And with as much ceremony as if Charles had been a conqueror instead of a fugitive, he conducted him across the bridge and ushered him into the mansion. For a few minutes he detained his majesty in the hall while the dining-room was lighted up, and when all was ready he led him thither.
To his infinite surprise Charles found an excellent repast awaiting him, and he was served at it by his host and the butler. Seated in this large comfortable room, treated with so much ceremony, and supplied with some of the finest claret he had ever tasted, for a brief space he almost forgot his misfortunes.
However, he would not yield to false security, and after emptying his goblet he questioned Mr. Woolfe as to the possibility of crossing the Severn.
The old Cavalier shook his head dolefully. It was utterly impossible, the bridge being guarded by the militia, and all the boats seized. His majesty must be content to stay at Madeley. Mr. Woolfe did not like to make such a suggestion, but as he had no safe hiding-places, and as a search might be made by the rebels at any moment, he would venture to propose that his majesty should sleep ——
“I do not require a state-bed,” interrupted Charles. “I am so thoroughly tired that I can sleep soundly anywhere.”
“Then I have the less hesitation in proposing that your majesty should sleep in the barn,” said the ceremonious old Cavalier. “You will be far safer there than in the house.”
“And just as comfortable I make no doubt,” said the king.
“I can answer for your majesty’s safety there, which I cannot do here,” said Mr. Woolfe. “It is just possible that some of the officers of the militia rebels might quarter in the house, as they have done before. In the barn your majesty would not be liable to a surprise. I will keep all my people away from it.”
“I see — I see,” cried the king, rising from the table, and heaving a sigh as he gazed round the old oak room, with its dark wainscots and portraits. “Take me to the barn.”
Nothing but the sense that he was performing a great duty could have compelled the formal old Cavalier to act as he did, but he well knew how much was at stake. Doing great violence, therefore, to his feelings, he took the king to a barn adjoining the mansion, where his majesty found a very comfortable couch in a hay-mow.
Richard Penderel slept in the barn. Very fortunate was it that the king did not stay in the house, as it was visited by a patrol of horse before daybreak. The soldiers instituted a rigorous search, but finding nothing to excite their suspicion departed.
Charles slept soundly in the hay-mow, and the day was far advanced before Trusty Dick thought proper to disturb him. As there was no chance of crossing the Severn, and considerable risk even in stirring forth, the king did not leave the barn. Breakfast was brought by Dick, and while the king was discussing it in an out-of-the-way corner, he heard the barn-door open, and felt sure from the sounds that followed that more than one person had come in. His alarm, however, was instantly dispelled on hearing Mr. Woolfe’s voice, and he immediately left his retreat to meet the old Cavalier. With Mr. Woolfe was a much younger individual, on beholding whom his majesty uttered a joyous exclamation.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” he cried. “Can it be Captain Woolfe?”
“Yes; ’tis my dear son, sire,” replied the old Cavalier. “He has only just arrived, but on learning you were here, nothing would content him but I must bring him at once to your majesty.”
“I am delighted to see him,” said Charles. “I owe my preservation to him. Without Captain Woolfe’s aid, I might not have escaped from Worcester.”
And as he spoke he extended his hand to the young man, who pressed it fervently to his lips.
“It grieves me to find your majesty here,” said Captain Woolfe. “I did not dare to return to Madeley last night, but tarried at Evelith Mill with honest Roger Bushell. Even there we were alarmed about midnight by a couple of Roundhead spies, but the sturdy miller frightened them away.”
“Soh! you were at Evelith Mill last night?” cried Charles, laughing.
“I was not the only Royalist there, my liege,” replied Captain Woolfe. “With me were Major Careless and Lieutenant Vosper.”
“Then learn that the two Roundhead spies whom the miller drove away were myself and Trusty Dick Penderel,” said the king, still laughing. “’Tis odd I should be put to flight by my friends. But where is Major Careless? Is he hereabouts?”
“No, my liege, he has gone towards Boscobel, where he fancies your majesty is hiding.”
“And where I shall be forced to hide after all, since it appears impossible to escape into Wales,” said the king.
“I must again implore your majesty not to make the attempt,” cried the old Cavalier. “It would be attended with too much hazard. Your security must be the first consideration, and though I esteem it the highest honour to have the care of your majesty, I feel you will be safer at Boscobel.”
“I will go thither to-night,” said Charles.
“‘Twill be the best course to pursue, my liege,” observed Captain Woolfe. “Some plan for your escape can be devised. We shall all be ready to lend you aid.”
Soon after this the old Cavalier returned to the house, but his son remained in the barn to bear the king company. Though Captain Woolfe was an agreeable companion, and did his best to amuse the king, Charles was very glad when night came on, so that he could shift his quarters with safety. He supped with the old Cavalier and his son, and passed so pleasant an hour with them that he was quite loth to take his departure.
It was not far from midnight when Charles took leave of Mr. Woolfe and his son. At that moment the old Cavalier almost repented that he allowed the king to depart, and made an effort to detain him till the morrow, but Captain Woolfe thought it best that his majesty should adhere to his plan. Father and son conducted him across the moat, and attended him to the outer gate, and Charles having taken leave of them there, set out on his journey with his faithful guide. Fortunately, their nocturnal walk was unattended by any danger, and the only annoyance they experienced was caused by having to wade across the brook that turned Evelith Mill, but this was a trifling matter, which gave the king no concern whatever.
In less than two hours, as well as they could reckon, for neither of them had a watch, they reached Boscobel Wood; but before entering it Dick deemed it prudent to call at the cottage of his brother John, which was close at hand, and ascertain from him that all was safe.
BOSCOBEL HOUSE.
Accordingly they proceeded thither, and Dick knocked against the door with his staff. An upper window was quickly opened by John Penderel, and seeing who they were, he descended and let them in. His first business was to strike a light, and as he did so the king discovered a Cavalier — for such his attire proclaimed him — fast asleep in a chair.
“A stranger here!” exclaimed Dick, surprised. “Why didn’t you tell us so, John?”
“The gentleman is no stranger to his majesty,” replied the other.
Just then, the Cavalier, aroused by the light and the voices, sprang to his feet, and the king perceived it was Major Careless. The unexpected meeting was extremely agreeable to both.
“I heard your majesty was gone to Madeley,” said Careless, after a cordial greeting had taken place between him and the king; “but I felt sure you would never be able to cross the Severn, and I therefore thought it likely you would come to Boscobel. I myself got as far as Evelith Mill, but returned yester morning.”
“Is all safe here?” asked the king.
“No, my liege, very much the reverse I am sorry to say,” replied Careless. “Patrols of the enemy are constantly searching the woods and visiting all the habitations around. I had several narrow escapes yesterday, and but for honest John Penderel here should infallibly have been captured.”
“I am just as much indebted to Trusty Dick,” said Charles. “Without him, I should not be here now.”
“There are five of us on whom your majesty can rely,” said John, who was just as stalwart and
as honest-looking as his brothers. “If we had not been loyal, Father Huddlestone would have made us so. Last night, the good priest went to talk to our brother Humphrey, the miller of Boscobel.”
“I will now put your loyalty to the test, John,” said the king.
“Your majesty cannot please me better,” was the reply.
“Go then to Boscobel House, and satisfy yourself that I may safely proceed thither.”
“It shall be done, my liege,” rejoined John Penderel, evidently well-pleased by the order. “As soon as I have put on my doublet, I will set forth.”
“The office is mine, by rights,” observed Trusty Dick. “Nevertheless, I willingly resign it to John.”
“Judging by myself, thou hast need of rest, my faithful fellow,” said Charles, kindly. “I would fain spare thee further trouble.”
John Penderel vanished, but in a minute or two reappeared, fully equipped, and grasping a stout staff, sallied forth.
It was now about three o’clock in the morning, and feeling much fatigued with his walk, and uncertain as to the rest he might obtain, Charles threw himself into the arm-chair lately occupied by Major Careless, and almost instantly fell asleep.
Careless found another seat and followed his majesty’s example, while Trusty Dick having carefully barred the door, sat down on a settle, and fell into a sort of doze, during which he dreamed he was fighting half a dozen Roundheads.
More than an hour elapsed before John Penderel returned. All the sleepers were roused by his knock at the door. He had seen a patrol of rebels in the wood, but they were coming from Boscobel — not proceeding thither — and he easily avoided them and went on to the house. There he saw Brother William, who told him they had got rid of all the rebels, so his majesty might come there without fear.
On receiving this satisfactory intelligence, Charles, being most anxious to obtain a secure asylum, set forth at once. He was accompanied by Careless, and guided and guarded by the two stalwart brothers, who would have sold their lives rather than allow him to be captured. They made their way through the depths of the wood by paths only known to the two foresters, and encountered nothing more dangerous than a squirrel or a thrush.
After half an hour’s walk through the wood, they came upon a lawn studded by trees, among which were several ancient oaks. Day was just breaking, and now that they had got out of the dense wood, the sun burst upon them. At the further end of the lawn, Charles perceived an old mansion, with walls chequered black and white, gables, bay windows with lattice-panes, and an immense chimney-stack projecting from the side. He did not require to be told that it was Boscobel House.
How quiet, how sequestered, how beautiful looked the old structure at that early hour! Charles stood still to gaze at it. No place had ever had the like effect upon him.
While he was still gazing at the picturesque old mansion, and noting the huge chimney-stack we have mentioned, a gigantic figure issued from the garden gate.
It was William Penderel, who having descried the party from an upper window, had come forth to bid his majesty welcome and usher him into Boscobel House.
ROOM AT BOSCOBEL HOUSE.
BOOK THE THIRD. THE ROYAL OAK.
CHAPTER I.
SHOWING HOW THE HUNTING-LODGE WAS BUILT BY THE LORD OF CHILLINGTON, AND HOW IT ACQUIRED ITS NAME.
Towards the latter part of Elizabeth’s reign, when those who professed the tenets of the Church of Rome were prevented by heavy penalties from performing the rites of their religion, while such as refused to take the oath of supremacy were held guilty of high treason, John Giffard, eleventh Lord of Chillington, in Staffordshire, himself a strict Roman Catholic, and a great sufferer from the oppressive measures referred to, determined to provide a safe asylum for recusants in a secluded part of his domains; and with this view he built a hunting-lodge in the depths of Brewood Forest, which then belonged to him, and contrived within the lonesome structure several secret hiding-places.
The situation was remarkably well chosen. Buried in a wood, where it was hardly likely to be discovered, the hunting-lodge was placed on the exact boundary line between Shropshire and Staffordshire, so that it was difficult to say in which county it stood. The whole surrounding district was covered with woods and commons — the nearest habitations being the ruined monasteries of White Ladies and Black Ladies. Several large trees had been removed to make way for the lodge and the outbuildings connected with it, but it was screened by majestic oaks, which grew within a few yards of the gates. Through these trees enchanting views could be obtained of the sylvan scenery beyond, of vale and upland, and purple heath, until the vast prospect was terminated by the picturesque Clee Hills and the blue outline of the Wrekin.
Nothing, however, save forest timber could be discerned in the immediate vicinity of the lodge, and from this circumstance it obtained its designation. On the completion of the building, the Squire of Chillington invited some of his friends to the house-warming. Among them was Sir Basil Brooke, then newly returned from Rome.
“How shall I name the place?” asked John Giffard.
“I will give you a charming and appropriate name for it,” replied Sir Basil. “Call it Boscobel — from the Italian Bosco bello — Fair Wood.”
The suggestion was adopted, and Boscobel it became.
The solitary forest lodge answered its double purpose well. Its real object was not suspected, nor were its hiding-places discovered, though often resorted to by recusants during the reigns of Elizabeth and James I. Hunting and hawking-parties were sometimes assembled at the lodge by the Squire of Chillington to keep up appearances, but on such occasions due precautions were always taken for the security of those hidden within the house. No servants were employed except those on whose fidelity entire reliance could be placed — and who were themselves Romanists. Of the numbers of persecuted priests harboured at Boscobel none were ever betrayed. Nor during the Civil Wars was a fugitive Cavalier ever refused shelter.
A staunch Royalist as well as zealous Romanist, Peter Giffard, grandson of the builder of Boscobel, suffered severely for his adherence to the cause of the unfortunate Charles I. His noble ancestral domains were confiscated, and he himself was imprisoned at Stafford. Not till the Restoration did the loyal family recover their estates.
At the time of our history Chillington was almost entirely abandoned. In this magnificent mansion Queen Elizabeth had been entertained in princely style during one of her progresses by John Giffard; and the house, from its size and situation, had been once under consideration as a suitable place of confinement for Mary, Queen of Scots. Its hospitalities were now at an end — its halls desolate. When the unfortunate Peter Giffard was deprived of his abode, Chillington was converted into a garrison by Sir William Brereton, and great damage done to it by the Parliamentary soldiers. Luckily, they could not destroy the beautiful avenue and the park, though they despoiled the house and laid waste the splendid old gardens.
Boscobel, though only two miles distant from the hall, escaped injury at this perilous juncture. William Penderel, who had been placed in charge of the lodge by the Squire of Chillington, was not disturbed, and was consequently able to afford shelter to many a Royalist. The rest of the brothers were equally lucky. George was allowed to remain at White Ladies, and the others pursued their quiet avocations in the forest. No doubt they enjoyed this immunity solely because they did not excite Sir William Brereton’s suspicions.
William Penderel had now been two-and-twenty years at Boscobel. The office of under-steward was conferred upon him at the time of his marriage, so that he obtained a most comfortable residence for himself and his wife — the only drawback being that the tenure of the post was somewhat insecure, and when the Chillington estates were sequestered, he fully expected to be turned off. However, he was at Boscobel still. William had four children — two sons and two daughters — but they were now from home.
In Dame Joan, his wife, he possessed a capital helpmate. She could not boast of much personal att
raction, but she had many excellent qualities. A model of prudence, she could be safely trusted on all emergencies, and she was as good-tempered as discreet. Tall and strong, Dame Joan was not masculine either in look or manner, and her features, though plain and homely, had a kindly expression, that did not belie her nature. She had a thoroughly honest look, and the tidiness of her apparel proclaimed an excellent housewife. Such was the opinion formed by Charles of this worthy woman, as he beheld her for the first time, when crossing the threshold of Boscobel House.
After making him an obeisance, not devoid of a certain rustic grace, Joan drew back respectfully, and ushered his majesty and Careless into a parlour on the ground floor, and then made another obeisance.
“Oddsfish! my good dame,” said Charles, smiling. “You understand matters of ceremony so well, that you must e’en come to court — supposing I should ever have a court.”
“Boscobel was greatly honoured when the Earl of Derby sought shelter here,” replied Joan. “But it is now far more highly honoured since your majesty has set foot within the house. My husband and myself are not fitting persons to receive your majesty, but we will do our best, and you may depend upon it we will watch over you most carefully.”
This was the finest speech Joan had ever delivered, but she deemed it necessary to the occasion. Charles thanked her graciously, but said, “Mark me, my good dame. All ceremony must be laid aside. Any observance of it might endanger my safety. When I put on this garb I became one of yourselves. Address me only as Will Jackson.”
“I can never bring myself to address your majesty by such a name as that!” said Joan.
“Wife! wife!” cried William Penderel from behind. “You must do whatever his majesty bids you, without a word.”
“Why, you are committing a similar error, William,” laughed the king. “But if you desire to oblige me, my good dame, you will go and prepare breakfast.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 660