uncertain gleam, at intervals, through the royal chamber, as it was
then called, in the Castle of Fouldrey. All around was so still that
the tramp of the sentry sounded like the tread of an armed host;
sounds being magnified to a degree almost terrific, in the absence of
others by which their intensity may be compared. Even the dash of the
waves below the walls was heard in the deep and awful stillness of
that portentous night.
Simon started from the pallet whereon he lay, beside the couch of his
master, at times looking wildly round, as though just rousing from
some unquiet slumber, expecting, yet fearful of alarm. He lay down
again with a deep sigh, muttering an Ave or a Paternoster as he closed
his eyes. Again he raised his head, and a dark figure stood before
him.
"What wouldest thou?" inquired he, with great awe and reverence.
"Ye must depart!" said a voice, deep and sepulchral.
"Depart!" repeated the priest, with an expression of doubt and alarm.
"Yes," said the mysterious figure; "wherefore dost thou inquire?"
"Our only resting-place, our point of support, our sustenance and our
refuge! Are we to leave this, and buffet with the winds and waves of
misfortune, without a haven or a hiding-place? Surely"----
"I have said it, and to-morrow ye must depart!"
"Whither?" inquired the priest; his opinion evidently controlled by
the belief that a being of a superior nature was before him.
"Beyond the Abbey of Furness. Choose a fitting place for your
encampment, and there abide until I come."
"It doth appear to my weak and unassisted sense," said the priest, in
great agony of spirit, arising from his doubt and unbelief, "that it
were the very utmost of madness and folly to give up this strong and
almost impregnable position for one where our little army may be
outflanked, and even surrounded by superior strength and numbers."
"Disobey, and thy life, and all that are with thee, shall be cut off!"
"And to-morrow! Ere we have news from our partisans in the south?
Maurice will be here the third day at the latest."
"I have said it," replied the figure, peremptorily; when suddenly,
and, as it were, formed immediately at his side, appeared another
figure, similar to the first, assuming nearly the same attitude and
manner, save that the latter looked something taller and more
majestic.
"St Mary's grace and the abbot's, there 's twa of us!" cried the first
figure, no less a personage than Dick Empson, who had been daring
enough to adopt this disguise, according to the instructions he had
received at the abbey. He uttered the words in a tone of thrilling and
horrible apprehension, like the last shriek of the victim writhing in
the fangs of his destroyer.
The terrible apparition cried out to his surreptitious
representative--"Nay, miscreant; but one. This thou shalt know, and
feel too. Fool and impostor, thy last hour is come!"
As he spake he seized on the miserable wretch in their presence,
swinging him round by the waist like an infant, and bore him off, up
the turret stairs, to the summit. Ere he disappeared he uttered this
terrible denunciation--
"Your ruin is at hand. Flee! This fool hath betrayed ye, and I return
no more!"
Darting up the staircase, the shrieks of Dick Empson were heard, as if
rapidly ascending to the summit. A wilder and more desperate
struggle--then a heavy plunge, and the waters closed over their prey!
Dick's body was cast up by the waves, but the terrible unknown did not
return; nor was he ever seen or heard of again, save, it is said, that
when the priest received his death-wound, soon afterwards, on the
field of battle, this awful form appeared to rise up before him, and
with scoff and taunt upbraided him as the cause of his own ruin, and
the downfall of his hopes.
The next day, from whatever cause, the troops began to move from their
post. Ere the second evening, they had completely evacuated the castle
and the island, which the wary Abbot of Furness soon turned to his own
advantage, occupying the place with some of his armed vassals. The
rebels, proved to be such by their ill success, took up a tolerably
advantageous position upon Swartz Moor, in the neighbourhood of
Ulverstone, where, waiting in vain for the expected reinforcements,
they found themselves obliged to move forward, or be utterly without
the means either of subsistence or defence. Sir Thomas Broughton, and
a few more of little note, accompanied them to Stokeford, near Newark,
where, engaging the king's forces on the 6th of June 1487, they
maintained an obstinate and bloody engagement, disputed with more
bravery than could have been expected from the inequality of their
forces. The leaders were resolved to conquer or to perish, and their
troops were animated with the same resolution. The Flemings, too,
being veteran and experienced soldiers, kept the event long doubtful;
and even the Irish, though ill-armed and almost defenceless, showed
themselves not deficient in spirit and bravery. The king's victory was
purchased with great loss, but was entirely decisive. Lincoln, Swartz,
and, according to some accounts, Sir Thomas Broughton, perished on the
field of battle, with four thousand of their followers. As Lovel was
never more heard of, he was supposed to have undergone the same fate.
Simnel, apart from his followers, was too contemptible to be an object
either of apprehension or resentment on the part of the king. He was
pardoned, and, it is said, made a scullion in the royal kitchen, from
which menial office he was afterwards advanced to the rank of
falconer.
Thus ended this strange rebellion, which only served to seat Henry
more securely on his throne, extinguishing, finally, the intrigues and
anticipations of the house of York.
[Illustration: BEWSEY, NEAR WARRINGTON.
_Drawn by G. Pickering._
_Engraved by Edw'd. Finden._]
A LEGEND OF BEWSEY.
"Yestreen I dreamed a doleful dream,
I fear there will be sorrow!
I dreamed I pu'd the heather green
With my true love on Yarrow.
"She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair,
She searched his wounds all thorough,
She kissed them till her lips grew red,
On the dowie howms of Yarrow."
Warrington is described by Camden as remarkable for its lords,
surnamed Butler, or Boteler, of Bewsey. This name was derived from
their office, Robert le Pincerna having discharged the duties of that
station under Ranulph, Earl of Chester, in 1158, hence taking the
surname. Almeric Butler, his descendant, having married Beatrice,
daughter and co-heir of Matthew Villiers, Lord of Warrington, became
possessed of the barony.
A MS. in the Bodleian Library gives the following statement, which,
though manifestly incorrect in respect of names and particulars, may
yet be relied on with regard to the main facts, corroborated by
tradition, which still preserves the memory of this horrible event.
"Sir John Butler, Knt., was slaine in his bedde by the procurement of
the Lord Standley, Sir Piers Leigh and Mister William Savage joining
with him in that action (corrupting his servants), his porter setting
a light in a window to give knowledge upon the water that was about
his house at Bewsey (where your way to ... comes). They came over the
moate in lether boats, and so to his chamber, where one of his
servants, named Houlcrofte, was slaine, being his chamberlaine; the
other basely betrayed his master;--they payed him a great reward, and
so coming away with him, they hanged him at a tree in Bewsey
Parke;--after this Sir John Butler's lady prosecuted those that slew
her husband, and ... L20 for that suite, but, being married to Lord
Grey, he made her suite voyd, for which reason she parted from her
husband and came into Lancashire, saying, If my lord will not let me
have my will of my husband's enemies, yet shall my body be buried by
him; and she caused a tomb of alabaster to be made, where she lyeth on
the ... hand of her husband, Sir John Butler.
It is further stated in the MS. that the occasion of this murder was
because of a request from Earl Derby that Sir John would make one of
the train which followed him on his going to meet King Henry VII., and
which request was discourteously refused.
The following extract from Froissart may not be deemed uninteresting,
as a record of one of our Lancashire worthies, Sir John Butler of
Bewsey, relating how he was rescued from the hands of those who sought
his life at the siege of Hennebon:--
"The Lord Lewis of Spain came one day into the tent of Lord Charles of
Blois, where were numbers of the French nobility, and requested of him
a boon for all the services done to him, and as a recompense for them
the Lord Charles promised to grant whatever he should ask, as he held
himself under many obligations to him. Upon which the Lord Lewis
desired that the two prisoners, Sir John Boteler and Sir Mw.
Trelawney, who were in prison of the Castle of Faouet, might be sent
for, and delivered up to him, to do with them as should please him
best.
"'This is the boon I ask, for they have discomfited, pursued, and
wounded me; have also slain the Lord Alphonso, my nephew, and I have
no other way to be revenged on them than to have them beheaded in
sight of their friends who are shut up in Hennebon.'
"The Lord Charles was much amazed at this request, and replied, 'I
will certainly give you the prisoners since you have asked for them;
but you will be very cruel, and much to blame, if you put to death two
such valiant men; and our enemies will have an equal right to do the
same to any of our friends whom they may capture, for we are not clear
what may happen to any one of us every day. I therefore entreat, dear
sir and sweet cousin, that you would be better advised.'
"Lord Lewis said that if he did not keep his promise he would quit the
army, and never serve or love him as long as he lived.
"When the Lord Charles saw that he must comply, he sent off messengers
to the Castle of Faouet, who returned with the two prisoners, and
carried them to the tent of Lord Charles.
"Neither tears nor entreaties could prevail on Lord Lewis to desist
from his purpose of having them beheaded after dinner, so much was he
enraged against them.
"All the conversation, and everything that passed between the Lord
Charles and Lord Lewis, relative to these two prisoners, was told to
Sir Walter Manny and Sir Amauri de Clisson, by friends and spies, who
represented the danger in which the two knights were. They bethought
themselves what was best to be done, but after considering schemes,
could fix on none. At last Sir Walter said, 'Gentlemen, it would do us
great honour if we could rescue these two knights. If we should
adventure it and should fail, King Edward would himself be obliged to
us, and all wise men who may hear of it in times to come will thank
us, and say we had done our duty. I will tell you my plan, and you are
able to undertake it, for I think we are bound to risk our lives in
endeavouring to save those of two such gallant knights. I propose,
therefore, if it be agreeable to you, that we arm immediately, and
form ourselves into two divisions,--one shall set off, as soon after
dinner as possible, by this gate, and draw up near the ditch, to
skirmish with and alarm the enemy, who, you may believe, will soon
muster to that part, and, if you please, you, Sir Amauri de Clisson,
shall have the command of it, and shall take with you 1000 good
archers to make those that may come to you retreat back again, and 300
men-at-arms. I will have with me 100 of my companions, and 500
archers, and will sally out at the postern on the opposite side,
privately, and coming behind them will fall upon their camp, which we
shall find unguarded. I will take with me those who are acquainted
with the road to Lord Charles's tent, where the two prisoners are, and
will make for that part of the camp. I can assure you that I and my
companions will do everything in our power to bring back in safety
these two knights, if it please God.'
"This proposal was agreeable to all, and they directly separated to
arm and prepare themselves. About an hour after dinner Sir Amauri and
his party set off; and having had the principal gate of Hennebon
opened for them, which led to the road that went straight to the army
of Lord Charles, they rushed forward, making great cries and noise, to
the tents and huts, which they cut down, and killed all that came in
their way. The enemy was much alarmed, and putting themselves in
motion, got armed as quickly as possible, and advanced towards the
English and Bretons, who received them very warmly. The skirmish was
sharp, and many on each side were slain.
"When Sir Amauri perceived that almost the whole of the army was in
motion and drawn out, he retreated very handsomely, fighting all the
time, to the barriers of the town, when he suddenly halted: then the
archers, who had been posted on each side of the ditch beforehand,
made such good use of their bows that the engagement was very hot, and
all the army of the enemy ran thither except the servants.
"During this time Sir Walter Manny, with his company, issued out
privily by the postern, and, making a circuit, came upon the rear of
the enemy's camp. They were not perceived by any one, for all were
gone to the skirmish upon the ditch. Sir Walter made straight for the
tent of Lord Charles, where he found the two knights, Sir John Boteler
and Sir Mw. Trelawney, whom he immediately mounted on two coursers
which he had ordered to be brought for them, and retiring as fast as
possible, entered Hennebon by the same way as he sallied forth. The
Countess of Montfort came to see them, and received them with great
joy."--_Froissart_, by Col. Johnes, vol. ii. p. 9.
The Butlers continued to occupy Bewsey till the year 1603, when Edward
Butler sold this estate to the Irelands of Hale. It then passed from
the Irelands to the Athertons, and is now enjoyed by Thomas Powis,
Lord Lilford, of Lilford, Northamptonshire, in virtue of the marriage
of his father, in the year 1797, with Henrietta Maria, daughter and
heiress of Robert Vernon Atherton, of Atherton Hall, Esq.--_Vide_
Baines's _Lancashire_.
Oh listen to my roundelay,
Oh listen a while to me,
And I'll tell ye of a deadly feud
That fell out in the north countrie.
The summer leaves were fresh and green
When Earl Derby forth would ride;
For King Henry and his company
To Lathom briskly hied.
A bridge he had builded fair and strong,
With wondrous cost and pain,
O'er Mersey's stream, by Warrington,
For to meet that royal train.[6]
And lord, and knight, and baron bold,
That dwelt in this fair countrie,
With the Derby train a-riding were,
Save Sir John of proud Bewsey.
"Now foul befa' that scornfu' knight,"
Cried Stanley in his pride;
"For he hath my just and honest suit
Discourteously denied:
"Such hatred of our high estate,
This traitor sore shall rue;
I'll be avenged, or this good sword
Shall rot the scabbard through!"
He swore a furious oath, I trow,
And clenched his iron hand,
As he rode forth to meet his son,
The monarch of merry England.
* * * * *
The summer leaves were over and gone,
But the ivy and yew were green,
When to Bewsey hall came a jovial crew
On the merry Christmas e'en.
It was mirth and feasting in hall and bower
On that blessed and holy tide,
But ere the morning light arose,
There was darkness on all their pride!
Dark wonne the night, and the revellers gay
From the laughing halls are gone;
The clock from the turret, old and grey,
With solemn tongue tolled one.
The blast was moaning down the glen,
Through the pitch-like gloom it came,
Like a spirit borne upon demon wings
To the pit of gnawing flame!
But Sir John was at rest, with his lady love,
In a pleasant sleep they lay;
Nor felt the sooning, shuddering wind
Round the grim, wide welkin play.
Their little babe, unconscious now,
Lay slumbering hard by;
And he smiled as the loud, loud tempest rocked
His cradle wondrously.
There comes a gleam on the billowy moat
Like a death-light on its wave,
It streams from the ivied lattice, where
Sits a grim false-hearted knave.
He saw it on the soft white snow,
And across the moat it passed:
"'Tis well," said that false and grim porter,
And a fearsome look he cast.
A look he cast so wild and grim,
And he uttered a deadly vow;
"For thy dool and thy doom this light shall be,
Thy foes are hastening now!
"Sleep on, sleep on, thou art weary, Sir John;
Thy last sleep shall it be:
Sleep on, sleep on, with thy next good sleep
Thou shalt rest eternally!"
The traitor watched the waters dance,
In the taper's treacherous gleam;
And they hissed, and they rose, by the tempest tossed
Through that pale and lonely beam.
What hideous thing comes swift and dark
Athwart that flickering wave?
A spectre boat there seems to glide,
With many an uplift glaive.
The bolts are unslid by that grim porter,
And a gladsome man was he,
When three foemen fierce strode up the stair,
All trim and cautiously.
"Now who be ye," cried the chamberlain,
"That come with stealth and staur?"
"We come to bid thy lord good den,
So open to us the door."
"Ere I will open to thieves like ye,
My limbs ye shall hew and hack.
Awake, Sir John! awake and flee;
These blood-hounds are on thy track!"
"We'll stop thy crowing, pretty bird!
Now flutter thy wings again:"
With that they laid him a ghastly corpse,
And the red blood ran amain.
"Oh help!" the lady shrieked aloud;
"Arise, Sir John, and flee;
Oh heard you not yon cry of pain
Like some mortal agony?"
"I hear it not," Sir John replied,
For his sleep was wondrous strong;
"But see yon flashing weapons, sure
To foemen they belong!"
The knight from his bed leaped forth to flee,
But they've pierced his body through;
And with wicked hands, and weapons keen,
Him piteously they slew!
But that porter grim, strict watch he kept,
Beside the stair sate he;
When lo! comes tripping down a page,
With a basket defterly.
"Now whither away, thou little page,
Now whither away so fast?"
"They have slain Sir John," said the little page,
"And his head in this wicker cast."
"And whither goest thou with that grisly head?"
Cried the grim porter again,
"To Warrington Bridge they bade me run,
And set it up amain."
"There may it hang," cried that loathly knave,
"And grin till its teeth be dry;
While every day with jeer and taunt
Will I mock it till I die!"
The porter opened the wicket straight,
And the messenger went his way,
For he little guessed of the head that now
In that basket of wicker lay.
"We've killed the bird, but where's the egg?"
Then cried those ruffians three.
"Where is thy child?" The lady moaned,
But never a word spake she.
But, swift as an arrow, to his bed
The lady in terror sprung;
When, oh! a sorrowful dame was she,
And her hands she madly wrung.
"The babe is gone! Oh, spare my child,
And strike my heart in twain!"
To those ruthless men the lady knelt,
But her piteous suit was vain.
"Traitor!" they cried to that grim porter,
"Whom hast thou suffered forth?
If thou to us art false, good lack,
Thy life is little worth!"
"There's nought gone forth from this wicket yet,"
Said that grim and grisly knave,
"But a little foot-page, with his master's head,
That ye to his charges gave."
"Thou liest, thou grim and fause traitor!"
Cried out those murderers three;
"The head is on his carcase yet,
As thou mayest plainly see!"
When the lady heard this angry speech,
Her heart waxed wondrous fain;
For she knew the page was a trusty child,
And her babe in his arms had lain.
"Where is the gowd?" said that grim porter,
"The gowd ye sware unto me?"
"We'll give thee all thine hire," said they;
"We play not false like thee!"
They counted down the red, red gold,
And the porter laughed outright:
"Now we have paid thy service well,
For thy master's blood this night;
"For thy master's blood thou hast betrayed,
We've paid thee thy desire;
But for thy treachery unto us,
Thou hast not had thine hire."
They've ta'en a cord, both stiff and strong,
And they sought a goodly tree;
And from its boughs the traitor swung;--
So hang all knaves like he!
But the lady found her pretty babe;--
Ere the morning light was nigh,
To the hermit's cell[7] that little page
Had borne him craftily.
And the mass was said, and the requiem sung,
And the priests, with book and stole,
The body bore to its cold still bed,
"Gramercy on his soul!"
[6] "Thomas, first Earl of Derby, as a compliment
to his royal relative, Henry VII., on his visit to Lathom and
Knowsley in 1496, built the bridge at Warrington; and by this
munificent act conferred a benefit upon the two palatine
counties, the value of which it is not easy to
estimate."--Baines's _Lancashire_.
[7] The Butlers, it is conjectured, were patrons of
the priory of the hermit friars of St Augustine, founded before
1379, near the bridge. In 32 Henry VIII., this institution was
dissolved, and its possessions were granted to the great
monastic grantee, Thomas Holcroft.--_Vide_ Tanner's _Not. Mon._
About forty years ago the remains of a gateway of the priory
stood on Friar's Green, and some years after that period a
stone coffin was dug up near the same place.
[Illustration: THE BLESSING]
THE BLESSING.
"I had most need of blessing, and amen
Stuck in my throat."
--_Macbeth._
We have been unable to identify the spot where the occurrence took
place, the subject of the following ballad. It is in all likelihood
one of those wild and monkish legends that may be fitted or applied to
any situation, according to the whim of the narrator. Many such
legends, though the number is lessening daily, are still preserved,
and an amusing volume might be made of these unappropriated wanderers
that possess neither a local habitation nor a name.
The chase was done--the feast was begun,
When the baron sat proudly by;
And the revelry rode on the clamouring wind,
That swept through the hurtling sky.
No lordly guest that feast had blessed,
No solemn prayer was said;
But with ravenous hands, unthankfully,
They brake their daily bread.
The chase was done--the feast was begun,
When a palmer sat in that hall;
Yet his pale dim eye from its rest ne'er rose,
To gaze on that festival!
The crackling blaze on his wan cheek plays,
And athwart his gloomy brow;
While his hands are spread to the rising flame,
And his feet to the embers' glow.
For the blast was chill, o'er the mist-covered hill,
And the palmer's limbs were old;
And weary the way his feet had trod,
Since the matin-bell had tolled.
The baron spake--"This morsel take,
And yon pilgrim greet from me;
Tell him we may not forget to share
The joys of our revelry!"
Then thus began that holy man,
As he lowly bent his knee--
"I may not taste of the meat unblessed;
I would 'twere so with thee."
"Then mumble thy charm o'er the embers warm,"
That baron proud replied;
"No boon from my hand shalt thou receive,
Nor foaming cup from my side."
The palmer bowed, the giddy crowd,
With mirth and unseemly jest,
His meekness taunt, when he answered not,
The gibe of each courtly guest.
The minstrel sang, the clarions rang,
And the baron sat proudly there,
And louder the revelry rode on the wind,
That swept through the hurtling air.
"What tidings for me from the east countrie?
What news from the Paynim land?"
As the baron spake, his goblet bright
He raised in his outstretched hand.
"There's tidings for thee from the east countrie,"
The pilgrim straight replied;
"A mighty chief, at a mighty feast,
There sat in all his pride."
"'Twas wondrous well;--and what befell
This chief at his lordly feast?"
"A goblet was filled with the red grape's blood,
And he pledged each rising guest."
"'Tis gladsome news;--but did they refuse
The pledge they loved so well?"
"Oh no; for each cup mantling forth to the brim,
Did the harp and the clarion tell."
"And where didst thou such tidings know?"
"A pilgrim told it me:
And he sat on the hearth at this unblessed feast,
Where he shared not the revelry,
"For ere was quaffed each sparkling draught,
Or the foam from the ruby wine,
He dashed the cup from that baron's lip,
As now I do from thine!"
And the palmer passed by, as each goblet on high
Was waved at their chief's command,
But ere the cup had touched his lip,
It was dashed from his lifted hand!
"A boon from thee, on my bended knee,"
The palmer boldly cried;
"Seize first with speed yon traitor page
Who bore the cup to thy side."
And the page they have bound on the cold, cold ground,
And his treason he hath confessed;
He had poisoned the cup with one subtle drop,
Which he drew from his crimson vest.
And the palmer grey his treachery
Had watched, when all beside
In the feast were gaily revelling,
Nor danger there espied.
"Say where didst thou the treason know?"
The troubled chieftain cried;
"I had blessed thy bread, I had blessed thy bowl,"
The hoary man replied.