The nine days of mourning were spent in entire seclusion by Grisell, who went through every round of devotions prescribed or recommended by the Church, and felt relief and rest in them. She shrank when Ridley on the tenth day begged her no longer to seclude herself in the solar, but to come down to the hall and take her place as Lady of the Castle, otherwise he said he could not answer for the conduct of Copeland’s men.
“Master Hardcastle desires it too,” he said. “He is a good lad enough, but I doubt me whether his hand is strong enough over those fellows! You need not look for aught save courtesy from him! Come down, lady, or you will never have your rights.”
“Ah, Cuthbert, what are my rights?”
“To be mistress of your own castle,” returned Ridley, “and that you will never be unless you take the upper hand. Here are all our household eating with these rogues of Copeland’s, and who is to keep rule if the lady comes not?”
“Alack, and how am I to do so?”
However, the consideration brought her to appear at the very early dinner, the first meal of the day, which followed on the return from mass. Pierce Hardcastle met her shyly. He was a tall slender stripling, looking weak and ill, and he bowed very low as he said, “Greet you well, lady,” and looked up for a moment as if in fear of what he might encounter. Grisell indeed was worn down with long watching and grief, and looked haggard and drawn so as to enhance all her scars and distortion of feature into more uncomeliness than her wont. She saw him shudder a little, but his lame arm and wan looks interested her kind heart. “I fear me you are still feeling your wound, sir,” she said, in the sweet voice which was evidently a surprise to him.
“It is my plea for having been a slug-a-bed this morning,” he answered.
They sat down at the table. Grisell between Ridley and Hardcastle, the servants and men-at-arms beyond. Porridge and broth and very small ale were the fare, and salted meat would be for supper, and as Grisell knew but too well already, her own retainers were grumbling at the voracious appetites of the men-at-arms as much as did their unwilling guests at the plainness and niggardliness of the supply.
Thora had begged for a further allowance of beer for them, or even to broach a cask of wine. “For,” said she, “they are none such fiends as we thought, if one knows how to take them courteously.”
“There is no need that you should have any dealings with them, Thora,” said her lady, with some displeasure; “Master Ridley sees to their provision.”