CHAPTER I.—THE BEACON ON PENDLE HILL.
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.
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.
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 XVII.—HOW THE BEACON FIRE WAS EXTINGUISHED.
BOOK THE THIRD.
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 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 XV.—LANCASTER CASTLE.
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 crossbow, 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.As
may be supposed, the priesthood were main movers in a revolt having
their especial benefit for its aim; and many of them, following the
example of the Abbot of Barlings, clothed themselves in steel instead
of woollen garments, and girded on the sword and the breastplate for
the redress of their grievances and the maintenance of their rights.
Amongst these were the Abbots of Jervaux, Furness, Fountains,
Rivaulx, and Salley, and, lastly, the Abbot of Whalley, before
mentioned; a fiery and energetic prelate, who had ever been constant
and determined in his opposition to the aggressive measures of the
king. Such was the Pilgrimage of Grace, such its design, and such its
supporters.Several
large towns had already fallen into the hands of the insurgents.
York, Hull, and Pontefract had yielded; Skipton Castle was besieged,
and defended by the Earl of Cumberland; and battle was offered to the
Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Shrewsbury, who headed the king's
forces at Doncaster. But the object of the Royalist leaders was to
temporise, and an armistice was offered to the rebels and accepted.
Terms were next proposed and debated.During
the continuance of this armistice all hostilities ceased; but beacons
were reared upon the mountains, and their fires were to be taken as a
new summons to arms. This signal the eight watchers expected.Though
late in November, the day had been unusually fine, and, in
consequence, the whole hilly ranges around were clearly discernible,
but now the shades of evening were fast drawing on."Night
is approaching," cried the tall man in the velvet mantle,
impatiently; "and still the signal comes not. Wherefore this
delay? Can Norfolk have accepted our conditions? Impossible. The last
messenger from our camp at Scawsby Lees brought word that the duke's
sole terms would be the king's pardon to the whole insurgent army,
provided they at once dispersed—except ten persons, six named and
four unnamed.""And
were you amongst those named, lord abbot?" demanded one of the
monks."John
Paslew, Abbot of Whalley, it was said, headed the list," replied
the other, with a bitter smile. "Next came William Trafford,
Abbot of Salley. Next Adam Sudbury, Abbot of Jervaux. Then our
leader, Robert Aske. Then John Eastgate, Monk of Whalley—""How,
lord abbot!" exclaimed the monk. "Was my name mentioned?""It
was," rejoined the abbot. "And that of William Haydocke,
also Monk of Whalley, closed the list.""The
unrelenting tyrant!" muttered the other monk. "But these
terms could not be accepted?""Assuredly
not," replied Paslew; "they were rejected with scorn. But
the negotiations were continued by Sir Ralph Ellerker and Sir Robert
Bowas, who were to claim on our part a free pardon for all; the
establishment of a Parliament and courts of justice at York; the
restoration of the Princess Mary to the succession; the Pope to his
jurisdiction; and our brethren to their houses. But such conditions
will never be granted. With my consent no armistice should have been
agreed to. We are sure to lose by the delay. But I was overruled by
the Archbishop of York and the Lord Darcy. Their voices prevailed
against the Abbot of Whalley—or, if it please you, the Earl of
Poverty.""It
is the assumption of that derisive title which has drawn upon you the
full force of the king's resentment, lord abbot," observed
Father Eastgate."It
may be," replied the abbot. "I took it in mockery of
Cromwell and the ecclesiastical commissioners, and I rejoice that
they have felt the sting. The Abbot of Barlings called himself
Captain Cobbler, because, as he affirmed, the state wanted mending
like old shoon. And is not my title equally well chosen? Is not the
Church smitten with poverty? Have not ten thousand of our brethren
been driven from their homes to beg or to starve? Have not the
houseless poor, whom we fed at our gates, and lodged within our
wards, gone away hungry and without rest? Have not the sick, whom we
would have relieved, died untended by the hedge-side? I am the head
of the poor in Lancashire, the redresser of their grievances, and
therefore I style myself Earl of Poverty. Have I not done well?""You
have, lord abbot," replied Father Eastgate."Poverty
will not alone be the fate of the Church, but of the whole realm, if
the rapacious designs of the monarch and his heretical counsellors
are carried forth," pursued the abbot. "Cromwell, Audeley,
and Rich, have wisely ordained that no infant shall be baptised
without tribute to the king; that no man who owns not above twenty
pounds a year shall consume wheaten bread, or eat the flesh of fowl
or swine without tribute; and that all ploughed land shall pay
tribute likewise. Thus the Church is to be beggared, the poor
plundered, and all men burthened, to fatten the king, and fill his
exchequer.""This
must be a jest," observed Father Haydocke."It
is a jest no man laughs at," rejoined the abbot, sternly; "any
more than the king's counsellors will laugh at the Earl of Poverty,
whose title they themselves have created. But wherefore comes not the
signal? Can aught have gone wrong? I will not think it. The whole
country, from the Tweed to the Humber, and from the Lune to the
Mersey, is ours; and, if we but hold together, our cause must
prevail.""Yet
we have many and powerful enemies," observed Father Eastgate;
"and the king, it is said, hath sworn never to make terms with
us. Tidings were brought to the abbey this morning, that the Earl of
Derby is assembling forces at Preston, to march upon us.""We
will give him a warm reception if he comes," replied Paslew,
fiercely. "He will find that our walls have not been kernelled
and embattled by licence of good King Edward the Third for nothing;
and that our brethren can fight as well as their predecessors fought
in the time of Abbot Holden, when they took tithe by force from Sir
Christopher Parsons of Slaydburn. The abbey is strong, and right well
defended, and we need not fear a surprise. But it grows dark fast,
and yet no signal comes.""Perchance
the waters of the Don have again risen, so as to prevent the army
from fording the stream," observed Father Haydocke; "or it
may be that some disaster hath befallen our leader.""Nay,
I will not believe the latter," said the abbot; "Robert
Aske is chosen by Heaven to be our deliverer. It has been prophesied
that a 'worm with one eye' shall work the redemption of the fallen
faith, and you know that Robert Aske hath been deprived of his left
orb by an arrow.""Therefore
it is," observed Father Eastgate, "that the Pilgrims of
Grace chant the following ditty:—"'Forth
shall come an Aske with one eye,He
shall be chief of the company—Chief
of the northern chivalry.'""What
more?" demanded the abbot, seeing that the monk appeared to
hesitate."Nay,
I know not whether the rest of the rhymes may please you, lord
abbot," replied Father Eastgate."Let
me hear them, and I will judge," said Paslew. Thus urged, the
monk went on:—"'One
shall sit at a solemn feast,Half
warrior, half priest,The
greatest there shall be the least.'""The
last verse," observed the monk, "has been added to the
ditty by Nicholas Demdike. I heard him sing it the other day at the
abbey gate.""What,
Nicholas Demdike of Worston?" cried the abbot; "he whose
wife is a witch?""The
same," replied Eastgate."Hoo
be so ceawnted, sure eno," remarked the forester, who had been
listening attentively to their discourse, and who now stepped
forward; "boh dunna yo think it. Beleemy, lort abbut, Bess
Demdike's too yunk an too protty for a witch.""Thou
art bewitched by her thyself, Cuthbert," said the abbot,
angrily. "I shall impose a penance upon thee, to free thee from
the evil influence. Thou must recite twenty paternosters daily,
fasting, for one month; and afterwards perform a pilgrimage to the
shrine of our Lady of Gilsland. Bess Demdike is an approved and
notorious witch, and hath been seen by credible witnesses attending a
devil's sabbath on this very hill—Heaven shield us! It is therefore
that I have placed her and her husband under the ban of the Church;
pronounced sentence of excommunication against them; and commanded
all my clergy to refuse baptism to their infant daughter, newly
born.""Wea's
me! ey knoas 't reet weel, lort abbut," replied Ashbead, "and
Bess taks t' sentence sore ta 'ert!""Then
let her amend her ways, or heavier punishment will befall her,"
cried Paslew, severely. "'Sortilegam
non patieris vivere'
saith the Levitical law. If she be convicted she shall die the death.
That she is comely I admit; but it is the comeliness of a child of
sin. Dost thou know the man with whom she is wedded—or supposed to
be wedded—for I have seen no proof of the marriage? He is a
stranger here.""Ey
knoas neawt abowt him, lort abbut, 'cept that he cum to Pendle a
twalmont agoa," replied Ashbead; "boh ey knoas fu' weel
that t'eawtcumbling felly robt me ot prettiest lass i' aw
Lonkyshiar—aigh, or i' aw Englondshiar, fo' t' matter o' that.""What
manner of man is he?" inquired the abbot."Oh,
he's a feaw teyke—a varra feaw teyke," replied Ashbead; "wi'
a feace as black as a boggart, sooty shiny hewr loike a mowdywarp,
an' een loike a stanniel. Boh for running, rostling, an' throwing t'
stoan, he'n no match i' this keawntry. Ey'n triet him at aw three
gams, so ey con speak. For't most part he'n a big, black bandyhewit
wi' him, and, by th' Mess, ey canna help thinkin he meys free
sumtoimes wi' yor lortship's bucks.""Ha!
this must be looked to," cried the abbot. "You say you know
not whence he comes? 'Tis strange.""T'
missmannert carl'll boide naw questionin', odd rottle him!"
replied Ashbead. "He awnsurs wi' a gibe, or a thwack o' his
staff. Whon ey last seet him, he threatened t' raddle me booans weel,
boh ey sooan lowert him a peg.""We
will find a way of making him speak," said the abbot."He
can speak, and right well if he pleases," remarked Father
Eastgate; "for though ordinarily silent and sullen enough, yet
when he doth talk it is not like one of the hinds with whom he
consorts, but in good set phrase; and his bearing is as bold as that
of one who hath seen service in the field.""My
curiosity is aroused," said the abbot. "I must see him.""Noa
sooner said than done," cried Ashbead, "for, be t' Lort
Harry, ey see him stonding be yon moss poo' o' top t' hill, though
how he'n getten theer t' Dule owny knoas."And
he pointed out a tall dark figure standing near a little pool on the
summit of the mountain, about a hundred yards from them."Talk
of ill, and ill cometh," observed Father Haydocke. "And
see, the wizard hath a black hound with him! It may be his wife, in
that likeness.""Naw,
ey knoas t' hount reet weel, Feyther Haydocke," replied the
forester; "it's a Saint Hubert, an' a rareun fo' fox or badgert.
Odds loife, feyther, whoy that's t' black bandyhewit I war speaking
on.""I
like not the appearance of the knave at this juncture," said the
abbot; "yet I wish to confront him, and charge him with his
midemeanours.""Hark;
he sings," cried Father Haydocke. And as he spoke a voice was
heard chanting,—"One
shall sit at a solemn feast,Half
warrior, half priest,The
greatest there shall be the least.""The
very ditty I heard," cried Father Eastgate; "but list, he
has more of it." And the voice resumed,—"He
shall be rich, yet poor as me,Abbot,
and Earl of Poverty.Monk
and soldier, rich and poor,He
shall be hang'd at his own door."Loud
derisive laughter followed the song."By
our Lady of Whalley, the knave is mocking us," cried the abbot;
"send a bolt to silence him, Cuthbert."The
forester instantly bent his bow, and a quarrel whistled off in the
direction of the singer; but whether his aim were not truly taken, or
he meant not to hit the mark, it is certain that Demdike remained
untouched. The reputed wizard laughed aloud, took off his felt cap in
acknowledgment, and marched deliberately down the side of the hill."Thou
art not wont to miss thy aim, Cuthbert," cried the abbot, with a
look of displeasure. "Take good heed thou producest this scurril
knave before me, when these troublous times are over. But what is
this?—he stops—ha! he is practising his devilries on the
mountain's side."It
would seem that the abbot had good warrant for what he said, as
Demdike, having paused at a broad green patch on the hill-side, was
now busied in tracing a circle round it with his staff. He then spoke
aloud some words, which the superstitious beholders construed into an
incantation, and after tracing the circle once again, and casting
some tufts of dry heather, which he plucked from an adjoining
hillock, on three particular spots, he ran quickly downwards,
followed by his hound, and leaping a stone wall, surrounding a little
orchard at the foot of the hill, disappeared from view."Go
and see what he hath done," cried the abbot to the forester,
"for I like it not."Ashbead
instantly obeyed, and on reaching the green spot in question, shouted
out that he could discern nothing; but presently added, as he moved
about, that the turf heaved like a sway-bed beneath his feet, and he
thought—to use his own phraseology—would "brast." The
abbot then commanded him to go down to the orchard below, and if he
could find Demdike to bring him to him instantly. The forester did as
he was bidden, ran down the hill, and, leaping the orchard wall as
the other had done, was lost to sight.Ere
long, it became quite dark, and as Ashbead did not reappear, the
abbot gave vent to his impatience and uneasiness, and was proposing
to send one of the herdsmen in search of him, when his attention was
suddenly diverted by a loud shout from one of the sentinels, and a
fire was seen on a distant hill on the right."The
signal! the signal!" cried Paslew, joyfully. "Kindle a
torch!—quick, quick!"And
as he spoke, he seized a brand and plunged it into the peat fire,
while his example was followed by the two monks."It
is the beacon on Blackstone Edge," cried the abbot; "and
look! a second blazes over the Grange of Cliviger—another on
Ightenhill—another on Boulsworth Hill—and the last on the
neighbouring heights of Padiham. Our own comes next. May it light the
enemies of our holy Church to perdition!"With
this, he applied the burning brand to the combustible matter of the
beacon. The monks did the same; and in an instant a tall, pointed
flame, rose up from a thick cloud of smoke. Ere another minute had
elapsed, similar fires shot up to the right and the left, on the high
lands of Trawden Forest, on the jagged points of Foulridge, on the
summit of Cowling Hill, and so on to Skipton. Other fires again
blazed on the towers of Clithero, on Longridge and Ribchester, on the
woody eminences of Bowland, on Wolf Crag, and on fell and scar all
the way to Lancaster. It seemed the work of enchantment, so suddenly
and so strangely did the fires shoot forth. As the beacon flame
increased, it lighted up the whole of the extensive table-land on the
summit of Pendle Hill; and a long lurid streak fell on the darkling
moss-pool near which the wizard had stood. But when it attained its
utmost height, it revealed the depths of the forest below, and a red
reflection, here and there, marked the course of Pendle Water. The
excitement of the abbot and his companions momently increased, and
the sentinels shouted as each new beacon was lighted. At last, almost
every hill had its watch-fire, and so extraordinary was the
spectacle, that it seemed as if weird beings were abroad, and holding
their revels on the heights.Then
it was that the abbot, mounting his steed, called out to the
monks—"Holy fathers, you will follow to the abbey as you may.
I shall ride fleetly on, and despatch two hundred archers to
Huddersfield and Wakefield. The abbots of Salley and Jervaux, with
the Prior of Burlington, will be with me at midnight, and at daybreak
we shall march our forces to join the main army. Heaven be with you!""Stay!"
cried a harsh, imperious voice. "Stay!"And,
to his surprise, the abbot beheld Nicholas Demdike standing before
him. The aspect of the wizard was dark and forbidding, and, seen by
the beacon light, his savage features, blazing eyes, tall gaunt
frame, and fantastic garb, made him look like something unearthly.
Flinging his staff over his shoulder, he slowly approached, with his
black hound following close by at his heels."I
have a caution to give you, lord abbot," he said; "hear me
speak before you set out for the abbey, or ill will befall you.""Ill
will befall me if I
listen to thee, thou wicked churl," cried the abbot. "What
hast thou done with Cuthbert Ashbead?""I
have seen nothing of him since he sent a bolt after me at your
bidding, lord abbot," replied Demdike."Beware
lest any harm come to him, or thou wilt rue it," cried Paslew.
"But I have no time to waste on thee. Farewell, fathers. High
mass will be said in the convent church before we set out on the
expedition to-morrow morning. You will both attend it.""You
will never set out upon the expedition, lord abbot," cried
Demdike, planting his staff so suddenly into the ground before the
horse's head that the animal reared and nearly threw his rider."How
now, fellow, what mean you?" cried the abbot, furiously."To
warn you," replied Demdike."Stand
aside," cried the abbot, spurring his steed, "or I will
trample you beneath my horse's feet.""I
might let you ride to your own doom," rejoined Demdike, with a
scornful laugh, as he seized the abbot's bridle. "But you shall
hear me. I tell you, you will never go forth on this expedition. I
tell you that, ere to-morrow, Whalley Abbey will have passed for ever
from your possession; and that, if you go thither again, your life
will be forfeited. Now will you listen to me?""I
am wrong in doing so," cried the abbot, who could not, however,
repress some feelings of misgiving at this alarming address. "Speak,
what would you say?""Come
out of earshot of the others, and I will tell you," replied
Demdike. And he led the abbot's horse to some distance further on the
hill."Your
cause will fail, lord abbot," he then said. "Nay, it is
lost already.""Lost!"
cried the abbot, out of all patience. "Lost! Look around. Twenty
fires are in sight—ay, thirty, and every fire thou seest will
summon a hundred men, at the least, to arms. Before an hour, five
hundred men will be gathered before the gates of Whalley Abbey.""True,"
replied Demdike; "but they will not own the Earl of Poverty for
their leader.""What
leader will they own, then?" demanded the abbot, scornfully."The
Earl of Derby," replied Demdike. "He is on his way thither
with Lord Mounteagle from Preston.""Ha!"
exclaimed Paslew, "let me go meet them, then. But thou triflest
with me, fellow. Thou canst know nothing of this. Whence gott'st thou
thine information?""Heed
it not," replied the other; "thou wilt find it correct. I
tell thee, proud abbot, that this grand scheme of thine and of thy
fellows, for the restitution of the Catholic Church, has
failed—utterly failed.""I
tell thee thou liest, false knave!" cried the abbot, striking
him on the hand with his scourge. "Quit thy hold, and let me
go.""Not
till I have done," replied Demdike, maintaining his grasp. "Well
hast thou styled thyself Earl of Poverty, for thou art poor and
miserable enough. Abbot of Whalley thou art no longer. Thy
possessions will be taken from thee, and if thou returnest thy life
also will be taken. If thou fleest, a price will be set upon thy
head. I alone can save thee, and I will do so on one condition.""Condition!
make conditions with thee, bond-slave of Satan!" cried the
abbot, gnashing his teeth. "I reproach myself that I have
listened to thee so long. Stand aside, or I will strike thee dead.""You
are wholly in my power," cried Demdike with a disdainful laugh.
And as he spoke he pressed the large sharp bit against the charger's
mouth, and backed him quickly to the very edge of the hill, the sides
of which here sloped precipitously down. The abbot would have uttered
a cry, but surprise and terror kept him silent."Were
it my desire to injure you, I could cast you down the mountain-side
to certain death," pursued Demdike. "But I have no such
wish. On the contrary, I will serve you, as I have said, on one
condition.""Thy
condition would imperil my soul," said the abbot, full of wrath
and alarm. "Thou seekest in vain to terrify me into compliance.
Vade retro, Sathanas.
I defy thee and all thy works."Demdike
laughed scornfully."The
thunders of the Church do not frighten me," he cried. "But,
look," he added, "you doubted my word when I told you the
rising was at an end. The beacon fires on Boulsworth Hill and on the
Grange of Cliviger are extinguished; that on Padiham Heights is
expiring—nay, it is out; and ere many minutes all these mountain
watch-fires will have disappeared like lamps at the close of a
feast.""By
our Lady, it is so," cried the abbot, in increasing terror.
"What new jugglery is this?""It
is no jugglery, I tell you," replied the other."The
waters of the Don have again arisen; the insurgents have accepted the
king's pardon, have deserted their leaders, and dispersed. There will
be no rising to-night or on the morrow. The abbots of Jervaux and
Salley will strive to capitulate, but in vain. The Pilgrimage of
Grace is ended. The stake for which thou playedst is lost. Thirty
years hast thou governed here, but thy rule is over. Seventeen abbots
have there been of Whalley—the last thou!—but there shall be none
more.""It
must be the Demon in person that speaks thus to me," cried the
abbot, his hair bristling on his head, and a cold perspiration
bursting from his pores."No
matter who I am," replied the other; "I have said I will
aid thee on one condition. It is not much. Remove thy ban from my
wife, and baptise her infant daughter, and I am content. I would not
ask thee for this service, slight though it be, but the poor soul
hath set her mind upon it. Wilt thou do it?""No,"
replied the abbot, shuddering; "I will not baptise a daughter of
Satan. I will not sell my soul to the powers of darkness. I adjure
thee to depart from me, and tempt me no longer.""Vainly
thou seekest to cast me off," rejoined Demdike. "What if I
deliver thine adversaries into thine hands, and revenge thee upon
them? Even now there are a party of armed men waiting at the foot of
the hill to seize thee and thy brethren. Shall I show thee how to
destroy them?""Who
are they?" demanded the abbot, surprised."Their
leaders are John Braddyll and Richard Assheton, who shall divide
Whalley Abbey between them, if thou stayest them not," replied
Demdike."Hell
consume them!" cried the abbot."Thy
speech shows consent," rejoined Demdike. "Come this way."And,
without awaiting the abbot's reply, he dragged his horse towards the
but-end of the mountain. As they went on, the two monks, who had been
filled with surprise at the interview, though they did not dare to
interrupt it, advanced towards their superior, and looked earnestly
and inquiringly at him, but he remained silent; while to the
men-at-arms and the herdsmen, who demanded whether their own
beacon-fire should be extinguished as the others had been, he
answered moodily in the negative."Where
are the foes you spoke of?" he asked with some uneasiness, as
Demdike led his horse slowly and carefully down the hill-side."You
shall see anon," replied the other."You
are taking me to the spot where you traced the magic circle,"
cried Paslew in alarm. "I know it from its unnaturally green
hue. I will not go thither.""I
do not mean you should, lord abbot," replied Demdike, halting.
"Remain on this firm ground. Nay, be not alarmed; you are in no
danger. Now bid your men advance, and prepare their weapons."The
abbot would have demanded wherefore, but at a glance from Demdike he
complied, and the two men-at-arms, and the herdsmen, arranged
themselves beside him, while Fathers Eastgate and Haydocke, who had
gotten upon their mules, took up a position behind.Scarcely
were they thus placed, when a loud shout was raised below, and a band
of armed men, to the number of thirty or forty, leapt the stone wall,
and began to scale the hill with great rapidity. They came up a deep
dry channel, apparently worn in the hill-side by some former torrent,
and which led directly to the spot where Demdike and the abbot stood.
The beacon-fire still blazed brightly, and illuminated the whole
proceeding, showing that these men, from their accoutrements, were
royalist soldiers."Stir
not, as you value your life," said the wizard to Paslew; "but
observe what shall follow."
CHAPTER II.—THE ERUPTION.
Demdike
went a little further down the hill, stopping when he came to the
green patch. He then plunged his staff into the sod at the first
point where he had cast a tuft of heather, and with such force that
it sank more than three feet. The next moment he plucked it forth, as
if with a great effort, and a jet of black water spouted into the
air; but, heedless of this, he went to the next marked spot, and
again plunged the sharp point of the implement into the ground. Again
it sank to the same depth, and, on being drawn out, a second black
jet sprung forth.
Meanwhile
the hostile party continued to advance up the dry channel before
mentioned, and shouted on beholding these strange preparations, but
they did not relax their speed. Once more the staff sank into the
ground, and a third black fountain followed its extraction. By this
time, the royalist soldiers were close at hand, and the features of
their two leaders, John Braddyll and Richard Assheton, could be
plainly distinguished, and their voices heard.
"'Tis
he! 'tis the rebel abbot!" vociferated Braddyll, pressing
forward. "We were not misinformed. He has been watching by the
beacon. The devil has delivered him into our hands."
"Ho!
ho!" laughed Demdike.
"Abbot
no longer—'tis the Earl of Poverty you mean," responded
Assheton. "The villain shall be gibbeted on the spot where he
has fired the beacon, as a warning to all traitors."
"Ha,
heretics!—ha, blasphemers!—I can at least avenge myself upon
you," cried Paslew, striking spurs into his charger. But ere he
could execute his purpose, Demdike had sprung backward, and, catching
the bridle, restrained the animal by a powerful effort.
"Hold!"
he cried, in a voice of thunder, "or you will share their fate."
As
the words were uttered, a dull, booming, subterranean sound was
heard, and instantly afterwards, with a crash like thunder, the whole
of the green circle beneath slipped off, and from a yawning rent
under it burst forth with irresistible fury, a thick inky-coloured
torrent, which, rising almost breast high, fell upon the devoted
royalist soldiers, who were advancing right in its course. Unable to
avoid the watery eruption, or to resist its fury when it came upon
them, they were instantly swept from their feet, and carried down the
channel.
A
sight of horror was it to behold the sudden rise of that swarthy
stream, whose waters, tinged by the ruddy glare of the beacon-fire,
looked like waves of blood. Nor less fearful was it to hear the first
wild despairing cry raised by the victims, or the quickly stifled
shrieks and groans that followed, mixed with the deafening roar of
the stream, and the crashing fall of the stones, which accompanied
its course. Down, down went the poor wretches, now utterly
overwhelmed by the torrent, now regaining their feet only to utter a
scream, and then be swept off. Here a miserable struggler, whirled
onward, would clutch at the banks and try to scramble forth, but the
soft turf giving way beneath him, he was hurried off to eternity.
At
another point where the stream encountered some trifling opposition,
some two or three managed to gain a footing, but they were unable to
extricate themselves. The vast quantity of boggy soil brought down by
the current, and which rapidly collected here, embedded them and held
them fast, so that the momently deepening water, already up to their
chins, threatened speedy immersion. Others were stricken down by
great masses of turf, or huge rocky fragments, which, bounding from
point to point with the torrent, bruised or crushed all they
encountered, or, lodging in some difficult place, slightly diverted
the course of the torrent, and rendered it yet more dangerous.
On
one of these stones, larger than the rest, which had been stopped in
its course, a man contrived to creep, and with difficulty kept his
post amid the raging flood. Vainly did he extend his hand to such of
his fellows as were swept shrieking past him. He could not lend them
aid, while his own position was so desperately hazardous that he did
not dare to quit it. To leap on either bank was impossible, and to
breast the headlong stream certain death.
On
goes the current, madly, furiously, as if rejoicing in the work of
destruction, while the white foam of its eddies presents a fearful
contrast to the prevailing blackness of the surface. Over the last
declivity it leaps, hissing, foaming, crashing like an avalanche. The
stone wall for a moment opposes its force, but falls the next, with a
mighty splash, carrying the spray far and wide, while its own
fragments roll onwards with the stream. The trees of the orchard are
uprooted in an instant, and an old elm falls prostrate. The
outbuildings of a cottage are invaded, and the porkers and cattle,
divining their danger, squeal and bellow in affright. But they are
quickly silenced. The resistless foe has broken down wall and door,
and buried the poor creatures in mud and rubbish.
The
stream next invades the cottage, breaks in through door and window,
and filling all the lower part of the tenement, in a few minutes
converts it into a heap of ruin. On goes the destroyer, tearing up
more trees, levelling more houses, and filling up a small pool, till
the latter bursts its banks, and, with an accession to its force,
pours itself into a mill-dam. Here its waters are stayed until they
find a vent underneath, and the action of the stream, as it rushes
downwards through this exit, forms a great eddy above, in which swim
some living things, cattle and sheep from the fold not yet drowned,
mixed with furniture from the cottages, and amidst them the bodies of
some of the unfortunate men-at-arms which have been washed hither.
But,
ha! another thundering crash. The dam has burst. The torrent roars
and rushes on furiously as before, joins its forces with Pendle
Water, swells up the river, and devastates the country far and
wide.[1]
The
abbot and his companions beheld this work of destruction with
amazement and dread. Blanched terror sat in their cheeks, and the
blood was frozen in Paslew's veins; for he thought it the work of the
powers of darkness, and that he was leagued with them. He tried to
mutter a prayer, but his lips refused their office. He would have
moved, but his limbs were stiffened and paralysed, and he could only
gaze aghast at the terrible spectacle.
Amidst
it all he heard a wild burst of unearthly laughter, proceeding, he
thought, from Demdike, and it filled him with new dread. But he could
not check the sound, neither could he stop his ears, though he would
fain have done so. Like him, his companions were petrified and
speechless with fear.
After
this had endured for some time, though still the black torrent rushed
on impetuously as ever, Demdike turned to the abbot and said,—
"Your
vengeance has been fully gratified. You will now baptise my child?"
"Never,
never, accursed being!" shrieked the abbot. "Thou mayst
sacrifice her at thine own impious rites. But see, there is one poor
wretch yet struggling with the foaming torrent. I may save him."
"That
is John Braddyll, thy worst enemy," replied Demdike. "If he
lives he shall possess half Whalley Abbey. Thou hadst best also save
Richard Assheton, who yet clings to the great stone below, as if he
escapes he shall have the other half. Mark him, and make haste, for
in five minutes both shall be gone."
"I
will save them if I can, be the consequence to myself what it may,"
replied the abbot.
And,
regardless of the derisive laughter of the other, who yelled in his
ears as he went, "Bess shall see thee hanged at thy own door!"
he dashed down the hill to the spot where a small object,
distinguishable above the stream, showed that some one still kept his
head above water, his tall stature having preserved him.
"Is
it you, John Braddyll?" cried the abbot, as he rode up.
"Ay,"
replied the head. "Forgive me for the wrong I intended you, and
deliver me from this great peril."
"I
am come for that purpose," replied the abbot, dismounting, and
disencumbering himself of his heavy cloak.
By
this time the two herdsmen had come up, and the abbot, taking a crook
from one of them, clutched hold of the fellow, and, plunging
fearlessly into the stream, extended it towards the drowning man, who
instantly lifted up his hand to grasp it. In doing so Braddyll lost
his balance, but, as he did not quit his hold, he was plucked forth
from the tenacious mud by the combined efforts of the abbot and his
assistant, and with some difficulty dragged ashore.
"Now
for the other," cried Paslew, as he placed Braddyll in safety.
"One-half
the abbey is gone from thee," shouted a voice in his ears as he
rushed on.
Presently
he reached the rocky fragment on which Ralph Assheton rested. The
latter was in great danger from the surging torrent, and the stone on
which he had taken refuge tottered at its base, and threatened to
roll over.
"In
Heaven's name, help me, lord abbot, as thou thyself shall be holpen
at thy need!" shrieked Assheton.
"Be
not afraid, Richard Assheton," replied Paslew. "I will
deliver thee as I have delivered John Braddyll."
But
the task was not of easy accomplishment. The abbot made his
preparations as before; grasped the hand of the herdsman and held out
the crook to Assheton; but when the latter caught it, the stream
swung him round with such force that the abbot must either abandon
him or advance further into the water. Bent on Assheton's
preservation, he adopted the latter expedient, and instantly lost his
feet; while the herdsman, unable longer to hold him, let go the
crook, and the abbot and Assheton were swept down the stream
together.
Down—down
they went, destruction apparently awaiting them; but the abbot,
though sometimes quite under the water, and bruised by the rough
stones and gravel with which he came in contact, still retained his
self-possession, and encouraged his companion to hope for succour. In
this way they were borne down to the foot of the hill, the monks, the
herdsmen, and the men-at-arms having given them up as lost. But they
yet lived—yet floated—though greatly injured, and almost
senseless, when they were cast into a pool formed by the eddying
waters at the foot of the hill. Here, wholly unable to assist
himself, Assheton was seized by a black hound belonging to a tall man
who stood on the bank, and who shouted to Paslew, as he helped the
animal to bring the drowning man ashore, "The other half of the
abbey is gone from thee. Wilt thou baptise my child if I send my dog
to save thee?"
"Never!"
replied the other, sinking as he spoke.
Flashes
of fire glanced in the abbot's eyes, and stunning sounds seemed to
burst his ears. A few more struggles, and he became senseless.
But
he was not destined to die thus. What happened afterwards he knew
not; but when he recovered full consciousness, he found himself
stretched, with aching limbs and throbbing head, upon a couch in a
monastic room, with a richly-painted and gilded ceiling, with shields
at the corners emblazoned with the three luces of Whalley, and with
panels hung with tapestry from the looms of Flanders, representing
divers Scriptural subjects.
"Have
I been dreaming?" he murmured.
"No,"
replied a tall man standing by his bedside; "thou hast been
saved from one death to suffer another more ignominious."
"Ha!"
cried the abbot, starting up and pressing his hand to his temples;
"thou here?"
"Ay,
I am appointed to watch thee," replied Demdike. "Thou art a
prisoner in thine own chamber at Whalley. All has befallen as I told
thee. The Earl of Derby is master of the abbey; thy adherents are
dispersed; and thy brethren are driven forth. Thy two partners in
rebellion, the abbots of Jervaux and Salley, have been conveyed to
Lancaster Castle, whither thou wilt go as soon as thou canst be
moved."
"I
will surrender all—silver and gold, land and possessions—to the
king, if I may die in peace," groaned the abbot.
"It
is not needed," rejoined the other. "Attainted of felony,
thy lands and abbey will be forfeited to the crown, and they shall be
sold, as I have told thee, to John Braddyll and Richard Assheton, who
will be rulers here in thy stead."
"Would
I had perished in the flood!" groaned the abbot.
"Well
mayst thou wish so," returned his tormentor; "but thou wert
not destined to die by water. As I have said, thou shalt be hanged at
thy own door, and my wife shall witness thy end."
"Who
art thou? I have heard thy voice before," cried the abbot. "It
is like the voice of one whom I knew years ago, and thy features are
like his—though changed—greatly changed. Who art thou?"
"Thou
shalt know before thou diest," replied the other, with a look of
gratified vengeance. "Farewell, and reflect upon thy fate."
So
saying, he strode towards the door, while the miserable abbot arose,
and marching with uncertain steps to a little oratory adjoining,
which he himself had built, knelt down before the altar, and strove
to pray.
