Legends of Lancashire 6

Legends of Lancashire 6

Sir Richard sat in the hall, considering in what manner he should

best break his message to the garrison. Wishing to consult Anne,

whom he fondly loved, and whom, young as she was, he used to

call his premier, he retired to her private chamber, but she was

not there. He was not at first alarmed, because he knew, that

on a moonlight night, she was in the habit of walking on the

battlements, and enjoying the sweet influences which breathed upon

her from so many sources. But after an hour had passed, and still

she came not, though she must have known the perplexed state of her

father’s mind, occasioned by the strange events which that night

had disclosed, he summoned her attendant.

 

“Where is my daughter?” anxiously asked the knight. The woman was

silent, but some secret intelligence seemed lurking on her lips.

Sir Richard became enraged; at length, she muttered, “She is not in

Houghton Tower.”

 

“Not in Houghton Tower!” exclaimed the knight, half frenzied. “And

she is lost to me! There she was born, there she has lived, the

only flower of my hopes and love, which my own heart’s blood would

have been willing to cherish; aye! and there she should have died!

The little chapel, where she has so often prayed by my side, would

have given her a holy grave, and the withered hands of her old

father before they were stiff in death, would have gathered a few

blossoms, and strewn them over it. She’s gone!--gone!”

 

The woman stood speechless at the ravings of her master. His mind

had always before been calm, as the stillest lake embosomed in a

summer glen. Even when his lady died, the composure of a feature

was not disturbed. Amidst treachery and private grief he had been

unmoved. But now, what agitation amidst the silent thoughts of an

old heart! Beautifully was it fabled by the ancients, that should

the sleeping waters of Lethe, on whose fair breast, no breeze came

to silence the murmur of its loving waves, which were only heard

by young spirits revelling there--be stormed into fury by any

influence, no trident of Neptune could assuage them. The young,

when their hopes are blasted, know nothing of the grief felt by

the aged, when their last hope dies, and when winter is over their

feelings.

 

At length Sir Richard recovered himself, so far as to inquire where

his daughter was. “She has gone,” was the reply, “with the Earl of

Derby. The young horseman has avowed his love for her.”

 

“Eternal curses on them all!” thundered forth the knight. “Thus

it is. These old men have conspired to ruin her. Derby pressed

her upon the youth’s notice, and has persuaded her to accompany

them. They are pledged against her innocence! aye!” his rage

still increasing,--“so have I heard of the unlicensed conduct

of cavaliers--but I will be revenged!--and henceforth, I am the

bitter enemy of all royalists!” In a moment, passion and love for

his daughter had brought him to this conclusion. He invoked curses

on Charles. Every prepossession in favour of the cause which he

hitherto supported, was gone, and in its place, inflexible and

active hate had entered.

 

He left the hall, and acquainted the garrison,--who, we have seen,

were well disposed to Cromwell, with his daughter’s flight, and

instantly inspired them with deadly revenge. They all loved Anne;

she had listened to the tale of war which the very humblest of

them had to recite; and many of them had almost been compelled to

acquaint her with the plot of the Parliamentary officers. But at

present they were cool enough to observe, that it would neither be

prudent nor safe to make a sally upon Derby’s followers, to whom

they were inferior in number. It was, therefore, agreed, that at

the hour of midnight, fifty men from the tower should accompany Sir

Richard Houghton, to join the army of Captain Lilbourne, who was

then supposed to be marching from Manchester, to seize on Wigan,

and defend it against the royalists. Thus, Sir Richard Houghton,

formerly a true, though by no means an active, defender of Charles,

became a zealous supporter of Cromwell.

 

Long before morning had dawned upon the camp, the Earl of Derby was

stirring about, and ordering all to be in readiness for departure.

No signal had been seen from Houghton Tower. It was, therefore,

concluded, that there had been no mutiny in the garrison. In a

short time, the trumpet was sounded, and all were mounted, waiting

the command to march. Derby rode into the centre, in full armour,

accompanied by his faithful servant, a Frenchman, who was proud to

behold his master once more arrayed for the field, where he should

distinguish himself. Every lock of his dark hair was concealed

beneath his steel-front beaver, and the mournful __EXPRESSION__ usual

to his features, was now exchanged for that of sternness. A loud

shout was raised for “King Charles and Derby.”

 

The trumpets sounded, and in triple rank, with the earl in front,

and Sir Thomas Tyldesley and his nephew, accompanied by the young

page, in the rear, they hastily marched on. Lord Widdrington, and

Sir Robert Throgmorton, with a few soldiers, rode in different

directions, to give the alarm, should the enemy appear, though that

was not considered as at all likely.

 

The page kept close by young Tyldesley, in the march; yet he spoke

little, even when Anne Houghton, his mistress, was introduced to

be praised. Upon giving __EXPRESSION__ to a beautiful and earnest

prayer, that Charles might return to his own, young Tyldesley took

his hand; it shrunk timidly from his grasp. “Poor page,” and as he

spoke, he drew his arm around his slender form, “thou seemest to be

but ill nerved for this day’s work. Thou tremblest.”

 

“I have left many dear friends behind me, and I am here alone.”

 

“But not unbefriended,” was Tyldesley’s reply. “Keep by me; I will

avert danger from thee. Be merry, gentle youth, and thou shalt yet

dance a gay measure with your mistress,--when she is my bride.”

 

“But--” the crimson colour which mantled his features, changing to

a deadly paleness as he spoke, “should you fall, what is for me?”

 

“A safe return to your mistress.”

 

No answer was given; the page turned away his head, but not before

a tear had fallen upon Tyldesley’s hand.

 

They had now marched for two hours, and the town of Wigan was seen

in the distance. As they advanced, the reapers were busy in their

quiet occupations, amidst the richly waving crops. The Earl of

Derby was, in his own mind, contrasting the joys of peace, with the

miseries of war, when, all at once, Lord Widdrington and Sir Thomas

Throgmorton were galloping towards him. The earl spurred from the

lines, and met them.

 

“The enemy is approaching--the day must be lost,--they are some

thousand strong.”

 

Derby turned pale at the intelligence. He had hoped to possess

Wigan as a strong-hold, until he had cleared a way to Worcester,

to join his Sovereign. But his paleness soon fled. “Dost see,” he

proudly exclaimed, “these few reapers cutting down whole fields of

corn,--and shall we not take courage from them?”

 

Without ordering a halt, he wheeled round to the Tyldesleys, and

announced to them the movements of the enemy.

 

“They have even taken possession of Wigan,” he said, “the

strong-hold of loyalty.” The earl then uncovering his head, looked

round upon his troops, and solemnly bade every soldier ask the

blessing of the God of battles. The helmet was raised from every

head, and every eye was fixed upward, as the small army prayed.

 

“Let your prayers,” interrupted Derby, “be sincere; and even that

youthful page, whose cheek is pale for coming danger, may be nerved

to deal havoc among the enemy. Now let the march be sounded, and

let us, with all possible haste, scour to Wigan. And when we

encounter, as soon we must,--you have children,--there is strength

in your arm; you have wives--the thought is worth a hundred swords;

you have a king--fight, therefore, in their defence! Less than an

hour’s march must bring us front to front with the enemy, and they

are reported to be numerous.”

 

“Front to front!” exclaimed Sir Thomas Tyldesley, “sword to sword!

let us meet them!”

 

“Poor youth,” said Derby, as his eye rested on the pale face of

the page, “thou hast neither a soldier’s form nor heart, thou

shouldst have remained to amuse thy mistress. And yet” he added, as

if entirely absorbed in his own remembrances, “my countess never

required such a companion! heaven bless her, and guard her, should

I never see her more!”

 

“Nor does my mistress, noble earl,” replied the page, quickly,

while his dark and beautiful eye glowed keenly: “and I too,

whatever my form and look may bespeak, am ready to lose a life for

my sovereign. I shudder to draw a sword, but I will not shudder to

receive it,--aye, in my bosom!”

 

Never did the most herculean form appear more warlike, than did the

youthful speaker. His firmly chiselled mouth was pressed together

with a deadly __EXPRESSION__ of resolve, and the soft eyelash was

arched, as if it could slay.

 

“Bravo,” exclaimed the elder Tyldesley, “a true knight; and yet

fair sir, a maiden speaks of bosom,--a hero speaks of heart!”

 

Unconsciously, at this moment, the page had spurred his steed,

which plunged furiously. Like lightning, a slender arm reached

over the proud mane--grasped the bridle--and in a moment, he was

quiet as before. The strength of a giant horseman, could not have

so tamed him. In the suddenness of the motion, the plumed beaver

of the rider had fallen, and like some young and beautiful spirit

of power, with dark ringlets, curling over a brow of glistening

thought and love, and as if quelling the furious tempest, the page

leaned forward, on his steed.

 

“Nay, nay,” said the earl, “spur on, and let us not delay to meet

the foe.”

 

The gallant army marched on rapidly, and in a few minutes, as the

sun streamed from the eastern clouds, the rays fell upon Wigan,

seen in the distance. Only one sound was borne to the ear, and it

was the trampling of horses. “They come,” was the general cry. “On,

on,” exclaimed their leader, “let Charles’s banner be unfurled, and

soon we shall plant it, to wave over the church tower!”

 

A few minutes more brought them to the entrance of the town. A

strong hedge skirted both sides of the road. The windings were many

and abrupt, and the sharp angular view, was over the rocky heights

on the banks of the Douglas, and almost suggested the appearance of

traitors, so unexpectedly were many of the scenes brought before

them. The scenery of the country around, was wild, and marked that

here, war would not be out of keeping. Young Tyldesley took his

uncle’s hand, to bid him farewell, for now the impression rested on

every mind, that from the unusual stillness, the stern sounds of

combat might soon be heard. Silence seemed to be the soft whispers

of a traitor! secret, but sure. A tear stole down the hardy cheek

of the veteran, as he blessed his companion.

 

“This parting,” he added, “seems ominous. ’Twas thus your gallant

father bade me adieu, for the last time. Yet, Harry, another grasp

of your hand. Farewell, my brave boy.”

 

They rode on without exchanging another word, when the young

soldier felt himself gently touched, and, on turning round, beheld

the page, who, with averted face, said--“Excuse me, but farewell, Harry Tyldesley, should I see you no more.”