On arriving at the castle, Henry gave out that he should hunt on the following morning in the great park, and retired to his closet. But he did not long remain there, and putting on the garb of a yeoman of the guard, descended by the narrow flight of steps (already mentioned as occupying the same situation as the existing Hundred Steps) to the town, and proceeded to the Garter, where he found several guests assembled, discussing the affairs of the day, and Bryan Bowntance’s strong ale at the same time. Amongst the number were the Duke of Shoreditch, Paddington, Hector Cutbeard, and Kit Coo. At the moment of the king’s entrance, they were talking of the approaching execution.
“Oh, the vanity of worldly greatness!” exclaimed Bryan, lifting up his hands. “Only seven years ago, last Saint George’s Day, this lovely queen first entered the castle with the king, amid pomp and splendour and power, and with a long life — apparently — of happiness before her. And now she is condemned to die.”
“But if she has played the king false she deserves her doom,” replied Shoreditch. “I would behead my own wife if she served me the same trick — that is, if I could.”
“You do right to say ‘if you could,’” rejoined Paddington. “The beheading of a wife is a royal privilege, and cannot be enjoyed by a subject.”
“Marry, I wonder how the king could prefer Mistress Jane Seymour, for my part!” said Hector Cutbeard. “To my thinking she is not to be compared with Queen Anne.”
“She has a lovely blue eye, and a figure as straight as an arrow,” returned Shoreditch. “How say you, master?” he added, turning to the king; “what think you of Mistress Jane Seymour?”
“That she is passably fair, friend,” replied Henry.
“But how as compared with the late — that is, the present queen, for, poor soul! she has yet some hours to live,” rejoined Shoreditch. “How, as compared with her?”
“Why, I think Jane Seymour the more lovely, Undoubtedly,” replied Henry. “But I may be prejudiced.”
“Not in the least, friend,” said Cutbeard. “You but partake of your royal master’s humour. Jane Seymour is beautiful, no doubt, and so was Anne Boleyn. Marry! we shall see many fair queens on the throne. The royal Henry has good taste and good management. He sets his subjects a rare example, and shows them how to get rid of troublesome wives. We shall all divorce or hang our spouses when we get tired of them. I almost wish I was married myself, that I might try the experiment-ha! ha!”
“Well, here’s the king’s health!” cried Shoreditch, “and wishing him as many wives as he may desire. What say you, friend?” he added, turning to Henry. “Will you not drink that toast?”
“That will I,” replied Henry; “but I fancy the king will be content for the present with Mistress Jane Seymour.”
“For the present, no doubt,” said Hector Cutbeard; “but the time will come — and ere long — when Jane will be as irksome to him as Anne is now.”
“Ah, God’s death, knave! darest thou say so?” cried Henry furiously.
“Why, I have said nothing treasonable, I hope?” rejoined Cutbeard, turning pale; “I only wish the king to be happy in his own way. And as he seems to delight in change of wives, I pray that he may have it to his heart’s content.”
“A fair explanation,” replied Henry, laughing.
“Let me give a health, my masters!” cried a tall archer, whom no one had hitherto noticed, rising in one corner of the room. “It is — The headsman of Calais, and may he do his work featly tomorrow!”
“Ha! ha! ha! a good toast!” cried Hector Cutbeard.
“Seize him who has proposed it!” cried the king, rising; “it is Herne the Hunter!”
“I laugh at your threats here as elsewhere, Harry,” cried Herne. “We shall meet tomorrow.”
And flinging the horn cup in the face of the man nearest him, he sprang through an open window at the back, and disappeared.
Both Cutbeard and Shoreditch were much alarmed lest the freedom of their expressions should be taken in umbrage by the king; but he calmed their fears by bestowing a good humoured buffet on the cheek of the latter of them, and quitting the hostel, returned to the castle by the same way he had left it.
On the following morning, about ten o’clock, he rode into the great park, attended by a numerous train. His demeanour was moody and stern, and a general gloom pervaded the company. Keeping on the western side of the park, the party crossed Cranbourne chase; but though they encountered several fine herds of deer, the king gave no orders to uncouple the hounds.
At last they arrived at that part of the park where Sandpit Gate is now situated, and pursuing a path bordered by noble trees, a fine buck was suddenly unharboured, upon which Henry gave orders to the huntsmen and others to follow him, adding that he himself should proceed to Snow Hill, where they would find him an hour hence.
All understood why the king wished to be alone, and for what purpose he was about to repair to the eminence in question, and therefore, without a word, the whole company started off in the chase.
Meanwhile, the king rode slowly through the woods, often pausing to listen to the distant sounds of the hunters, and noticing the shadows on the greensward as they grew shorter, and proclaimed the approach of noon. At length he arrived at Snow Hill, and stationed himself beneath the trees on its summit.
From this point a magnificent view of the castle, towering over its pomp of woods, now covered with foliage of the most vivid green, was commanded. The morning was bright and beautiful, the sky cloudless, and a gentle rain had fallen over night, which had tempered the air and freshened the leaves and the greensward. The birds were singing blithely in the trees, and at the foot of the hill crouched a herd of deer. All was genial and delightful, breathing of tenderness and peace, calculated to soften the most obdurate heart.
The scene was not without its effect upon Henry; but a fierce tumult raged within his breast. He fixed his eyes on the Round Tower, which was distinctly visible, and from which he expected the signal, and then tried to peer into the far horizon. But he could discern nothing. A cloud passed over the sun, and cast a momentary gloom over the smiling landscape. At the same time Henry’s fancy was so powerfully excited, that he fancied he could behold the terrible tragedy enacting at the Tower.
“She is now issuing forth into the green in front of Saint Peter’s Chapel,” said Henry to himself. “I can see her as distinctly as if I were there. Ah, how beautiful she looks! and how she moves all hearts to pity! Suffolk, Richmond, Cromwell, and the Lord Mayor are there to meet her. She takes leave of her weeping attendants — she mounts the steps of the scaffold firmly — she looks round, and addresses the spectators. How silent they are, and how clearly and musically her voice sounds! She blesses me. — I hear It! — I feel it here! Now she disrobes herself, and prepares for the fatal axe. It is wielded by the skilful executioner of Calais, and he is now feeling its edge. Now she takes leave of her dames, and bestows a parting gift on each. Again she kneels and prays. She rises. The fatal moment is at hand. Even now she retains her courage — she approaches the block, and places her head upon it. The axe is raised — ha!”
The exclamation was occasioned by a flash of fire from the battlements of the Round Tower, followed by a volume of smoke, and in another second the deep boom of a gun was heard.
At the very moment that the flash was seen, a wild figure, mounted on a coal-black steed, galloped from out the wood, and dashed towards Henry, whose horse reared and plunged as he passed.
“There spoke the knell of Anne Boleyn!” cried Herne, regarding Henry sternly, and pointing to the Round Tower. “The bloody deed is done, and thou art free to wed once more. Away to Wolff Hall, and bring thy new consort to Windsor Castle!”
THUS ENDS THE SIXTH AND LAST BOOK OF THE CHRONICLE OF WINDSOR CASTLE
THE LANCASHIRE WITCHES
A ROMANCE OF PENDLE FOREST.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION. THE LAST ABBOT OF WHALLEY.
CHAPTER I. — THE BEACON ON PENDLE HIL
L.
CHAPTER II. — THE ERUPTION.
CHAPTER III. — WHALLEY ABBEY.
CHAPTER IV. — THE MALEDICTION.
CHAPTER V. — THE MIDNIGHT MASS.
CHAPTER VI. — TETER ET FORTIS CARCER.
CHAPTER VII. — THE ABBEY MILL.
CHAPTER VIII. — THE EXECUTIONER.
CHAPTER IX. — WISWALL HALL.
CHAPTER X. — THE HOLEHOUSES.
BOOK THE FIRST. ALIZON DEVICE.
CHAPTER I. — THE MAY QUEEN.
CHAPTER II. — THE BLACK CAT AND THE WHITE DOVE.
CHAPTER III. — THE ASSHETONS.
CHAPTER IV. — ALICE NUTTER.
CHAPTER V. — MOTHER CHATTOX.
CHAPTER VI. — THE ORDEAL BY SWIMMING.
CHAPTER VII. — THE RUINED CONVENTUAL CHURCH.
CHAPTER VIII. — THE REVELATION.
CHAPTER IX. — THE TWO PORTRAITS IN THE BANQUETING-HALL.
CHAPTER X. — THE NOCTURNAL MEETING.
BOOK THE SECOND. PENDLE FOREST.
CHAPTER I. — FLINT.
CHAPTER II. — READ HALL.
CHAPTER III. — THE BOGGART’S GLEN.
CHAPTER IV. — THE REEVE OF THE FOREST.
CHAPTER V. — BESS’S O’ TH’ BOOTH.
CHAPTER VI. — THE TEMPTATION.
The Legend of Malkin Tower.
CHAPTER VII. — THE PERAMBULATION OF THE BOUNDARIES.
CHAPTER VIII — ROUGH LEE.
CHAPTER IX. — HOW ROUGH LEE WAS DEFENDED BY NICHOLAS.
CHAPTER X. — ROGER NOWELL AND HIS DOUBLE.
CHAPTER XI. — MOTHER DEMDIKE.
CHAPTER XII. — THE MYSTERIES OF MALKIN TOWER.
CHAPTER XIII. — THE TWO FAMILIARS.
CHAPTER XIV. — HOW ROUGH LEE WAS AGAIN BESIEGED.
CHAPTER XV. — THE PHANTOM MONK.
CHAPTER XVI. — ONE O’CLOCK!
CHAPTER XVII. — HOW THE BEACON FIRE WAS EXTINGUISHED.
BOOK THE THIRD. HOGHTON TOWER
CHAPTER I. — DOWNHAM MANOR-HOUSE.
CHAPTER II. — THE PENITENT’S RETREAT.
CHAPTER III. — MIDDLETON HALL.
CHAPTER IV. — THE GORGE OF CLIVIGER.
CHAPTER V. — THE END OF MALKIN TOWER.
CHAPTER VI. — HOGHTON TOWER
CHAPTER VII. — THE ROYAL DECLARATION CONCERNING LAWFUL SPORTS ON THE SUNDAY.
CHAPTER VIII — HOW KING JAMES HUNTED THE HART AND THE WILD-BOAR IN HOGHTON PARK.
CHAPTER IX. — THE BANQUET.
CHAPTER X. — EVENING ENTERTAINMENTS.
CHAPTER XI. — FATALITY.
CHAPTER XII. — THE LAST HOUR.
CHAPTER XIII. — THE MASQUE OF DEATH.
CHAPTER XIV.— “ONE GRAVE.”
CHAPTER XV. — LANCASTER CASTLE.
Nicholas Assheton and the Three Doll Wangos Leaving Hoghton Hall.
THE LANCASHIRE WITCHES.
A ROMANCE OF PENDLE FOREST.
Sir Jeffery. — Is there a justice in Lancashire has so much skill in witches as I have? Nay, I’ll speak a proud word; you shall turn me loose against any Witch-finder in Europe. I’d make an ass of Hopkins if he were alive. — Shadwell.
TO JAMES CROSSLEY, ESQ.,
(OF MANCHESTER)
PRESIDENT OF THE CHETHAM SOCIETY,
AND THE LEARNED EDITOR OF
“THE DISCOVERIE OF WITCHES IN THE COUNTY OF LANCASTER,”
THE GROUNDWORK OF THE FOLLOWING PAGES,
THIS ROMANCE,
UNDERTAKEN AT HIS SUGGESTION,
IS INSCRIBED
BY HIS OLD, AND SINCERELY ATTACHED FRIEND,
THE AUTHOR.
INTRODUCTION. THE LAST ABBOT OF WHALLEY.
CHAPTER I. — THE BEACON ON PENDLE HILL.
There were eight watchers by the beacon on Pendle Hill in Lancashire. Two were stationed on either side of the north-eastern extremity of the mountain. One looked over the castled heights of Clithero; the woody eminences of Bowland; the bleak ridges of Thornley; the broad moors of Bleasdale; the Trough of Bolland, and Wolf Crag; and even brought within his ken the black fells overhanging Lancaster. The other tracked the stream called Pendle Water, almost from its source amid the neighbouring hills, and followed its windings through the leafless forest, until it united its waters to those of the Calder, and swept on in swifter and clearer current, to wash the base of Whalley Abbey. But the watcher’s survey did not stop here. Noting the sharp spire of Burnley Church, relieved against the rounded masses of timber constituting Townley Park; as well as the entrance of the gloomy mountain gorge, known as the Grange of Cliviger; his far-reaching gaze passed over Todmorden, and settled upon the distant summits of Blackstone Edge.
Dreary was the prospect on all sides. Black moor, bleak fell, straggling forest, intersected with sullen streams as black as ink, with here and there a small tarn, or moss-pool, with waters of the same hue — these constituted the chief features of the scene. The whole district was barren and thinly-populated. Of towns, only Clithero, Colne, and Burnley — the latter little more than a village — were in view. In the valleys there were a few hamlets and scattered cottages, and on the uplands an occasional “booth,” as the hut of the herdsman was termed; but of more important mansions there were only six, as Merley, Twistleton, Alcancoats, Saxfeld, Ightenhill, and Gawthorpe. The “vaccaries” for the cattle, of which the herdsmen had the care, and the “lawnds,” or parks within the forest, appertaining to some of the halls before mentioned, offered the only evidences of cultivation. All else was heathy waste, morass, and wood.
Still, in the eye of the sportsman — and the Lancashire gentlemen of the sixteenth century were keen lovers of sport — the country had a strong interest. Pendle forest abounded with game. Grouse, plover, and bittern were found upon its moors; woodcock and snipe on its marshes; mallard, teal, and widgeon upon its pools. In its chases ranged herds of deer, protected by the terrible forest-laws, then in full force: and the hardier huntsman might follow the wolf to his lair in the mountains; might spear the boar in the oaken glades, or the otter on the river’s brink; might unearth the badger or the fox, or smite the fierce cat-a-mountain with a quarrel from his bow. A nobler victim sometimes, also, awaited him in the shape of a wild mountain bull, a denizen of the forest, and a remnant of the herds that had once browsed upon the hills, but which had almost all been captured, and removed to stock the park of the Abbot of Whalley. The streams and pools were full of fish: the stately heron frequented the meres; and on the craggy heights built the kite, the falcon, and the kingly eagle.
There were eight watchers by the beacon. Two stood apart from the others, looking to the right and the left of the hill. Both were armed with swords and arquebuses, and wore steel caps and coats of buff. Their sleeves were embroidered with the five wounds of Christ, encircling the name of Jesus — the badge of the Pilgrimage of Grace. Between them, on the verge of the mountain, was planted a great banner, displaying a silver cross, the chalice, and the Host, together with an ecclesiastical figure, but wearing a helmet instead of a mitre, and holding a sword in place of a crosier, with the unoccupied hand pointing to the two towers of a monastic structure, as if to intimate that he was armed for its defence. This figure, as the device beneath it showed, represented John Paslew, Abbot of Whalley, or, as he styled himself in his military capacity, Earl of Poverty.
There were eight watchers by the beacon. Two have been described. Of the other six, two were stout herdsmen carrying crooks, and holding a couple of mules, and a richly-caparisoned war-horse by the bridle. Near them stood a broad-shouldered, athletic young man, with the fresh complexion, curling brown hair, light eyes, and open Saxon countenance, best seen in his native county of Lancaster. He wore a Lincoln-green tunic, with a bugle suspended from the shoulder by a silken cord; and a silver plate engraved with the three luces, the ensign of the Abbot of Whalley, hung by a chain from his neck. A hunting knife was in his girdle, and an eagle’s plume in his cap, and he leaned upon the but-end of a cross
bow, regarding three persons who stood together by a peat fire, on the sheltered side of the beacon. Two of these were elderly men, in the white gowns and scapularies of Cistertian monks, doubtless from Whalley, as the abbey belonged to that order. The third and last, and evidently their superior, was a tall man in a riding dress, wrapped in a long mantle of black velvet, trimmed with minever, and displaying the same badges as those upon the sleeves of the sentinels, only wrought in richer material. His features were strongly marked and stern, and bore traces of age; but his eye was bright, and his carriage erect and dignified.
The beacon, near which the watchers stood, consisted of a vast pile of logs of timber, heaped upon a circular range of stones, with openings to admit air, and having the centre filled with fagots, and other quickly combustible materials. Torches were placed near at hand, so that the pile could be lighted on the instant.
The watch was held one afternoon at the latter end of November, 1536. In that year had arisen a formidable rebellion in the northern counties of England, the members of which, while engaging to respect the person of the king, Henry VIII., and his issue, bound themselves by solemn oath to accomplish the restoration of Papal supremacy throughout the realm, and the restitution of religious establishments and lands to their late ejected possessors. They bound themselves, also, to punish the enemies of the Romish church, and suppress heresy. From its religious character the insurrection assumed the name of the Pilgrimage of Grace, and numbered among its adherents all who had not embraced the new doctrines in Yorkshire and Lancashire. That such an outbreak should occur on the suppression of the monasteries, was not marvellous. The desecration and spoliation of so many sacred structures — the destruction of shrines and images long regarded with veneration — the ejection of so many ecclesiastics, renowned for hospitality and revered for piety and learning — the violence and rapacity of the commissioners appointed by the Vicar-General Cromwell to carry out these severe measures — all these outrages were regarded by the people with abhorrence, and disposed them to aid the sufferers in resistance. As yet the wealthier monasteries in the north had been spared, and it was to preserve them from the greedy hands of the visiters, Doctors Lee and Layton, that the insurrection had been undertaken. A simultaneous rising took place in Lincolnshire, headed by Makarel, Abbot of Barlings, but it was speedily quelled by the vigour and skill of the Duke of Suffolk, and its leader executed. But the northern outbreak was better organized, and of greater force, for it now numbered thirty thousand men, under the command of a skilful and resolute leader named Robert Aske.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 365