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.
"My son! Speak out, thou coward loon."
"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.
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