Again, in spite of surprised, not
to say displeased looks, she embraced her dear old playfellow.
"Don't go into a convent, Grisell," she entreated. "When I am wedded
to some great earl, you must come and be my lady, mine own, own dear
friend. Promise me! Your pledge, Grisell."
There was no time for the pledge. Margaret was peremptorily
summoned. They would not meet again. The Duchess's intelligence had
quickened Warwick's departure, and the next day the first start
northwards was to be made.
It was a mighty cavalcade. The black guard, namely, the kitchen
menage, with all their pots and pans, kettles and spits, were sent on
a day's march beforehand, then came the yeomen, the knights and
squires, followed by the more immediate attendants of the Earl and
Countess and their court. She travelled in a whirlicote, and there
were others provided for her elder ladies, the rest riding singly or
on pillions according to age or taste. Grisell did not like to part
with her pony, and Dame Gresford preferred a pillion to the bumps and
jolts of the waggon-like conveyances called chariots, so Grisell rode
by her side, the fresh spring breezes bringing back the sense of
being really a northern maid, and she threw back her veil whenever
she was alone with the attendants, who were used to her, though she
drew it closely round when she encountered town or village. There
were resting-places on the way.
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