steps. They came within sight of the drawbridge. It was up: and
as they rushed forward, a horseman spurred his steed across it,
and it again fell, and all communication was prevented. Cromwell
had escaped! and in the bitterness of disappointment Derby and
the governor stood bewildered, and thought not of securing the
traitor Seaton. They returned to the hall without perceiving that
Sir Thomas Tyldesley had left them, until the inquiries of Anne
rendered them aware of his absence. When they were alternately
expressing their disappointment at Cromwell’s escape, and their
surprise as to what had befallen the knight, a shriek was heard, as
coming from the nearest turret. Anne exclaimed, “the garrison are
traitors, and they are now slaying Sir Thomas.”
“Nay, lady,” said the earl, “Tyldesley must first become coward,
ere a shriek escape him, though tortured beyond endurance. He would
express triumph even in death. But let us hasten. Fair lady, you
may be safer under our protection than in the hall. Lean on Harry’s
arm, it is the arm of a soldier--come;” and they hastened to the
place whence the noise proceeded. The moon shone full on their
faces, and gave them, to the gaze of each other, a strange mystery.
A step was heard in the distance, and soon Sir Thomas Tyldesley
stood before them, with his naked sword in his hand. He bade them
follow. He halted at the distance of a hundred yards, and raising
up an object which lay motionless, revealed the lifeless body of
Seaton. He tossed it down; and there it lay, with ghastly features,
all marked with blood, turned upon the spectators. A sword was
beside the body: the knight grasped it, and said,--
“The traitor fell by his own weapon. Thrice through the heart I
stabbed him with it, for I would not wound him with a sword which I
received from our late master.”
“He richly deserved a thousand deaths,” ejaculated the governor.
“Richly indeed,” replied Tyldesley, “had all his villainy been
comprehended in this night’s treachery. He lowered the drawbridge,
and while we stood astonished and motionless with anger, attempted
to retreat. I followed him. He muttered to himself, ‘Cromwell is
safe, and now for the mutiny in the garrison.’ He reached the
highest battlements. Rushing past him, I presented myself full
on his path, and ordered him to stand on his defence, or die.
He hesitated; entreated me for his life; wished to be thought a
coward; and yet all the time was cautiously, and, as he thought,
secretly, drawing his sword. He knelt, and then, imagining that I
was bending over him, he made a furious thrust, which I foiled, and
struck his weapon from his hand. Ha! it seems to pollute my hand
as I now grasp it.” The knight approached the walls, and tossed
it over. In its descent it glimmered in the moonshine, and the
bloodstains were seen, until it fell into the river.
He returned, and taking up the body of Seaton, said, “let its
master share the same fate,” and instantly hurled it over, and a
heavy splash was heard.
“So much for a traitor,” said Derby, “but did not the young lady
say that all the garrison were traitors also? What then is to be
done? Let us leave the tower, for if they knew of the murder of
their leader, all our lives would be sacrificed, and my troops
could not advance to the assistance of Charles. What dost thou
advise, Sir Governor?”
“I cannot leave Houghton Tower,” was the reply. “I am its owner,
and must either live or die in it.”
“Perhaps,” interrupted his daughter, “the garrison, since Seaton
is dead, and all other supporters are at a distance, may not openly
rebel for some time.”
“Maiden,” said Derby, “thy counsel is good. Let them, moreover, be
informed of Seaton’s just death, and should they revolt, it would
be at the moment, and then Sir Richard might hang out a signal
from the walls, and in a short time my troops would advance to
the rescue. Meanwhile, Sir Thomas, it is necessary that we should
instantly be at the head of our men, prepared for every emergency.
Let us to horse!”
This proposal met the sanction of the warrior. Our young hero,
however, turned pale; he was to be torn from the object of his
fondest love, never, perhaps, to meet again. He committed his
mistress to the care of her attendant, who now appeared.
“Nay,” said Sir Richard. “We part not thus; let my noble guests
once more, in the hall, pledge the good old cause. Meanwhile your
horses shall be prepared for the way.”
Young Tyldesley, as long as they remained in the hall, looked in
vain for Anne to enter. He was obliged to leave without pronouncing
farewell.
They had now reached the gateway, where stood their horses. A young
page was likewise in waiting, who craved in a low, yet sweet voice,
to accompany them, as he was of no use to his fair mistress, and
might be the bearer of warlike messages, though a very unwarlike
personage himself.
“Does your mistress know of your departure?” asked Sir Thomas
Tyldesley.
“Yes,” was the reply.
“Then, nephew, he is but of slender form, and cannot burden your
horse. Mount him behind you.”
When all was in readiness, the drawbridge arose, they spurred their
horses, the moon shone upon the armed horsemen, and the pale face
of the page, who clung fast to Henry Tyldesley, and soon from the
tower their march could not be heard.
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.”
“We part not thus, for your mistres’s sake. Ride by my side, and
you may command this arm to strike for your safety.”
At this moment the small army heard some half-concealed
movement made, behind the hedges, and instantly a close fire of
musketry;--only a few were wounded.
“The foe are in ambush!” exclaimed Sir Thomas.
“Nay,” replied the earl, “the greater part are before us,” pointing
to a large army which now appeared. “Let us advance. Sir Thomas,
take the half of the band, and I shall lead the others. Let a halt
be sounded. We can do nothing against those who fire from the
hedges. Let us cut through the main body.--A halt!”
Ere the signal had been given, many a brave fellow, had indeed,
halted, never more to advance, as a second volley, directed with a
steadier aim, was poured in upon them.
Derby, in a moment, was at the head of his detachment. “Soldiers
of Charles!” he said, with energetic eloquence, “there are his
enemies and yours; and where are your swords? Be mangled--be
slain--but yield not. Hear your leader’s vow. Upon this good sword,
I swear, that as long as steel can cut, flesh shall wield.--Charge!
Upon them! The king! the king!” and they dashed on to meet the
enemy.
Colonel Lilbourne, who commanded the enemy, instantly arrayed his
men, to bear up against the attack, and a dense square was formed
from hedge to hedge, of the regular troops, while the militia of
Lancashire and Cheshire were formed into a wing, to close in upon
the royalists, when they engaged with the main body.
Derby, with his three hundred men, spurred on with incredible fury,
until they found themselves hand to hand with the regular troops.
They were instantly surrounded, for the militia wing had wheeled,
and now assailed them in the rear. A shout from the Parliamentary
army was raised, as the three hundred seemed to be bound in their
power, when Sir Thomas Tyldesley, with his men, advanced; and so
furious was the onset, that the enemy were literally trodden under
foot, and Derby and the knight were riding abreast, at the head
of their respective bodies, fighting to cut a passage through
the dragoons. Heedless of danger, the royalists followed every
direction of their leaders, who, themselves, fought, as well as
commanded. They had now almost reached the extremity of Lilbourne’s
forces, and bloody was the passage which they had made.
“One effort more,” said the earl to his men, “and all is
gained!--On!” The battle raged more furiously--Derby’s sword, at
every thrust and plunge, was stained with fresh gore; but, all of
a sudden, he stood pale and surprised--for there was Sir Richard
Houghton advancing to meet him, from Lilbourne’s guard, with drawn
sword. Could he have turned traitor? The earl’s weapon was as ready
for a blow, as his heart was for a curse upon a false knight, and
instantly they would have crossed swords, had not Derby’s steed
been shot from under him, while that of the recreant knight carried
his rider beyond him, safe and unharmed. On foot the earl fought
with as much execution as when mounted; but his voice could not
be heard, as he addressed his men, from amidst the hoofs of the
enemy’s horse. An officer of the enemy approached. In a moment he
was dragged from the saddle, pierced as he lay on the ground, and
as his dying eyes were raised, he beheld Derby mounting his horse.
Many blows were then showered upon the gallant nobleman, and some
deadly thrusts were made in the direction of his breast, but he
seemed to escape unhurt.
The next moment placed Derby at the extremity of the opposing
lines. “King Charles and England’s royalty!” was the shout that
burst from his lips, and, although it was heard by the enemy, for
a few moments they fell back from the single arm of the loyal
nobleman. There seemed something supernatural in his bearing, so
calm, and yet so furious. Taking advantage of their inactivity,
he dashed through the rear. A gleam of sunshine flashed on his
armour, and hope entered his soul, as he found himself at the
top of the steep and sweeping descent which leads to the town.
It was then rocky and precipitous, but his horse never stumbled.
For a moment he wheeled round, and no followers were near, except
young Tyldesley, and the page. Stern was the expression on the
countenance of the former; but the latter, though pale, displayed
a heroism still wilder. And yet his sword had not, throughout the
battle, been unsheathed, and he had forced a passage without giving
a wound.
“Brave page!” exclaimed the earl. “Still, thou oughtest to have
used thy sword; thine arm might have sent the blow with power
sufficient to wound--aye, to kill!”
At this moment two of the enemy, who had pursued the leader of the
royalists, rushed on him. His horse plunged furiously, and turned
himself altogether on one of the assailants--thus exposing his
rider. Instantly that assailant sprung forward with a loud shout
of joy; but that shout was ended in a dying shriek, as the sword
of the page passed through his body. The other fell by the earl’s
own hand. For a brief space the page looked with something of
satisfaction on the blood-stained sword. But as a drop fell upon
that small hand, a shudder passed over his frame, and his eye was
fixed, with unnatural light, on the spot.
“It is of a foul colour!” he exclaimed. “Good God! and have these
fair hands been stained with human blood? What will Anne Houghton,”
he added in a low tone, “think of me now?”
“Nay, nay,” hastily replied the earl, “repent not the deed at the
sight of blood. I thank thee, brave youth. But now, what movement
is to be made? Shall we rush upon Wigan without our followers?”
“I’ll defend the church,” said the page, “as the brave countess
defended her home.”
But before Derby had decided--for all that we have related took
place in a few moments--a cry arose from his men in the rear,
who, overpowered by numbers, could neither fight nor advance.
The dragoons, headed by Sir Richard Houghton, had so surrounded
them, that they must either surrender, or die to a man. That
knight conducted himself most valorously, for, in every enemy who
approached, he expected to recognize those whose perfidy (such he
thought it) he burned to revenge. At every attempt of the small
band of royalists to rally, by shouting “Derby and Tyldesley,” he
dealt his blows more fiercely. Still, the royalists did not call
for quarter; and soon, in this awful emergency, they heard the
voice of Derby cheering them on, as he came to their succour. So
sudden was the assault, and so much impetus was given to it, that
the enemy, in the terror of the moment, crowded to the hedges, over
which many of them leapt their horses. But Sir Richard Houghton
kept his station, at the head of a few followers, who remained
firm; when his eye, falling upon young Tyldesley, he spurred his
horse forward, aiming a blow at his enemy. A shriek, at that moment
arising from the page, arrested his arm.
“No! no!” exclaimed Sir Richard, “it cannot be; and yet, so like
in sound!” Ere he had uttered these words, his arms were gently
grasped by the page; but a follower of the knight soon freed him
from the encumbrance, and the wounded youth fell into the arms
of Harry Tyldesley, who bore him forth, himself fatally wounded.
Bloody was the harvest which the royalists now began to reap, as
they charged the fugitives, with impetuous fury. The earl, and his
brave fellow-leader, Sir Thomas Tyldesley, met, having literally
cut down, and cut through the intervening troops of the enemy.
Several officers had been slain, and Sir Richard Houghton had been
carried from the field by his men, faint from wounds.
“Again!” was the exclamation of the loyal leaders, as they
separated to lead their followers once more to the work of death.