V.

Sir Ro of Staley Hall.

There was a noble gathering in the great banqueting room of Staley

Hall, on that memorable morning when Sir Ro or Ralph de Stavelegh

entertained his guests for the last time ere he set sail for the Holy

Land. The message of war had been sent through all merrie England, and

many of the Cheshire knights were leaving their homes, their wide and

pleasant meadows, and their dear wives and children, to engage in the

stern conflict of the great Crusade. Sir Ro, of Staley, was one of the

first to offer his sword in the holy cause. He was a brave knight,

born of a war-like ancestry, and desirous above all things to risk his

life in so sacred a war. And now he had called together his friends

and neighbours, that they might feast once more in the old banqueting

hall, and pledge themselves as true and leal comrades before the

knight said farewell.

There were many brave knights and squires, many noble dames and fair

maidens, seated about that hospitable board. But the lovliest of all

women gathered there was the young lady of Staley, and the handsomest

of men in that goodly company was the warrior knight, Sir Ro.

The feasting went on well into the night. In the minstrels' gallery

there were harpers who harped of war, and bards who sang of heroes'

deeds and victory. The music was wild and glorious; it lured men to

war, it breathed the spirit of strife, it lured the love of maidens to

the man who wielded axe and sword. When the music ceased there were

speeches made by the knights, and good wishes expressed, and the words

of friendship passed.

Then the Knight of Staley rose to bid farewell. He spoke of the true

comradeship between his guests and himself. He begged them to see that

no enemy laid waste his fair domain while he was distant at the war.

By every tie of friendship, he prayed them to protect well his dear

lady should ever the need arise. Then, turning to his wife, he asked

that she should hand her wedding ring to him, and the lady complied.

Holding up the ring, and in sight of all the guests, Sir Ro next

snapped the golden circlet in twain, and, restoring one half to his

spouse, he placed the other against his heart, swearing by that token

to be a true lover and husband until death. On her part, the lady made

a like vow, and thus, before all that noble company, they pledged

again eternal troth.

On the morrow, with many bitter tears at the pain of the parting, with

many tender kisses and protestations of fidelity, Sir Ro and his lady

parted--the lady to her lonely bower, the knight to his ship, his

journey, and the war.

* * * * *

Sir Ro sailed the seas in company with many other English knights and

men-at-arms. They marched across the great desert, suffering many

privations, often being in peril of death by the wilderness, and at

other times endangered by the craft and might of the foe. They fought

many battles, winning great glory for the Christian arms, and putting

numbers of the Saracens to death. In all the fighting Sir Ro of Staley

played a great part. He was ever in the thickest of the battle, his

helm bore the marks and dints of many blows, his breast was scarred

with wounds, his sword dulled with hacking, his axe chipped with

striking. Wherever he rode the foe fell like hail beaten by the wind.

They were powerless before him; death came to them with the falling of

his brand; and before his arm multitudes of heathen bit the dust.

[Illustration: "IN THE MINSTRELS' GALLERY."]

At length befell an evil day for the Christian army. Sir Ro was

captured by a cunning strategy of the foe, and, bound hand and foot,

was carried off to a Saracen town. There, stripped of his knightly

raiment, and dressed in the poor garb of a palmer, he was cast into a

filthy and dark dungeon, and there left to pine and die.

For long dreary months did the brave knight suffer this cruel

captivity without a murmur or complaint. His cheeks grew white, his

limbs thin, his frame was wasted; the palmer's dress hung loose about

his figure. None would have recognised in that feeble prisoner the

once gay and handsome lord of Staley Hall.

One night Sir Ro fell into a troubled sleep, in which he dreamed some

horrid dream. It seemed that some great evil threatened his wife and

kindred at home--an evil which he had no power to avert. So vivid was

the dream that, on awakening, the force of his anguish was such as to

cause his frame to tremble and his heart to languish with despair.

But, like a good Christian knight, he fell upon his knees and poured

forth his soul in earnest prayer to God, asking his Heavenly Father to

succour his wife in the hour of peril, and, by some means--if it were

His will--to restore him to his home.

Having thus prayed, a calm fell upon the knight, and, repeating the

Saviour's prayer, he laid himself upon his couch, and fell into a

gentle sleep.

* * * * *

Sir Ro awoke with a start. It seemed as though a bright light from

heaven blinded him. There was a warmth as of living fire about him.

All the cell seemed a-flame. Then his full senses came, and he leaped

and cried aloud for joy.

There in front of him was the fairest scene in all the world.

Gone was the cold damp cell, gone the poisonous atmosphere of the

dungeon, gone were the iron fetters, his strength had returned to him,

and lo!--before him, shining fair in the summer sunlight, rich in the

fulsome melody of singing birds, was a fair English landscape, and

beyond it his own ancestral hall of Staley.

God had heard his prayer. By His own Almighty working he had bridged

time and space, and Sir Ro was safe again at his old English home.

"A miracle, a miracle!" exclaimed the knight. And, like a good

Christian, he fell upon his knees, and gave thanks to God.

When he arose Sir Ro passed along the soft and level sward of green

until he came to the hall door. There he knocked long and loud. The

warder who answered the knocking, failed to recognise the knight.

"Who knocks so long and loudly?" asked the warder, peering curiously

at the palmer. "For a holy man, friend, methinks thou hast a mighty

powerful stroke."

This greeting reminded Sir Ro that he was no longer dressed as a

knight, but in the garb of a palmer, and that he had best put off

knightly ways unless he wished to be discovered, so, in a feigned

voice, he answered:

"I am a humble palmer, hungry and footsore, and I crave a meal and

leave to rest awhile. All of which I pray ye grant for Christ Jesu's

sake."

"Well, well," said the warder, somewhat mollified by the penitent tone

of his visitor, "of a truth thou lookest woe-begone and

travel-stained. Come thou within and eat and drink, and then,

perchance, thou wilt have a tale to tell, which will help the hours to

pass merrily. Hast thou any tidings? Is there any fresh news from the

Holy Land?"

"Little of importance," replied the supposed palmer. "But before I

tell my story, perhaps thou wilt answer me a few inquiries, for I

confess I am mightily curious about this same hall of thine. I had

thought this was the hall of Staley."

"And so it is, Sir Palmer. What belike should make thee doubt it?"

"Well, friend, I have travelled in the Holy Land myself, and thy

master's escutcheon is not unknown to me. He was a stout soldier of

King Richard against the Paynim. And that banner which floats from the

high tower bears not the same devise as that which Sir Ro of Staley

bravely upheld against the Saracens."

"In truth, thou art right there, Sir Palmer. 'Tis not the same banner,

and, though I eat my salt beneath the new devise, I do not mind

confessing that I would sooner see the old one flying overhead. 'Tis a

sad story, friend. Hast thou not heard in thy wanderings that the

brave knight of Staley was slain in the Holy Land?"

"That is news to me," answered the other, starting. "But even so, what

of his lady? Is she not alive?"

The warder looked uneasily about him, as though he had no wish to talk

upon such a subject.

"The women can tell thee more of my lady," said he. "And thou art

still hungry. Eat first, and talk afterwards."

[Illustration: DOORWAY TO STALEY CHAPEL, MOTTRAM CHURCH.]

Saying which he ushered Sir Ro to an apartment, and left him for a

while to the attention of the waiting maids. As the warder, even so

the maids--none recognised their lord, Sir Ro, in the palmer's garb

which he was wearing. In accordance with the old laws of English

hospitality, they brought to him a cup of methyglin, and manchets of

bread to eat. As he supped, Sir Ro fell into conversation with the

maids; he asked after the health of the Lady of Staley, and whether he

might have an audience with her. To which the maids made answer that

the Lady of Staley was sore troubled, and even then was weeping in her

chamber, and would see no man. Then they related to him the

circumstances of their lady's trouble. The knight of Staley, they

said, had gone away to fight in the great crusade. News had come that

he was dead--having been captured and put to death by the enemy--and

now the kinsmen of the lady were forcing her to wed again, although

her heart was still with her dead lord, and she could bear the sight

of no other man.

"That," said the spokeswoman, "is why Staley Hall is so much changed,

and why another banner floats above the turrets."

"But if your lady does not love the newcomer, why then does she submit

to a marriage which must be distasteful? Did not her lord will his

estates to her in case he should fall in the Crusade?"

"That we know not, good sir palmer. But 'tis said that this new knight

has made her understand that he hath a grant of her late husband's

lands from the king, and that he will dispossess both her and her

relations unless she consents to marry him. Folk do think it is more

for the sake of her kinsfolk that she brings her mind to the wedding."

"And when is the wedding to be?"

"To-morrow."

Sir Ro pondered awhile, then turning to the chief serving-maid, asked:

"Would'st do thy lady a service?"

Being answered in the affirmative, he took his empty drinking-cup,

and dropped into it the half of his wife's broken wedding ring, which

he had retained, and bade the maid carry it to her mistress. This the

maid did. On seeing it, the Lady of Staley gave a great cry, and,

saying that the palmer surely brought some news of her dead husband's

last hours, and perchance carried his dying message, she commanded him

to be brought into her presence.

Sir Ro now beheld the face of his loved one, whom he had never thought

to see again. At first the lady failed to recognise in the guise of

the palmer, the husband whom she had never ceased to love, and Sir Ro,

being anxious to learn whether she was still true to him, forebore to

make himself known. The lady, with tears in her eyes, looked at the

half of the wedding ring which the palmer had brought, and placing her

hand in her bosom drew forth the companion half which she wore ever

near her heart. Then, with many sobs, she protested that the image of

her dead lord had never left her, and that she only consented to mate

with another in order that her kinsfolk should not be reduced to

beggary.

[Illustration: EFFIGY OF SIR RO AND HIS LADY, IN STALEY CHAPEL,

MOTTRAM CHURCH.]

Bit by bit the knight drew from her all the story: how her new suitor

had been the one to bring tidings of her lord's death, and how he,

having secured the Staley estates, now offered her the choice of a

union with him or beggary for herself and her people.

Then Sir Ro, unable to restrain himself any longer, uttered her name

in his own voice, and instantly she recognised him, and, with a great

cry, fell into his arms.

Now the joyful cry uttered by the Lady of Staley rang throughout the

hall, and, full of wonder and fear, the retainers rushed to the

chamber, feeling that they had been indiscreet to leave her alone with

an unknown palmer. The treacherous knight, who, by his lying tale,

sought to entrap her into marriage, also appeared upon the scene, and,

in a voice of anger, demanded of the palmer what he wanted, and by

what right he was there.

"By the best right in the world," answered Sir Ro--"the right of

master."

"Insolent," cried the traitor-knight in a fury, drawing his sword as

he spake. "Thou shalt pay dearly for thy folly."

But Sir Ro, with a sharp action, cast from his shoulders the palmer's

disguise, and, standing forth in the full glory of his warlike figure,

snatched a mace from the wall, and advanced to meet his enemy.

"A Staley, a Staley!" he cried, giving forth the rallying cry of his

house in a voice which the retainers knew of old.

Instantly he was recognised, and with shouts of joy the men-at-arms

and servitors sprang to his side, whilst some of them disarmed the

traitor, and without waiting for the order from their lord, hurried

him to the deepest dungeon, there to await justice when the joyful

celebrations anent Sir Ro's return had come to an end.

Needless to say the imposter met with the punishment he deserved; he

was stripped of his knightly rank, and was never afterwards seen or

heard of in Longdendale. The bells of Mottram Church rang out a merry

peal in honour of the homecoming of the Knight of Staley. Sir Ro and

his lady lived a long and happy life together. At their death they

were buried in Mottram Church, where an effigy was placed to their

memory above their grave. This effigy, which represents a knight in

full armour, and his lady lying side by side, may still be seen in the

Staley Chapel of the old Church at Mottram, and it serves to keep

green the story of Sir Ro's adventures.