Grisly Grisell; Or, The Laidly Lady of Whitburn: A Tale of the Wars of the RosesYonge, Charlotte M. (Charlotte Mary)
History
Grisly Grisell; Or, The Laidly Lady of Whitburn: A Tale of the Wars of the Roses
Yonge, Charlotte M. (Charlotte Mary)
Great Britain -- History -- Wars of the Roses, 1455-1485 -- Fiction
His light brown hair was short and curly, his cheeks fair and ruddy, and
all reminded her of Leonard Copeland as he had been those long years ago
before her accident. Save for that, she would have been long ago his
wife, she with her marred face the mate of that nobly fair countenance.
How strange to remember. How she would have loved him, frank and often
kind as she remembered him, though rough and impatient of restraint.
What was that which his fingers had held till sleep had unclasped them?
An ivory chessrook! Such was a favourite token of ladies to their true
loves. What did it mean? Might she pause to pray a prayer over him as
once hers—that all might be well with him, for she knew that in this
unhappy war important captives were not treated as Frenchmen would have
been as prisoners of war, but executed as traitors to their King.
She paused over him till a low sound and the bright eyes of one of the
dogs warned her that all might in another moment be awake, and she fled
up the stair to the solar, where her parents were both fast asleep, and
across to her own room, where she threw herself on her bed, dressed as
she was, but could not sleep for the multitude of strange thoughts that
crowded over her in the increasing daylight.
By and by there was a stir, some words passed in the outer room, and then
her mother came in.
“Wake, Grisly. Busk and bonne for thy wedding-morning instantly.
Copeland is to keep his troth to thee at once. The Earl of Warwick hath
granted his life to thy father on that condition only.”
“Oh, mother, is he willing?” cried Grisell trembling.
“What skills that, child? His hand was pledged, and he must fulfil his
promise now that we have him.”
“Was it troth? I cannot remember it,” said Grisell.
“That matters not. Your father’s plight is the same thing. His father
was slain in the battle, so ’tis between him and us. Put on thy best
clothes as fast as may be. Thou shalt have my wedding-veil and miniver
mantle. Speed, I say. My lord has to hasten away to join the Earl on
the way to London. He will see the knot tied beyond loosing at once.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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