Читать книгу Grisly Grisell; Or, The Laidly Lady of Whitburn: A Tale of the Wars of the Roses - Yonge Charlotte Mary - Страница 7

Five years had passed since Grisell had been received at Wilton, when the Abbess died.  She had been infirm and confined to her lodging for many months, and Grisell had hardly seen her, but her death was to change the whole tenor of the maiden’s life.

The funeral ceremonies took place in full state.  The Bishop himself came to attend them, and likewise all the neighbouring clergy, and the monks, friars, and nuns, overflowing the chapel, while peasants and beggars for whom there was no room in the courts encamped outside the walls, to receive the dole and pray for the soul of the right reverend Mother Abbess.

For nine days constant services were kept up, and the requiem mass was daily said, the dirges daily sung, and the alms bestowed on the crowd, who were by no means specially sorrowful or devout, but beguiled the time by watching jongleurs and mountebanks performing beyond the walls.

There was the “Month’s Mind” still to come, and then the chapter of nuns intended to proceed to the election of their new Abbess, unanimously agreeing that she should be their present Prioress, who had held kindly rule over them through the slow to-decay of the late Abbess.  Before, however, this could be done a messenger arrived on a mule bearing an inhibition to the sisters to proceed in the election.

His holiness Pope Calixtus had reserved to himself the next appointment to this as well as to certain other wealthy abbeys.

The nuns in much distress appealed to the Bishop, but he could do nothing for them.  Such reservations had been constant in the subservient days that followed King John’s homage, and though the great Edwards had struggled against them, and the yoke had been shaken off during the Great Schism, no sooner had this been healed than the former claims were revived, nay, redoubled, and the pious Henry VI. was not the man to resist them.  The sisters therefore waited in suspense, daring only meekly to recommend their Prioress in a humble letter, written by the Chaplain, and backed by a recommendation from Bishop Beauchamp.  Both alike were disregarded, as all had expected.

The new Abbess thus appointed was the Madre Matilda de Borgia, a relation of Pope Calixtus, very noble, and of Spanish birth, as the Commissioner assured the nuns; but they had never heard of her before, and were not at all gratified.  They had always elected their Abbess before, and had quite made up their minds as to the choice of the present Mother Prioress as Abbess, and of Sister Avice as Prioress.

However, they had only to submit.  To appeal to the King or to their Bishop would have been quite useless; they could only do as the Pope commanded, and elect the Mother Matilda, consoling themselves with the reflection that she was not likely to trouble herself about them, and their old Prioress would govern them.  And so she did so far as regarded the discipline of the house, but what they had not so entirely understood was the Mother de Borgia’s desire to squeeze all she could out of the revenues of the house.

Her Proctor arrived, a little pinched man in a black gown and square cap, and desired to see the Mother Prioress and her steward, and to overlook the income and expenditure of the convent; to know who had duly paid her dowry to the nunnery, what were the rents, and the like.  The sisters had already raised a considerable gift in silver merks to be sent through Lombard merchants to their new Abbess, and this requisition was a fresh blow.

Presently the Proctor marked out Grisell Dacre, and asked on what terms she was at the convent.  It was explained that she had been brought thither for her cure by the Lady of Salisbury, and had stayed on, without fee or payment from her own home in the north, but the ample donations of the Earl of Salisbury had been held as full compensation, and it had been contemplated to send to the maiden’s family to obtain permission to enrol her as a sister after her novitiate—which might soon begin, as she was fifteen years old.

The Proctor, however, was much displeased.  The nuns had no right to receive a pensioner without payment, far less to admit a novice as a sister without a dowry.

Mistress Grisell must be returned instantly upon the hands either of her own family or of the Countess of Salisbury, and certainly not readmitted unless her dowry were paid.  He scarcely consented to give time for communication with the Countess, to consider how to dispose of the poor child.

The Prioress sent messengers to Amesbury and to Christ Church, but the Earl and Countess were not there, nor was it clear where they were likely to be.  Whitburn was too far off to send to in the time allowed by the Proctor, and Grisell had heard nothing from her home all the time she had been at Wilton.  The only thing that the Prioress could devise, was to request the Chaplain to seek her out at Salisbury a trustworthy escort, pilgrim, merchant or other, with whom Grisell might safely travel to London, and if the Earl and Countess were not there, some responsible person of theirs, or of their son’s, was sure to be found, who would send the maiden on.

The Chaplain mounted his mule and rode over to Salisbury, whence he returned, bringing with him news of a merchant’s wife who was about to go on pilgrimage to fulfil a vow at Walsingham, and would feel herself honoured by acting as the convoy of the Lady Grisell Dacre as far at least as London.

There was no further hope of delay or failure.  Poor Grisell must be cast out on the world—the Proctor even spoke of calling the Countess, or her steward, to account for her maintenance during these five years.

There was weeping and wailing in the cloisters at the parting, and Grisell clung to Sister Avice, mourning for her peaceful, holy life.

“Nay, my child, none can take from thee a holy life.”

“If I make a vow of virginity none can hinder me.”

“That was not what I meant.  No maid has a right to take such a vow on herself without consent of her father, nor is it binding otherwise.  No! but no one can take away from a Christian maid the power of holiness.  Bear that for ever in mind, sweetheart.  Naught that can be done by man or by devil to the body can hurt the soul that is fixed on Christ and does not consent to evil.”

“The Saints forefend that ever—ever I should consent to evil.”

“It is the Blessed Spirit alone who can guard thy will, my child.  Will and soul not consenting nor being led astray thou art safe.  Nay, the lack of a fair-favoured face may be thy guard.”

“All will hate me.  Alack! alack!”

“Not so.  See, thou hast won love amongst us.  Wherefore shouldst not thou in like manner win love among thine own people?”

“My mother hates me already, and my father heeds me not.”

“Love them, child!  Do them good offices!  None can hinder thee from that.”

“Can I love those who love not me?”

“Yea, little one.  To serve and tend another brings the heart to love.  Even as thou seest a poor dog love the master who beats him, so it is with us, only with the higher Christian love.  Service and prayer open the heart to love, hoping for nothing again, and full oft that which was not hoped for is vouchsafed.”

That was the comfort with which Grisell had to start from her home of peace, conducted by the Chaplain, and even the Prioress, who would herself give her into the hands of the good Mistress Hall.

Very early they heard mass in the convent, and then rode along the bank of the river, with the downs sloping down on the other side, and the grand spire ever seeming as it were taller as they came nearer; while the sound of the bells grew upon them, for there was then a second tower beyond to hold the bells, whose reverberation would have been dangerous to the spire, and most sweet was their chime, the sound of which had indeed often reached Wilton in favourable winds; but it sounded like a sad farewell to Grisell.

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.