They took her up and carried her upstairs, as one who had received her death stroke as surely as had her husband and son on the slopes between Sendal and Wakefield.
Grisell and Thora did their utmost, but without reviving her, and they watched by her, hardly conscious of anything else, as they tried their simple, ineffective remedies one after another, with no thought or possibility of sending for further help, since the roads would be impassable in the long January night, and besides, the Lancastrians might make them doubly perilous. Moreover, this dumb paralysis was accepted as past cure, and needing not the doctor but the priest. Before the first streak of dawn on that tardy, northern morning, Ridley's ponderous step came up the stair, into the feeble light of the rush candle which the watchers tried to shelter from the draughts.
The sad question and answer of "No change" passed, and then Ridley, his gruff voice unnecessarily hushed, said, "Featherstone would speak with you, lady. He would know whether it be your pleasure to keep him in your service to hold out the Tower, or whether he is free to depart."
"Mine!" said Grisell bewildered.
"Yea!" exclaimed Ridley. "You are Lady of Whitburn!"
"Ah! It is true," exclaimed Grisell, clasping her hands. "Woe is me that it should be so! And oh! Cuthbert! my husband, if he lives, is a Queen's man! What can I do?"
"If it were of any boot I would say hold out the Tower. He deserves no better after the scurvy way he treated you," said Cuthbert grimly. "He may be dead, too, though Harry fears he was but stunned."
"But oh!" cried Grisell, as if she saw one gleam of light, "did not I hear something of his trying to save my brother and Lord Edmund?"
"You had best come down and hear," said Ridley. "Featherstone cannot go till he has spoken with you, and he ought to depart betimes, lest the Gilsland folk and all the rest of them be ravening on their way back."
Grisell looked at her mother, who lay in the same state, entirely past her reach. The hard, stern woman, who had seemed to have no affection to bestow on her daughter, had been entirely broken down and crushed by the loss of her sons and husband.
Probably neither had realised that by forcing Grisell on young Copeland they might be giving their Tower to their enemy.
She went down to the hall, where Harry Featherstone, whose night had done him more good than hers had, came to meet her, looking much freshened, and with a bandage over his forehead. He bent low before her, and offered her his services, but, as he told her, he and Ridley had been talking it over, and they thought it vain to try to hold out the Tower, even if any stout men did straggle back from the battle, for the country round was chiefly Lancastrian, and it would be scarcely possible to get provisions, or to be relieved. Moreover, the Gilsland branch of the family, who would be the male heirs, were on the side of the King and Queen, and might drive her out if she resisted. Thus there seemed no occasion for the squire to remain, and he hoped to reach his own family, and save himself from the risk of being captured.
"No, sir, we do not need you," said Grisell. "If Sir Leonard Copeland lives and claims this Tower, there is no 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.