Legends of Lancashire 8

Legends of Lancashire 8

Let us re-visit the field of battle towards sunset of the same

day. All was then still. The departing rays showed the ghastly

countenances of the dead, crowded together promiscuously, without

the distinction of roundhead or cavalier. They lay in such perfect

repose, that Nature seemed to have brought them there, without the

help of man, herself to bury them, with her own funeral rites.

The breeze sighed over them, and occasionally moved some of the

locks, which had escaped from the helmet, and these were thin and

silvery with age, or dark and clustering with youth. Here and

there a venerable head lay naked on the ground. Here and there

young lips were pressed to the cold and bloody sod, in the kisses

of death. Such a scene, at such an hour, when every thought is of

quiet peace, and love, with such a beautiful sun, shedding a mellow

light around, might have given rise to a notion entertained by

the Persians of a former age, that in some sequestered spot, near

to the gentle flowing of a river, the most highly-favoured of our

race shall undergo a transformation, and for days lie on the grass,

apparently dead, even with symptoms of bloody violence, until the

last touch shall have been given to the passive clay; and, amidst

the light and music of heaven resting there alone, with those of

earth, hovering like dreams about them, they shall rise up pure and

lovely spirits, above misery and mortality.

 

Leaning upon the arm of a servant, who supported with much care,

his halting steps, one of the Parliamentary leaders was now groping

his way through the slain, and occasionally stooping to examine the

features.

 

It was Sir Richard Houghton. His countenance was pale, bearing

traces of anguish within, more than of bodily fatigue. The

excitement which had sustained him in the engagement, seemed to

be gone. Years of sorrow, since then, might have passed over him,

without producing so great a change. His spirit seemed to have

been more deeply wounded than his body. Long was his search amidst

the slain. As he stooped, a shade of the deepest anxiety was over

his face, but the glow of his eyes showed that he looked for an

enemy, and not for a friend; and as he rose disappointed, his lips

quivered with deadly emotion.

 

“Nay, nay, ’tis in vain. They have both escaped--uncle and nephew.

And I have left my couch, wounded and sickly, to come and gloat on

my own disappointment. But they must be found, dead or alive!”

 

“But surely, Sir Richard,” interrupted his servant, “not to-night;

the air is chill.”

 

“Not for me,” muttered the knight, “revenge will warm it. I feel

not the blast. Is the tempest loud? Why, the night is calm, and

still as the dead; and though it raged as if every sound was the

united shriek of a thousand demons in pain or joy, I could not hear

it. No, no, my soul is on fire; cold!--cold!--mock me not. If my

revenge is not satisfied, I shall lie down here, stripped, naked,

and shelterless, in order that I may be cool.”

 

“But consider your wounds.”

 

“Aye!” fiercely answered Sir Richard,--“consider my wounds; a

daughter lost, deceived, polluted;--my hospitality returned by the

foulest treachery. Consider these wounds! aye, and revenge them

too!”

 

“But still,” returned his follower, “the shades of night are fast

descending. We cannot remain here long.”

 

No answer was given, and he perceived his leader kneeling over

a heap of bodies. The light was streaming upon that point. An

awful silence ensued, when in a tone which seemed the very voice

of satisfied revenge, Sir Richard exclaimed, “Here is the elder

villain!” He held his face close to the lifeless body of Sir Thomas

Tyldesley. No sound escaped him; but there he gazed, like a mad

spirit, exulting, yet miserable, that the object of his revenge

could not open his eyes, and know his fate. His face was pressed

close to that of the dead, as if the unholy embrace was sweet to

the very senses, and thrilling even through the frame of the aged.

Hate did not prompt him to trample, with profane foot, upon the

unresisting body, or to mar the calmness reposing on the stiff

features, but he even kissed the cold lips in ecstacy, and drew

the head into his bosom. At length he suffered himself to be led

away. “The young man,” after a short silence, he added, “the young

man must be here likewise, and I go not before I have seen him.”

They sought in vain, until reaching the banks of the Douglas, they

stumbled on two bodies, lying at the foot of a tree. They were

those of young Tyldesley and the page. What a shriek of madness

was uttered by the knight, as he recognized in the page, his own

beloved Anne! Her breast was naked, and on it lay the head of her

dead lover, while his arms were encircled around her, as if their

love could never die. Sweet and beautiful was the __EXPRESSION__ of

her countenance in death. Her dark ringlets were moved by the

breeze from the river, and richly they waved, under the radiant

moon, gleaming through the foliage. Calm they lay, as in the sleep

of love, which a single murmur may disturb, and affection seemed

awaking on their countenances, to assure them of each other’s

safety, and then go to rest. Sir Richard’s grief, was gradually

subsiding and ebbing, but only to feel the barren, dry waste, over

which it had rolled, and the wreck which its waves had borne along.

Without a word, he quietly prepared to sit down on the little mound

where the head of Anne was reposing. The father once more blessed

his child. Attempting to raise her lover’s head, and make them

divided in death, a shudder passed over him, and he again restored

it to its place, and put the cold, stiff arms, even more closely

around Anne, with as much fondness, as if, like a heavenly priest,

he wished to bind them in eternal wedlock. But over such a scene of

sadness we draw the curtain. Long after, that tree marked out the

spot where the young lovers died, in each other’s embrace. It has

now, however, entirely disappeared; but if the Chronicler has drawn

forth from his readers one tear for their fate, they still have a

proud monument.

 

But softened as was the heart of Sir Richard Houghton, by the fate

of his daughter, the desire of revenge on the Earl of Derby, whom

he regarded as her destroyer, was now inspired above every feeling,

and he formed a resolution of immediately returning to Wigan, and

searching out the earl, who was reported to have found shelter

there, after his flight from the battle.

 

An hour before midnight, the portly landlord of the Dog Inn, Wigan,

was roused from a comfortable sleep, beside the fire, not by the

cravings of thirst for the contents of a jug, which he held in his

hand, as firmly as if it contained the charm of forgetfulness, and

was the urn from which pleasant dreams vapoured out--but by a loud

knocking at the door.

 

In those days, the inhabitants of the good town here mentioned,

were not so careful, as they are at present, of the digits of their

visitors, and had not substituted brass or iron knockers. Fair

ladies, however gentle in disposition, were obliged to raise their

hand in a threatening position, and, horror on horrors!--strike the

hard oak. Still the blow was generally given with a strength, of

which their sentimental successors must feel ashamed, and wonder

how they could venture upon such a masculine course of conduct,

degrading the softer sex. What! they will exclaim, did the lily

hand, which ought for ever to have slept amidst perfumes, unless,

when it was raised to the lips of a lover, in his vows, profane

itself by becoming a battering ram!

 

The Dog Inn, at that time, presented a somewhat different

appearance than it does at present. The part of the building in

front, next to the street, was low, and seemed to be appended,

as a wing or covert, both to the interior and exterior of the

other parts, and was parallel to a line of small shops. Behind,

another story had been added, and there, on a transverse beam,

was placed the dog, which the landlord had, a few days before,

baptized as Jolly, in a good can of ale. The Inn was the resort

of two classes; the one consisting of those who were regularly

thirsty of an evening, in reference to wit and news; and the other,

of those who could only ask for a draught of ale, and then amuse

themselves by rubbing the bottom of the jug round and round a small

circumference, in full view of themselves, after quaffing the

contents. Their merry host could satisfy the appetites of both. But

he displayed a decided preference for the former class; and for

such, the door of admission was the one at the end of the building,

directly leading to the large fire, which generally burned bright

and long, in the hall, and it had been known to be open long after

midnight, to the visitors; while the others had only the honour of

the low one in front, and that not after nine o’clock.

 

The knocking now made, was at the last-mentioned door. The landlord

awoke, and rubbed his eyes till they opened and expanded to their

proper focus; but they fell first upon the foaming ale in the

tankard, which tempted him to a draught. In the act, however, the

knock was repeated. Still, though his eyes gazed in the direction

of the door, it was also evident that his mouth was not altogether

idle in paying due attention to the liquor.

 

“Ho! knave!” exclaimed he, as soon as he had obtained liberty of

speech--“a warrior and a roundhead, doubtless! So thou hast not

got a belly-ful of fighting in the lane, but must come to my door!

Why dost not thee speak, Jolly? Last week John Harrison painted

thee alive, and made thee as young as thy mother’s whelp, put thee

upon a beam over the door, to bark at those who might come at

unseemly hours, or for improper purposes, and hung a chain round

thy neck, lest thou might be too outrageous. Not one word, Jolly,

for thy dear master? But,” he added in a whisper, as he went to the

door, “all’s safe!--yes.”

 

The door opened, and Sir Richard Houghton and his servant entered.

The latter announced the name of his master.

 

“So,” said the landlord, addressing the knight, as he led him to

a quiet corner, near the fire, “you are the warrior who so nimbly

changed parties to-day? Perhaps you are desirous of changing

occupations likewise, and would be glad to throw off your titles

and dress, for those of an innkeeper. I’faith, your lean face, and

what call you these?” as he pointed to the legs of the knight,

“would thank you for the wisdom of your choice. If so, I am ready

for the barter. There is my apron. Ho--ho--you’ll get a complete

suit out of it, and a winding sheet into the bargain! Be patient,

oh! wise knight--who must be knight no more--for I shall be Sir

John.”

 

In truth he would have been a worthy successor to the knighthood of

the famous Falstaff, if any super-abundance of wit and fat could

ever embody Shakespeare’s prototype.

 

“Where,” exclaimed Sir Richard, in a high passion, “where is the

Earl of Derby?--surrender him.”

 

“So, so,” was the reply, “you are again disposed to return to your

allegiance, and be one of the earl’s party!”

 

“Surrender him into my hands,” interrupted the knight, in a

soothing tone, “and a large reward shall be yours. You will then

be able to exhibit a golden dog on your escutcheon. Refuse, and a

strict search shall instantly be made, and woe to the wretch, who

has harboured the traitor!”

 

“Search, brave Dick,” rejoined the merry host, “and I’ll assist

you. Here’s a bottle; can the traitor be within? search,--storm the

castle!” and here he broke it, while the contents were thrown into

the knight’s face. “Is he there, Sir Richard, is he there?”

 

“To ensure our safety and dignity,” said the enraged knight to his

servant, “give the signal, instantly.” A shrill whistle was made, and a number of armed men entered.