The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  The detachment, which seemed to consist of about a dozen men, with an officer at their head, was about half a mile off, and had hitherto been concealed from view by the inequality of the ground. It was now in full sight, and it became clear from the accelerated pace of the enemy that they themselves were perceived.

  What was to be done? Retreat was out of the question, for they were certain to be pursued and captured. They must prove their valour in the defence of the king.

  At this anxious moment the ready-witted page called out:

  “Fighting is useless against such odds. We must resort to stratagem. Listen to me, loyal foresters. For a short time you must become rascally Roundheads. Pretend you have taken a couple of prisoners — the prisoners to be represented by his majesty and myself. Furthermore, give it out that we are both badly wounded. Do you understand?”

  “Ay, we understand well enough,” replied Trusty Dick, “and ’tis to be hoped the rogues will believe we are brother rogues, and let us pass. After all, we can but fight it out. But what says your majesty?”

  “I like the plan,” said the king. “With a little management I doubt not we shall be able to impose upon the rascals. But we must lose no time in preparation. This morning my nose bled profusely. I looked upon it then as a bad omen, but now I regard the matter differently.”

  And as he spoke, he bound his bloodstained kerchief round his brows, so as to give himself the appearance of a wounded man.

  Jasper at the same time tied a kerchief round his left arm, and both put on the appearance of great exhaustion — Charles allowing his head to droop upon his breast.

  “Now march on boldly, brothers,” said the elder Penderel. “All will depend upon our firmness.”

  As they went on, William and Trusty Dick kept close to the supposed prisoners.

  Presently the detachment came up.

  Drawing up his men so as to bar the way, the officer called out in a loud authoritative voice:

  “Halt! and give an account of yourselves. Are you good and true men?”

  “Good and true men, and friends of the Commonwealth,” replied John Penderel, boldly. “Heaven pardon me for the lie,” he muttered.

  “So far well,” said the officer. “But who have you got with you on horseback?”

  “A wounded malignant and his servant, who is likewise wounded,” replied Humphrey. “The Cavalier is disguised in the garb of a forester, as you see, but he could not ‘scape us.”

  “Where are you conveying the prisoners?” demanded the officer.

  “We are taking them to Codsall, and shall deliver them to Colonel Ashenhurst.”

  “I am Colonel Ashenhurst,” replied the officer.

  Taken aback by the answer, the sturdy miller did not know what to say. But William Penderel came to his relief.

  “Shall we deliver the prisoners to you here, colonel?” he said, “or shall we take them on to Codsall? Since we have come thus far, it matters not if we go a little further. We have been to Chillington House, but did not find Colonel James there.”

  “Colonel James hath just changed his quarters, and is gone to Brewood,” replied Ashenhurst. “Is the chief prisoner badly hurt?”

  “He is wounded in the head,” rejoined William Penderel. “I do not think he can live long.”

  “Nay, then, take him and his attendant to Codsall,” said Colonel Ashenhurst. “I have other business on hand, and do not desire to go back. I trust to make an important capture before morn. A couple of my men shall go with you, if you desire it, but I cannot very well spare them.”

  “I thank your honour — but we do not require them,” replied William Penderel.

  “You will find a physician at Codsall, who will attend to the wounded malignant,” continued Colonel Ashenhurst.

  “I don’t think any physician will do him much good,” said Humphrey, unable to resist the jest. “Your honour is scarcely likely to find him — alive, I mean — on your return.”

  Colonel Ashenhurst did not hear the remark. He had no suspicion whatever of the trick played him, and ordered his men to ride on, gladdening the hearts of the stalwart brothers by his departure.

  “I owe my preservation to you, Jasper,” said Charles, as he removed the kerchief from his brow.

  “Ay, but for this stratagem your majesty might have been captured,” remarked Trusty Dick. “I tremble to think of it.”

  “You have something more to do, Dick,” said Jasper. “You must invent some probable story to account for your not delivering the prisoners at Codsall.”

  “True,” cried Charles. “I fear you may suffer on my account.”

  “Think not of us,” said Trusty Dick. “We must take our chance. ’Tis sufficient that your majesty has escaped.”

  The road to Codsall lay on the right, but Charles and his companions had no intention of taking it, even as a feint, for Colonel Ashenhurst and his troop were already out of sight. Though anticipating no further danger, they quickened their pace, and soon reached Long Birch.

  The portion of the heath they now entered on was wilder than that which they had previously traversed, but there was a tolerably good road across it, and this eventually brought them to the banks of the little river Penk.

  About half a mile lower down, this stream turned a mill, and the party now proceeded in that direction, it having been previously arranged that the king should dismount at Pendeford Mill, as it was called, and perform the rest of the journey on foot, and attended only by half his escort, so that his arrival at Moseley Old Hall might not be discovered.

  As he was here obliged to part with Jasper, Humphrey Penderel undertook to find the page a secure place of refuge at the mill.

  “I know Timothy Croft, the miller, and his wife to be good, honest folks,” said Humphrey. “The youth will be perfectly safe with them.”

  “I will tell Major Careless where he may find thee,” said the king to Jasper, “and no doubt thou wilt see him ere long. Thou hast done me good service, and I shall not be unmindful of it. Adieu!”

  He then gave him his hand, and the page pressed it devotedly to his lips.

  The three persons chosen to attend the king were William, Trusty Dick, and John, and having bidden a kindly farewell to the others, his majesty set off with his guard.

  He had not gone far, however, when, turning his head, he saw those he had left standing together, and looking very sad, whereupon he hurried back, and said a few more gracious words to them. His majesty felt that he could not sufficiently thank the brave men who had hazarded their lives for him without fee or reward.

  Moseley Old Hall was about two miles from Pendeford Mill, and the heath having been left behind since they had crossed the Penk, the whole aspect of the country had changed, and the road led through narrow green lanes shaded with trees.

  Now and then they passed a quiet homestead, surrounded by orchards, or a cottage, and occasionally heard the barking of a dog, but with these exceptions the whole region seemed buried in slumber.

  At length, after a quick walk of rather more than half an hour, they came in sight of an ancient mansion, somewhat resembling Boscobel, but larger and loftier, and far more imposing in appearance.

  * * *

  CHAPTER VI.

  HOW THE KING BADE FAREWELL TO THE PENDERELS; AND HOW HIS MAJESTY WAS RECEIVED BY MR. THOMAS WHITGREAVE OF MOSELEY OLD HALL.

  Moseley Old Hall, which we rejoice to say belongs to a direct descendant of the zealous Roman Catholic gentleman who owned it at the period of our story, is one of those charming and picturesque black and white houses that date back to the middle of the sixteenth century, when our old English architecture was in its perfection, and delights the eye with its irregular frontage, its numerous gables, bay windows, projections, and huge stacks of chimneys.

  MOSELEY OLD HALL.

  Even now there is an air of seclusion about Moseley Old Hall, but at the period of which we treat, it was almost surrounded by trees, and though there were one or two habitations ne
ar it — much nearer than its owner liked — it had a look of extreme privacy.

  The house was large, and contained numerous apartments of all sizes. Indeed, it contained some rooms that were never seen by all its inmates, though it was whispered about among the servants that there were closed up passages leading no one knew whither — perhaps to vaults, secret chambers, and secret closets.

  These rumours were not altogether unfounded. Like their friends and neighbours the Giffards, the Whitgreaves had adhered firmly to the old religion, and, like them, had found it necessary to contrive hiding-places for priests and recusants. Many such existed at Moseley Old Hall, and some are still extant.

  Descended from an ancient Staffordshire family, who had dwelt at Burton, Thomas Whitgreave, owner of Moseley Old Hall, in 1651, had served during the early part of the Civil Wars under Captain Thomas Giffard, and had distinguished himself for his bravery; but having received a severe wound, from which he was some time in recovering, he retired to his old family mansion, and took no further part in the struggle. Still, his zeal for the cause of monarchy was ardent as ever, and his sympathies being entirely for the young king, he was deeply afflicted by the disastrous result of the Battle of Worcester.

  Thomas Whitgreave was still young — at all events, he was not more than thirty-five — tall, and handsome, with a grave but kindly expression of countenance. At the time he received the king, he was unmarried, but his mother, a remarkable old lady, resided with him. Mrs. Whitgreave was as staunch a Royalist as her son, and daily invoked Heaven’s vengeance upon the regicide Cromwell.

  Mr. Whitgreave kept up a good establishment, though not a large retinue of servants. His domestic chaplain was Father Huddlestone, and he behaved with the greatest consideration to the good priest, not only assigning him rooms for study and devotion, but allowing him to take a couple of pupils. Father Huddlestone was very useful in the house, and, without being meddlesome, exercised a beneficial influence over the family. Mrs. Whitgreave was a devotee, and as scrupulous in the performance of her religious duties as if she had belonged to a convent. A chaplain, therefore, was a necessity to her, and no one could have better discharged the sacred office than Father Huddlestone. Not only did the good priest improve the household by his councils, but his society was extremely agreeable to the master of the house.

  Such was the constitution of Moseley Old Hall at the time when the fugitive king was received within it.

  Among the Roman Catholic gentry of the period, all of whom were Royalists, there was necessarily a good deal of private communication, conducted chiefly through the medium of the priests. Thus secret intelligence was conveyed to Father Huddlestone of the king’s arrival at White Ladies, and it was through Father Huddlestone that John Penderel was enabled to secure a place of refuge for Lord Wilmot. It was from the same quarter that the fugitive king’s movements were first made known to the good priest and his patron.

  Every preparation had been made at Moseley Old Hall so that the king could be got into the house secretly.

  It being now past midnight, all the servants had long since retired to rest. Four persons only were on the alert. These were Lord Wilmot, who remained in his bedchamber; Father Huddlestone, who was stationed in a close, called the Moore, adjoining the mansion; Mr. Whitgreave, who had repaired to another close, called Allport’s Leasow, and concealed himself in a dry pit, covered with trees; and Major Careless, who was watching for the king and his companions at the entrance of a long lime-tree walk that led to the ancient mansion.

  Careless had to wait there more than an hour, but at length was rewarded by the appearance of the party, and satisfied that he could not be mistaken, went forth to meet them.

  A cordial greeting passed between Charles and his favourite, and the latter heartily congratulated his majesty on his safe arrival.

  “I had begun to feel somewhat uneasy,” he said. “But I knew your majesty was well guarded.”

  “Truly, I have been well guarded,” said Charles, looking gratefully at his attendants. “But thou wilt be astonished to hear that we have had an encounter with Colonel Ashenhurst. We owe our escape to a device of that clever little page Jasper.”

  “What do I hear?” cried Careless. “Has your majesty seen Jasper?”

  “I have only just parted with him,” replied Charles. “Nay, do not trouble yourself. He is safe enough. I left him at Pendeford Mill.”

  “This is good news, indeed!” cried Careless, joyfully.

  “I knew it would delight thee,” said Charles, smiling. “But let us to the house. Art thou appointed to do the honours?”

  “Mr. Whitgreave is at hand,” replied Careless. “If your majesty will be pleased to walk on a little further, I will present him to you. You will find him a most excellent host.”

  They then marched quickly along the lime-tree walk, until they came to the close which we have said was designated Allport’s Leasow.

  Here Careless gave the signal agreed upon, and Mr. Whitgreave, who had passed a very anxious hour in the dry pit, immediately issued forth from it.

  “Do not present him,” said the king, in a low voice, as his host approached. “I should like to see whether he will recognise me.”

  For a moment or two, Mr. Whitgreave was perplexed.

  With the exception of Careless all the group were habited alike in forester’s attire, but the stalwart Penderels were not to be mistaken, so after a second survey Mr. Whitgreave no longer hesitated, but threw himself at the feet of the right person, exclaiming:

  “This, I am certain, is my royal master.”

  “You are right, Mr. Whitgreave,” rejoined Charles, giving him his hand to kiss. “But oddsfish! I should not have been offended if you had not known me in this garb — though I cannot be ashamed of it, since it is worn by such brave and faithful fellows as these, who have protected me at the hazard of their lives. May I never want such defenders as you and your brothers!” he added, to William Penderel.

  “We have simply done our duty, my liege,” replied William.

  “If others do their duty as well, I shall have reason to be thankful,” said Charles, earnestly. “Mr. Whitgreave,” he added, “you will excuse me, but since I must now part with these faithful men, I must tell them what I feel in your hearing — and in your hearing too, father,” he continued, as the good priest, who having become aware of the king’s arrival, had come up. “To all the brothers Penderel I owe much, but to the courage and fidelity of William and Trusty Dick I undoubtedly owe my preservation. Let what I now say be remembered, and repeated to me hereafter, should the great services they have rendered me be inadequately requited when I have the power to requite them. Farewell, my good and faithful friends!” he continued, with an emotion that he did not seek to repress. “Farewell!”

  “Must we quit you, my liege?” cried Trusty Dick. “We will quit our homes and all dear to us to follow your majesty’s fortunes.”

  “It cannot be,” rejoined Charles. “I am fully sensible of your devotion, but we must part. You would only be a hindrance to me. Farewell! farewell!”

  And he stretched out his hand, which the stalwart brothers seized and pressed to their lips.

  “Mr. Whitgreave,” he added, “you will take care of these brave men.”

  “They shall have the best the buttery can afford, my liege,” replied Whitgreave. “And I will attend to them myself, as I must needs do, seeing that all my servants are a-bed. Father Huddlestone will conduct your majesty to the house.”

  Bestowing a last look at the three stalwart brothers, who seemed greatly dejected, Charles, accompanied by Careless, followed Father Huddlestone to the house.

  Entering at the rear of the mansion, Father Huddlestone took the king and Careless up a back staircase with cautious steps, and as they neared the summit they perceived a dark figure retreating noiselessly down a passage.

  Aware that this was Lord Wilmot, Charles kept silence till he had entered his lordship’s room, which was situated a
t the end of the passage, and he then gave utterance to his satisfaction.

  Lord Wilmot, as the reader is aware, was a special favourite of the king, and his majesty had more dependence upon him than upon any one else, save Careless. Lord Wilmot must not be confounded with his son, the dissolute Earl of Rochester, who figured some years afterwards at the court of the Merry Monarch. A brave, chivalrous nobleman, he was able to act as a sort of Mentor to the king.

  Lord Wilmot had, in fact, belonged to the court of Charles I., and had acquired the grave manners of that period. Tall and strongly built, he had handsome, expressive features. The Earl of Rochester, as is well known, could successfully counterfeit any part he pleased, but he did not inherit his talent any more than his vices from his father, who could never be prevailed upon to assume a disguise, declaring that, if he did so, he should infallibly be found out.

  Seeing that the king looked much fatigued with his journey, Lord Wilmot besought him to postpone all conversation till he had taken some refreshment, and opening a cupboard his lordship produced some cates and a flask of canary.

  Charles sat down, and emptying a goblet of generous wine, insisted upon all the others following his example, and while they were doing so a gentle tap was heard at the door, which was opened by Father Huddlestone, and Mr. Whitgreave came in.

  “What of my faithful attendants — the Penderels?” cried the king. “Have they been well cared for? Pardon the question, Mr. Whitgreave. I am sure they have.”

  “They are gone, my liege,” replied Whitgreave. “And I must say that I never saw men more grieved to part with a master than these loyal-hearted fellows are to quit your majesty.”

  “Say you sooth?” cried Charles.

  “Your majesty shall judge,” replied Whitgreave. “I took them to the buttery, where I have often seen each and all of them make a hearty meal, and where there was plenty of cold meat, and bade them fall to and spare not. They declined. And when I pressed them further, saying they would discredit my house if they went away without supper, they said they had no appetite. ‘No appetite!’ I exclaimed. ‘How is this?’ But I soon found out what was the matter. Each honest heart was full, and wanted relief. A single morsel of meat would have choked any one of them. However, they drank a cup of ale to your majesty’s health.”