There were terrible
wounds upon the face and neck, which seemed to be almost bared of
skin. The lady, who had been bred to some knowledge of surgical
skill, together with the barber-surgeon, did their best to allay the
agony with applications of sweet oil. Perhaps if they had had more
of what was then considered skill, it might have been worse for her.
The Countess remained anxiously trying all that could allay the
suffering of the poor little semi-conscious patient, who kept moaning
for "nurse." She was Grisell Dacre, the daughter of the Baron of
Whitburn, and had been placed, young as she was, in the household of
the Countess of Salisbury on her mother being made one of the ladies
attending on the young Queen Margaret of Anjou, lately married to
King Henry VI.
Attendance on the patient had prevented the Countess from hearing the
history of the accident, but presently the clatter of horses' feet
showed that her lord was returning, and, committing the girl to her
old nurse, she went down to the hall to receive him.
The grave, grizzled warrior had taken his seat on his cross-legged,
round-backed chair, and a boy of some twelve years old stood before
him, in a sullen attitude, one foot over the other, and his shoulder
held fast by a squire, while the motley crowd of retainers stood
behind.
There was a move at the entrance of the lady, and her husband rose,
came forward, and as he gave her the courteous kiss of greeting,
demanded, "What is all this coil? Is the little wench dead?"
"Nay, but I fear me she cannot live," was the answer.
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