"Upon the site of Castlefield, near Manchester, was originally erected a
British fortress by the Sistuntii, the earliest possessors of
Lancashire, comprising an area of twelve acres. It would possess on the
south, south-east, and south-west, every advantage, from the winding of
the River Medlock, and on its west, from the lofty banks which
overlooked an impenetrable morass. By the artificial aid, therefore, of
a ditch and a rampart on its east and north sides, this place was
rendered a fortress of no inconsiderable importance. This fell
afterwards into the hands of the Brigantes, the ancient inhabitants of
Durham, York, and Westmoreland. Upon the invasion of the Romans,
Cereales, their general, attacked the proper Brigantes of Yorkshire and
Durham, and freed the Sistuntii of Lancashire from their dominion, but
reserved the former to incur the Roman yoke. In A.D. 79, this British
hold was changed into a Roman castrum, garrisoned by the first Frisian
cohort, who erected from the old materials a new fort on the Roman
construction, part of the vallum remaining to this day. New roads were
made, and the British were invited to form themselves into the little
communities of cities, to check the spirit of independence kept alive in
the uncivilised abodes of deserted forests. The Romans possessed the
fortress for nearly 300 years, when they were summoned away to form part
of the army intended to repel the myriads of barbarians that threatened
to overrun Europe.
"By contributing to their refinement, and protecting them from the
inroads of the Picts and Scots, the Romans were regarded in a friendly
light by the ancient inhabitants, and their departure was much
regretted. It became necessary, however, that the Britons should elect a
chief from their own nation. Their military positions were strengthened;
and as the Roman model of a fortress did not suit their military taste,
instead of one encircled with walls only seven or eight feet high, and
furnishing merely pavilions for soldiers within, they preferred
erecting, on the sites of stations, large buildings of stone, whose
chambers should contain more convenient barracks for the garrison. An
infinite number of these castles existed within a century after the
departure of the Romans, of which our Castle at Manchester was one,
carried to a great height, erected in a good taste, secured at the
entrances with gates, and flanked at the sides with towers.
"The Britons, however, unable of themselves to cope with their foes,
imprudently invited the Saxons, who, after subduing the Caledonians,
laid waste the country of the Britons with fire and sword. The Castle of
Manchester surrendered A.D. 488."
We have endeavoured to preserve the character and manner of the ancient
chroniclers, and even their fanciful etymologies, in the following
record, of which the quaint but not inelegant style, in some measure,
almost unavoidably adapts itself to the subject.
* * * * *
Sir Lancelot of the Lake, as it is related by the older chronicles, was
the son of Ban, King of Benoit, in Brittany. Flying from his castle,
then straitly besieged, the fugitive king saw it in flames, and soon
after expired with grief. His queen, Helen, fruitlessly attempting to
save his life, abandoned for a while her infant son Lancelot. Returning,
she discovered him in the arms of the nymph Vivian, the mistress of
Merlin, who on her approach sprung with the child into a deep lake and
disappeared. This lake is held by some to be the lake Linius, a wide
insular water near the sea-coast, in the regions of Linius or "The
Lake;" now called Martin Mere or _Mar-tain-moir,_ "a water like the
sea."
The nymph educated the infant at her court, fabulously said to have been
held in the subterraneous caverns of this lake, and from hence he was
styled Lancelot du Lac.
At the age of eighteen the fairy conveyed him to the camp of King
Arthur, who was then waging a fierce and exterminating warfare with the
Saxons. Here the young warrior was invested with the badge of
knighthood. His person, accomplishments, and unparalleled bravery,
having won the heart of many a fair dame in this splendid abode of
chivalry and romance, his name and renown filled the land, where he was
throughout acknowledged as chief of "The Knights of the Round Table."
The name of Lancelot is derived from history, and is an appellation
truly British, signifying royalty, _Lanc_ being the Celtic term for a
spear, and _lod_ or _lot_ implying a people. Hence the name of
Lancelot's shire, or Lancashire. From the foregoing it is supposed that
he resided in the region of Linius, and that he was the monarch of these
parts, being ruler over the whole, or the greater part, of what is now
called Lancashire.
Arthur, king of the Silures, being selected by Ambrosius for the command
of the army, he defeated the Saxons in twelve pitched battles. Four of
these were obtained, as related by Nennius, on the river called
Duglas,[8] or Douglas, a little stream which runneth, as we are further
told, in the region of Linius. On reference, it will be found that this
river passes through a great portion of the western side of Lancashire,
and pretty accurately fixes the position here described.
Three of these great victories were gotten near Wigan, and the other is
currently reported to have been achieved near Black rod, close to a
Roman station, then probably fortified, and remaining as a place of some
strength, and in possession of the Saxon invaders. Here, according to
rude legends, "the River Duglas ran with blood to Wigan three days."
It was during one of the brief intervals of rest that sometimes occurred
in the prosecution of these achievements that the following incident is
reported to have happened. Being a passage of some note, and the
earliest tradition of the county upon record, we have chosen it as the
commencement of a work principally derived from traditionary history.
Sir Tarquin, a cruel and treacherous knight of gigantic stature and
prodigious strength, had, as the story is currently told, his dwelling
in a well-fortified castle nigh to Manchester, on the site of what is
yet known by the name of Castle-field. It was a place of great strength,
surrounded by vast ramparts, and flanked at the corners with high and
stately towers.
He had by treachery gained possession of the fortress, treating the
owner, who was a British knight of no mean condition, with great cruelty
and rigour. This doughty Saxon, Sir Tarquin, had, along with many of his
nation, been invited over in aid of the Britons against their neighbours
the Picts and Scots. These being driven back, their false allies
treacherously made war upon their friends, laying waste the country with
fire and sword. Then arose that noble brotherhood, "The Knights of the
Round Table," who, having sworn to avenge the wrongs of their country,
began to harass the intruders, and to drive them from their ill-gotten
possessions.
The Saxons were no less vigilant; but many of their most puissant
knights were slain or imprisoned during these encounters.
Sir Tarquin could boast of no mean success;--threescore knights and
four, it is said, were held in thrall by this uncourteous chieftain.
Sir Lancelot having, as the ballad quaintly expresses it,
"A mighty giant just pulled down,
Who lived near Shrewsbury's fair town;
With his keen sword his life away did take."
This giant knight was called Sir Carados; and Sir Lancelot, when about
betaking himself to these and similar recreations, did hear doleful
tidings out of Lancashire, how that Sir Tarquin was playing the eagle in
the hawk's eyrie, amongst his brethren and companions. From Winchester
he rode in great haste, succouring not a few distressed damsels and
performing many other notable exploits by the way, "until he came to a
vast desert," "frequented by none save those whom ill fortune had
permitted to wander therein." Sir Tarquin, like the dragon of yore,
entailed a desert round his dwelling: so fierce and rapacious was he
that no man durst live beside him, save that he held his life and
property of too mean account, and too worthless for the taking.
The knight was pricking on his way through this almost pathless
wilderness, when he espied a damsel of such inexpressible and ravishing
beauty that none might behold her without the most heart-stirring
delight and admiration. To this maiden did Sir Lancelot address himself,
but she hid her face and fell a-weeping. He then inquired the cause of
her dolour, when she bade him flee, for his life was in great jeopardy.
"Oh, Sir Knight!" uncovering her face as she spoke, "the giant Tarquin
liveth hereabout, and thou wert as good as dead should he espy thee so
near his castle."
"What!" said the knight, "and shall Sir Lancelot of the Lake flee before
this false and cruel tyrant? To this purpose am I come, that I may slay
and make an end of him at once, and deliver the captives."
"Art thou, indeed, Sir Lancelot?" said the damsel, joy suddenly starting
through her tears; "then is our deliverance nearer than we hoped for.
Thy fame is gone before thee into all countries, and thy might and thy
prowess, it is said, none may withstand. This evil one, Sir Tarquin,
hath taken captive my true knight, who, through my cruelty, betook
himself to this adventure, and now lieth in chains and foul ignominy,
without hope of release, until death break off his fetters."
"Beshrew me," said Lancelot, "but I will deliver him presently, and cut
off the foul tyrant's head, or lose mine own by the attempt."
Then did he follow the maiden to a river's brink, near to where, as
tradition still reports, now stand the Knott Mills. Having mounted her
before him on his steed, she pointed out a path over the ford, beyond
which he soon espied the castle, a vast and stately building of rugged
stone, like a huge crown upon the hill-top, which presented a gentle
ascent from the stream.
Now did Sir Lancelot alight, as well to assist his companion as to
bethink himself what course to pursue; but the damsel showed him a high
tree, about a stone's-throw from the ditch before the castle, whereon
hung a goodly array of accoutrements, with many fair and costly shields,
on which were displayed a variety of gay and fanciful devices. These
were the property of the knights then held in durance by Sir Tarquin.
Below them all hung a copper basin, on which was carved in Latin the
following inscription, translated thus--
"Who valueth not his life a whit,
Let him this magic basin hit."
This so enraged Sir Lancelot that he drove at the vessel violently with
his spear, piercing it through and through, so vigorous was the assault.
The clangour was loud, and anxiously did the knight await for some reply
to his summons. Yet there was no answer, nor was there any stir about
the walls or outworks. It seemed as though Sir Tarquin was his own
castellan, skulking here alone, like the cunning spider watching for his
prey.
Silence, with her vast and unmoving wings, appeared to brood over the
place; and echo, that gave back their summons from the walls, seemed to
labour for utterance through the void by which they were encompassed. A
stillness so appalling might needs discourage the hot and fiery purpose
of Sir Lancelot, who, unused but to the rude clash of arms, and the
mêlée of the battle, did marvel exceedingly at this forbearance of the
enemy. But he still rode round about the fortress, expecting that some
one should come forth to inquire his business, and this did he, to and
fro, for a long space. As he was just minded to return from so fruitless
an adventure, he saw a cloud of dust at some distance, and presently he
beheld a knight galloping furiously towards him. Coming nigh, Sir
Lancelot was aware that a captive knight lay before him, bound hand and
foot, bleeding and sore wounded.
"Villain!" cried Sir Lancelot, "and unworthy the name of a true and
loyal knight, how darest thou do this insult and contumely to an enemy,
who, though fallen, is yet thine equal? I will make thee rue this foul
despite, and avenge the wrongs of my brethren of the Round Table."
"If thou be for so brave a meal," said Tarquin, "thou shalt have thy
fill, and that speedily. I will first cut off thy head, and then serve
up thy carcase to the Round Table; for both that and thee I do utterly
defy!"
"This is over-dainty food for thy sending," replied Sir Lancelot
hastily, and with that they couched their spears. The first rush was
over, but man and horse had withstood the shock. Again they fell back,
measuring the distance with an eager and impetuous glance, and again
they rushed on, as if to overwhelm each other by main strength, when, as
fortune would have it, their lances shivered, both of them at once, in
the rebound. The end of Sir Lancelot's spear, as it broke, struck his
adversary's steed on the shoulder, and caused him to fall suddenly, as
if sore wounded. Sir Tarquin leaped nimbly from off his back; which Sir
Lancelot espying, he cried out--
"Now will I show thee the like courtesy; for, by mine honour and the
faith of a true knight, I will not slay thee at this foul advantage."
Alighting with haste, they betook themselves to their swords, each
guarding the opposite attack warily with his shield. That of Sir Tarquin
was framed of a bull's hide, stoutly held together with thongs, and, in
truth, seemed well-nigh impenetrable; whilst the shield of his opponent,
being of more brittle stuff, did seem as though it would have cloven
asunder with the desperate strokes of Sir Tarquin's sword. Nothing
daunted, Sir Lancelot brake ofttimes through his adversary's guard, and
smote him once until the blood trickled down amain. At this sight, Sir
Tarquin waxed ten times more fierce; and summoning all his strength for
the blow, wrought so lustily on the head of Sir Lancelot that he began
to reel; which Tarquin observing, by a side blow struck the sword from
out his hand, with so sharp and dexterous a jerk that it shivered into a
thousand fragments.
"Now yield thee, Sir Knight, or thou diest;" and with that the cruel
monster sprang upon him to accomplish his end. Still Sir Lancelot would
not yield, nor sue to him for quarter, but flew on his enemy like the
ravening wolf to his prey. Then were they seen hurtling together like
wild bulls--Sir Lancelot holding fast his adversary's sword, so that in
vain he attempted to make a thrust therewith.
"Thou discourteous churl! give me but the vantage of a weapon like thine
own, and I will fight thee honestly and without flinching."
"Nay, Sir Knight of the Round Table, but this were a merry deed withal,
to help thee unto that wherewith I might perchance mount some goodly
bough for the crows to peck at," replied Tarquin. Terrible and unceasing
was the struggle; but in vain the giant knight attempted to regain the
use of his sword. Then Sir Lancelot, with a wary eye, finding no hope of
his life save in the use or accomplishment of some notable stratagem,
bethought him of the attempt to throw his adversary by a sudden feint.
To this end he pressed against him heavily and with his whole might,
then darting suddenly aside, Sir Tarquin fell to the ground with a loud
cry; which Sir Lancelot espying, leapt joyfully upon him, thinking to
overcome his enemy; but the latter, too cunning to be thus caught at
unawares, kept his sword firmly holden, and his enemy was still
unprovided with the means of defence. Now did Sir Lancelot begin to
doubt what course he should pursue, when suddenly the damsel, who,
having bound up the wounds of the captive knight as he lay, and now sat
a little way off watching the event, cried out with a shrill voice--
"Sir Knight, the tree:--a goodly bough for the gathering." Then did Sir
Lancelot remember the weapons that were there, along with the shields
and the body-armour of the knights Sir Tarquin had vanquished. Starting
up, ere his enemy had recovered himself, he snatched a broad falchion
from the bough, and again defied him to the combat. But the fight was
fiercer than before; so that being sore wounded, and the day exceeding
hot, they were after a season fain to pause for breath.
"Thou art the bravest knight I ever encountered," said Sir Tarquin, "and
I would crave thy country and thy name; for, by my troth and the honour
of my gods, I will give thee thy request on one condition, and release
thy brethren of the Round Table; for why should two knights of such pith
and prowess slay each other in one day?"
"And what is thy condition?" inquired Sir Lancelot.
"There liveth but one, either in Christendom or Heathenesse, unto whom I
may not grant this parley; for him have I sworn to kill," said Sir
Tarquin.
"'Tis well," replied the other; "but what name or cognisance hath he?"
"His name is Lancelot of the Lake!"
"Behold him!" was the reply; Sir Lancelot at the same time brandishing
his weapon with a shout of defiance.
When Sir Tarquin heard this he gnashed his teeth for very rage.
"Now one of us must die," said he. "Thou slewest my brother Sir Carados
at Shrewsbury, and I have sworn to avenge his defeat. Thou diest. Not
all the gods of thy fathers shall deliver thee."
So to it they went with more heat and fury than ever; and a marvel was
it to behold, for each blow did seem as it would have cleft the other in
twain, so deadly was the strife and hatred between them.
Sir Lancelot pressed hard upon his foe, though himself grievously
wounded, and in all likelihood would have won the fight, but, as
ill-luck would have it, when dealing a blow mighty enough to fell the
stoutest oak in Christendom, he missed his aim, and with that stumbled
to the ground. Then did Sir Tarquin shout for joy, and would have made
an end of him, but that Sir Lancelot, as he lay, aimed a deadly thrust
below his enemy's shield where he was left unguarded, and quickly turned
his joy into tribulation; for Sir Tarquin, though not mortally wounded,
drew back and cried out lustily for pain, the which Sir Lancelot
hearing, he leapt again to his feet, still eager and impatient for the
strife.
The contest was again doubtful, neither of them showing any disposition
to yield, or in any wise to abate the rigour of the conflict. Night,
too, was coming on apace, and seemed like enough to pitch her tent over
them, ere the issue was decided. But an event now fell out which,
unexpectedly enough, terminated this adventure. From some cause arising
out of the haste and rapidity of the strokes, one of these so chanced,
that both their swords were suddenly driven from out of their right
hands; stooping together, by some subtlety or mistake, they exchanged
weapons. Then did Sir Lancelot soon find his strength to increase,
whilst his adversary's vigour began to abate; and in the end Sir
Lancelot slew him, and with his own sword cut off his head. He then
perceived that the giant's great strength was by virtue of his sword;
and that it was through his wicked enchantments therewith he had been
able to overcome, and had wrought such disgrace on the Knights of the
Round Table. Sir Lancelot forthwith took the keys from the giant's
girdle, and proceeded to the release of the captive knights, first
unbinding the prisoner, who yet lay in a piteous swoon hard by. But
there was a great outcry and lamentation when that he saw his own
brother Sir Erclos in this doleful case; for it was he whom the cruel
Tarquin was leading captive when he met the just reward of his misdeeds.
After administering to his relief, Sir Lancelot rode up to the
castle-gate, but found no entrance thereby. The drawbridge was raised,
and he sought in vain the means of giving the appointed signal for its
descent.
But the damsel showed him a secret place where hung a little horn. On
this he blew a sharp and ringing blast, when the bridge presently began
to lower, and instantly to adjust itself across the moat; whereon,
hastening, he unlocked the gate. But here he had nigh fallen into a
subtle snare, by reason of an ugly dwarf that was concealed in a side
niche of the wall. He was armed with a ponderous mace; and had not the
maiden drawn Sir Lancelot aside by main force, he would have been
crushed in its descent, the dwarf aiming a deadly blow at him as he
passed. It fell, instead, with a loud crash on the pavement, and broke
into a thousand fragments. Thereupon, Sir Lancelot smote him with the
giant's sword, and hewed the mischievous monster asunder without mercy.
Turning towards the damsel, he beheld her form suddenly change, and she
vanished from his sight: then was he aware that it had been the nymph
Vivian who accompanied him through the enchantments he had so happily
subdued. He soon released his brethren, and great was the joy at the
Round Table when the Knights returned to the banquet.
Thus endeth the chronicle of Sir Tarquin, still a notable tradition in
these parts, the remains of his castle being shown to this day.