Then followed the rest of the story, and when it appeared that Grisell had been instrumental in saving Copeland, and close inquiries elicited that she had been maintaining him all this while, actually for seven years, all unknown to him, the young Duchess could not contain herself. “Grisell! Grisell of patience indeed. Belle mère, belle mère, do you understand?” and in rapid French she recounted all.
“He is my husband,” said Grisell simply, as the two Duchesses showed their wonder and admiration.
“Never did tale or ballad show a more saintly wife,” cried Margaret. “And now what would you have me do for you, my most patient of Grisells? Write to my brother the King to restore your lands, and—and I suppose you would have this recreant fellow’s given back since you say he has seen the error of following that make-bate Queen. But can you prove him free of Edmund’s blood? Aught but that might be forgiven.”
“Master Featherstone is gone back to England,” said Grisell, “but he can bear witness; but my father’s old squire, Cuthbert Ridley, is here, who heard his story when he came to us from Wakefield. Moreover, I have seen the mark on Sir Leonard’s brow.”
“Let be. I will write to Edward an you will. He has been more prone to Lancaster folk since he was caught by the wiles of Lady Grey; but I would that I could hear what would clear this knight of yours by other testimony than such as your loving heart may frame. But you must come and be one of mine, my own ladies, Grisell, and never go back to your Poticary—Faugh!”
This, however, Grisell would not hear of; and Margaret really reverenced her too much to press her.
However, Ridley was sent for to the Cour des Princes, and returned with a letter to be borne to King Edward, and likewise a mission to find Featherstone, and if possible Red Jock.
“’Tis working for that rogue Copeland,” he growled. “I would it were for you, my sweet lady.”
“It is working for me! Think so with all your heart, good Cuthbert.”
“Well, end as it may, you will at least ken who and what you are, wed or unwed, fish, flesh or good red herring, and cease to live nameless, like the Poticary’s serving-woman,” concluded Ridley as his parting grumble.
Low at times and loud at times, Changing like a poet’s rhymes, Rang the beautiful wild chimes, From the belfry in the market Of the ancient town of Bruges.
