The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth
Page 366
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 Demd
ike 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.”