Legends Of Longdendale Part 10

"Out upon thee, thou whelp of Satan," he said at length, "or I will have thee in the ducking stool."

But with a shriek of horrible laughter the witch vanished.

Now this was the end of Lord Lovel, and the reader may decide for himself whether or not the witch's prophesy was fulfilled. It is quite certain that from that date his fortunes began to wane. He fought in the Battle of Bosworth Field on the side of the defeated King Richard III., and after the battle he took refuge for a time in Longdendale and Lancas.h.i.+re, but finally was forced to fly to Flanders. He returned to England with the Earl of Lincoln as a supporter of the Pretender, Lambert Simnel, and was a prominent figure at the "court" held for a brief s.p.a.ce by that would-be King at the Pile or Peel of Fouldrey--now a picturesque ruin on Fouldrey Island off the coast of Lancas.h.i.+re. On behalf of Simnel he fought in the Battle of Stoke, and the last seen of him was after the defeat of the rebel army, when he was observed to join in the flight, and to swim his horse across a river, and to scramble safely up the further bank. Some say he was slain in this battle, but the popular version of his death ascribes to him a far different ending. According to this version some days after the combat, the disguised figure of a man might have been seen wending his way stealthily to a house at Minster Lovel, near Oxford. The fugitive was none other than Lord Lovel himself.

With his enemies on his track, and afraid to trust even his friends, he made his way alone to his own house and entered it under cover of the darkness. Then, not daring to trust even his oldest servants, lest they might be tempted to betray him, he quietly stole to a secret underground chamber, and there immured himself, thinking to lie hidden within until he could find some means of escape from the country. What actually happened no man will ever know, but it is easy to surmise. It would appear that Lovel, from some cause or other, was unable to open the door by which he had entered his hiding-place, and having told no one of his intention to make use of the chamber--or else through treachery--he was perforce left to his fate, and died of starvation.

In all probability when he found out his predicament he attempted to set some record of it down on paper, but, if so, his story was destined never to be read. He disappeared from the sight of his own generation, and the world had well-nigh forgotten him. But in the Eighteenth Century--several hundred years after his death--a party of workmen broke into the remains of an underground chamber at Minster Lovel, and to their great surprise came across a skeleton. It was thought that this skeleton was the frame of the once powerful n.o.ble--Lord Lovel.

It is said that when the workmen broke into the vault, the skeleton was found sitting at a table, the hand resting on a bundle of papers, but that with the admission of air it soon crumbled into dust.

After the Battle of Stoke, Lovel's lands were confiscated, and in 1409 were granted to Sir Wm. Stanley, who had turned the fortunes of the day at Bosworth Field. With this change of owners.h.i.+p Longdendale pa.s.sed out of the hands of the Lovels for ever.

XII.

The Raiders from the Border-Side.

There was once a time when it was considered the height of fas.h.i.+onable conduct for the Scotch who lived upon the border, to dash into the Northern Counties of England, put the men they met with to the sword, burn their homesteads and stores, and carry off the women and cattle.

It is quite true that the English, on their part, considered it fit and proper to cross the Scottish border, to raid the lands, and carry off women and cattle from the lower s.h.i.+res of "Bonnie Scotland;" and so on the score of fairness neither side had any cause for complaint.

But then, both parties never thought of that; the nature of their own conduct was never questioned, it was always the other side that was in the wrong. Their opponents were "thieves and marauders," their own forays were characterized by the high sounding t.i.tle of "military expeditions." For such is the way of the world.

There is no record to say whether the men of Longdendale ever rode north to join in expeditions across the Scottish border; but it is chronicled that "bold moss-troopers from the border-side" occasionally raided as far south as the rich country of the Longdendale valley.

These Scotchmen usually came in strong and well-armed bands, consisting of picked fighting-men, and, oftener than not, led by some distinguished lord or knight who wished to reap fresh honour by reddening his blade in English blood. Sometimes the lord or knight looked upon it as a fair (and certainly the easiest and cheapest) way of securing a wife, or mayhap a mistress, together with a good fat dowry in the shape of plunder. None can blame him for holding such views, for it all came in the manner of living in the olden time.

But it did not always happen that the raiders were successful.

Sometimes the "raided" were on the look out, and the surprise party themselves met with a surprise.

It was a bright morning in the summer, and the valley of Longdendale had never looked more beautiful than it did that morning when Jock, the steward's son, kissed his sweetheart at the end of the lane ere he entered the woods to join his father's men, who had some work to do in the forest. A fine lad was Jock, merry and free as becomes one whose life is mostly spent in the greenwood: his limbs were finely made, he was straight and strong, and there were none in all the country-side who could run, fence, or box like he, or who could shoot straighter or further with the bow. A right proper lad, such as an English maiden loves. His father was steward to the Lord of Mottram, and to that position young Jock looked one day to succeed. In the meantime he discharged such tasks as were set him with diligence, and drank his fill of happiness with that bonny yeoman's daughter, Bess Andrew. Bess knew his habits and his times of departure and homecoming right well, and thus the two found many a chance to bill and coo throughout the day.

It was with a light heart that Jock sped through the lanes when he had taken leave of Bess; and with a heart as buoyant, sweet Bess returned to the homestead when the parting was over. The maid sang a s.n.a.t.c.h of a country song as she entered the farmyard and set about her tasks, wondering whether her mother had missed her during the few moments she had been absent in the lane.

[Ill.u.s.tration: BESS ANDREW.]

But Goody Andrew, the farmer's wife, was busy in the kitchen, and the farmer himself was away in the fields. His lands were broad, and on this merry morn he was busy at a distance. So Bess had the farmyard to herself save for the presence of the children, her brothers and sisters, all younger than herself.

Bess busied herself with the milking-cans for some time, dreaming, as sweet maids will, of love and hope and the life that is to be.

Suddenly she started, then bent her head to listen. On the wind came the sound of horses' tread, and the jingling of harness; the sound increased in volume, and it came from the lane which led to the farm.

Bess left her work, and moved to the gate. Then she screamed and turned to fly to the steading. For, all gay and boldly, armed to the teeth, came galloping into the farmyard a band of fierce moss-troopers, having at their head a tall big-limbed laird, from the Lowlands over the border.

"The raiders," screamed Bess, as she hurried towards the house. "G.o.d 'a mercy on us."

But she never reached the door, for the leader of the band rode to her side, and with a laugh leaned down, seized her in a strong grip, and swung her to the saddle before him.

"The raiders," echoed he; "and of a truth we have won a prize worth raiding. Come, kiss me, my beauty. Thou shalt be my share of the plunder."

He forced his face to hers, but the maid fought fiercely, and struck him in the face, whereat the trooper laughed again.

"What a spitfire of a wench" said he. "But we will tame thee ere thou art much older. Bring hither a rope my men, and tie her up. Also gag her until she has found her senses, and knows where and how to use her tongue. Now get to work and lose no time, for I have no wish to bring a hornet's nest about my ears. Ho! who comes here. Settle them off in the good old fas.h.i.+on."

The last words were uttered as a couple of farm-hands came from an out-building to see what was astir. The poor knaves were instantly seized before they had chance to cry aloud, and in another moment were hanging by the neck from a neighbouring bough. That preliminary accomplished, the troopers proceeded to plunder the farm of all its valuables, and to get together the cattle that lay about. Poor Goody Andrew begged hard for mercy, but her plea only met with a coa.r.s.e laugh from the robbers.

"Thou art a well-favoured vixen," quoth the chief. "And had'st thou only been a score years younger, then I had not left thee to the embraces of the southerners. But thy daughter is fair enough, and I doubt not she will like her Scottish lover when her good humour returns. Now, my lads, set the stead ablaze, and then to horse."

The men obeyed to the letter, and in a little while the farm was blazing fiercely, the troopers, loaded with plunder, were galloping towards the hills, on the saddle of the chief was the lovely form of the maiden Bess, bound and gagged; and in the farmyard sat the good dame with her younger children, wringing her arms, and weeping bitterly.

In the distant meadows, Yeoman Andrew paused at his work to wipe the sweat from his brow, and then looked up. In the direction of his home a column of smoke arose, which had not been there when last he looked.

"Hallo!" quoth he, "there is surely something amiss. What ho! ye knaves, leave your work awhile, and hurry with me to the farm, for I fear the worst."

Then, in company with his men, he ran to the steading, to find his weeping wife, and the ruin of what had been his home.

The farmer was a practical man, so he just swore a good round English oath, and then he got to business.

"Ho, there! Will Leatherbarrow, do thou slip for my good grey mare down to John the smith's, get aback, and ride for thy life on their trail. Send word by any messengers thou canst catch from time to time, how they fare. And thou, Hob, cross the fields, and set the great bell at Mottram Church a-ringing, and the rest of you scatter and bring out the archers and the men who can fight. Cease thy chatter, good dame, and see if thou canst sc.r.a.pe me a good meal together '))fore I set about paying my debt to the Scottish laird."

In a little while the great bell at Mottram Church was clanging out its wild alarm, and from the woods and fields about, and the distant farms, the stout yeomen were hurrying into the town, bringing with them their bows and bills, their swords and axes, and their horses all ready for the chase. For they had ridden on the track of the raiders before.

As the men mustered round the cross near the church, a horseman galloped into the throng, the flanks of his steed white with foam. It was the first messenger from Will Leatherbarrow, who hung like a sleuthhound on the trail.

"They have e'en ta'en the Kings' high road," he shouted, "and they ride for the hills."

"They will turn off at the bend before they reach Glossop town," said Jock, the steward's son, who now sat his horse at the farmer's side.

"I know a short cut, and we may head them off. Do you, Farmer Andrew, ride on the trail, and I will lead a band to get before them. Then not a man of them shall escape."

"To horse!" cried the yeoman, curtly a.s.senting. And in another moment the spurs were driven deep, and the men of Longdendale were hard on the track of the foe.

Grim men were they when the scent of war was in the air. Men who had learned the use of the bow from their cradle. For did not the men of Longdendale help to scatter the French at Cressy and Agincourt, and did they not in later days join in the annihilation of the Scotch at the fight of Flodden Field? On they rode, and as they went, their number was swollen by fresh recruits, and so they galloped till near the sundown.

"The pace tells on the beasts," said one man at length.

"It will tell more on the Scotch," said another, "since they are hampered with plunder."

And the cavalcade still galloped along.

The road wound up the hills, and at the top there was a level stretch of several miles. As the band of pursuers reached the top of the rise, they beheld a cloud of dust at some distance ahead, and a shout of triumph burst from their lips.

"They are yonder!" said one. "Ride faster, my men. We shall catch them at the gorge."

"They will never get beyond the gorge," said Farmer Andrew quietly.

"Jock will ambush them there. The thieves are fairly caught."

Then silence reigned again, save for the sound of the galloping horses and the rush of the wind about the hors.e.m.e.n.