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Words: 64304 in 26 pages
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Edition: 10
GRISLY GRISELL, or THE LAIDLY LADY OF WHITBURN: A TALE OF THE WARS OF THE ROSES
It was a great pity, so it was, this villanous saltpetre should be digg'd out of the bowels of the harmless earth.
A terrible shriek rang through the great Manor-house of Amesbury. It was preceded by a loud explosion, and there was agony as well as terror in the cry. Then followed more shrieks and screams, some of pain, some of fright, others of anger and recrimination. Every one in the house ran together to the spot whence the cries proceeded, namely, the lower court, where the armourer and blacksmith had their workshops.
There was a group of children, the young people who were confided to the great Earl Richard and Countess Alice of Salisbury for education and training. Boys and girls were alike there, some of the latter crying and sobbing, others mingling with the lads in the hot dispute as to "who did it."
"But who is it? What is it?" asked the Countess, still advancing.
A confused medley of voices replied, "The Lord of Whitburn's little wench--Leonard Copeland--gunpowder."
"And no marvel," said a sturdy, begrimed figure, "if the malapert young gentles be let to run all over the courts, and handle that with which they have no concern, lads and wenches alike."
"Nay, how can I stop it when my lady will not have the maidens kept ever at their distaffs and needles in seemly fashion," cried a small but stout and self-assertive dame, known as "Mother of the Maidens," then starting, "Oh! my lady, I crave your pardon, I knew not you were in this coil! And if the men-at-arms be let to have their perilous goods strewn all over the place, no wonder at any mishap."
"Do not wrangle about the cause," said the Countess. "Who is hurt? How much?"
The crowd parted enough for her to make way to where a girl of about ten was lying prostrate and bleeding with her head on a woman's lap.
"Poor maid," was the cry, "poor maid! 'Tis all over with her. It will go ill with young Leonard Copeland."
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