"What skills that, child? His hand was pledged, and he must fulfil
his promise now that we have him."
"Was it troth? I cannot remember it," said Grisell.
"That matters not. Your father's plight is the same thing. His
father was slain in the battle, so 'tis between him and us. Put on
thy best clothes as fast as may be. Thou shalt have my wedding-veil
and miniver mantle. Speed, I say. My lord has to hasten away to
join the Earl on the way to London. He will see the knot tied beyond
loosing at once."
To dress herself was all poor Grisell could do in her bewilderment.
Remonstrance was vain. The actual marriage without choice was not so
repugnant to all her feelings as to a modern maiden; it was the
ordinary destiny of womanhood, and she had been used in her childhood
to look on Leonard Copeland as her property; but to be forced on the
poor youth instantly on his father's death, and as an alternative to
execution, set all her maidenly feelings in revolt. Bernard was
sitting up in bed, crying out that he could not lose his Grisly. Her
mother was running backwards and forwards, bringing portions of her
own bridal gear, and directing Thora, who was combing out her young
lady's hair, which was long, of a beautiful brown, and was to be worn
loose and flowing, in the bridal fashion. Grisell longed to kneel
and pray, but her mother hurried her. "My lord must not be kept
waiting, there would be time enough for prayer in the church.
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