I come to tell you things since then befallen. After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought, Where your brave father breathed his latest gasp.
CHRISTMAS went by sadly in Whitburn Tower, but the succeeding weeks were to be sadder still. It was on a long dark evening that a commotion was heard at the gate, and Lady Whitburn, who had been sitting by the smouldering fire in her chamber, seemed suddenly startled into life.
“Tidings,” she cried. “News of my lord and son. Bring them, Grisell, bring them up.”
Grisell obeyed, and hurried down to the hall. All the household, men and maids, were gathered round some one freshly come in, and the first sound she heard was, “Alack! Alack, my lady!”
“How—what—how—” she asked breathlessly, just recognising Harry Featherstone, pale, dusty, blood-stained.
“It is evil news, dear lady,” said old Ridley, turning towards her with outstretched hands, and tears flowing down his cheeks. “My knight. Oh! my knight! And I was not by!”
“Slain?” almost under her breath, asked Grisell.
“Even so! At Wakefield Bridge,” began Featherstone, but at that instant, walking stiff, upright, and rigid, like a figure moved by mechanism, Lady Whitburn was among them.
“My lord,” she said, still as if her voice belonged to some one else. “Slain? And thou, recreant, here to tell the tale!”
“Madam, he fell before I had time to strike.” She seemed to hear no word, but again demanded, “My son.”
He hesitated a moment, but she fiercely reiterated.
“Madam, Robert was cut down by the Lord Clifford beside the Earl of Rutland. ’Tis a lost field! I barely ’scaped with a dozen men. I came but to bear the tidings, and see whether you needed an arm to hold out the castle for young Bernard. Or I would be on my way to my own folk on the Border, for the Queen’s men will anon be everywhere, since the Duke is slain!”
“The Duke! The Duke of York!” was the cry, as if a tower were down.
“What would you. We were caught by Somerset like deer in a buck-stall. Here! Give me a cup of ale, I can scarce speak for chill.”
He sank upon the settle as one quite worn out. The ale was brought by some one, and he drank a long draught, while, at a sign from Ridley, one of the serving-men began to draw off his heavy boots and greaves, covered with frosted mud, snow, and blood, all melting together, but all the time he talked, and the hearers remained stunned and listening to what had hardly yet penetrated their understanding. Lady Whitburn had collapsed into her own chair, and was as still as the rest.