaps no more than they had hitherto done themselves. As long as he was left to protect his lady it was all he asked, and more than he expected, and the courtesy, not to say delicacy, of the young knight greatly impressed both him and the priest, though he suspected that it was a relief to Sir Leonard not to be obliged to see his bride of a few months.

The selected garrison were called in. Ridley would rather have seen them more of the North Country yeoman type than of the regular weather-beaten men-at-arms whom wars always bred up; but their officer was a slender, dainty-looking, pale young squire, with his arm in a sling, named Pierce Hardcastle, selected apparently because his wound rendered rest desirable. Sir Leonard reiterated his charge that all honour and respect was to be paid to the Lady of Whitburn, and that she was free to come and go as she chose, and to be obeyed in every respect, save in what regarded the defence of the Tower. He himself was going on to Monks Wearmouth, where he had a kinsman among the monks.

With an effort, just as he remounted his horse, he said to Ridley, 'Commend me to the lady. Tell her that I am grieved for her sorrow and to be compelled to trouble her at such a time; but 'tis for my Queen's service, and when this troublous times be ended, she shall hear more from me.' Turning to the priest he added, 'I have no coin to spare, but let all be done that is needed for the souls of the departed lord and lady, and I will be answerable.'

Nothing could be more courteous, but as he rode off priest and squire looked at one another, and Ridley said, 'He will untie your knot, Sir Lucas.'

'He takes kindly to castle and lands,' was the answer, with a smile; 'they may make the lady to be swallowed.'

'I trow 'tis for his cause's sake,' replied Ridley. 'Mark you, he never once said 'My lady,' nor 'My wife.''

'May the sweet lady come safely out of it any way,' sighed the priest. 'She would fain give herself and her lands to the Church.'

'May be 'tis the best that is like to befall her,' said Ridley; 'but if that young featherpate only had the wit to guess it, he would find that he might seek Christendom over for a better wife.'

They were interrupted by a servant, who came hurrying down to say that my lady was even now departing, and to call Sir Lucas to the bedside.

All was over a few moments after he reached the apartment, and Grisell was left alone in her desolation. The only real, deep, mutual love had been between her and poor little Bernard; her elder brother she had barely seen; her father had been indifferent, chiefly regarding her as a damaged piece of property, a burthen to the estate; her