The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “We hae heard the beauty of the Lancashire lassies highly commended,” said the King; “but, faith! it passes expectation. Twa lovelier damsels than these we never beheld. Baith are rare specimens o’ Nature’s handiwark.”

  “Your Majesty is pleased to be complimentary,” rejoined Sir Richard Assheton.

  “Na, Sir Richard,” returned James. “We arena gien to flichtering, though aften beflummed oursel’. Baith are bonnie lassies, we repeat. An sae this is Alizon Nutter — it wad be Ailsie in our ain Scottish tongue, to which your Lancashire vernacular closely approximates, Sir Richard. Aweel, fair Alizon,” he added, eyeing her narrowly, “ye hae lost your mither, we understand?”

  The young girl was not discomposed by this question, but answered in a firm, melancholy tone— “Your Majesty, I fear, is too well acquainted with my unfortunate mother’s history.”

  “Aweel, we winna deny having heard somewhat to her disadvantage,” replied the King— “but your ain looks gang far to contradict the reports, fair maid.”

  “Place no faith in them then, sire,” replied Alizon, sadly.

  “Eh! what! — then you admit your mother’s guilt?” cried the King, sharply.

  “I neither admit it nor deny it, sire,” she replied. “It must be for your Majesty to judge her.”

  “Weel answered,” muttered James,— “but I mustna forget, that the deil himsel’ can quote Scripture to serve his purpose. But you hold in abhorrence the crime laid to your mother’s charge — eh?” he added aloud.

  “In utter abhorrence,” replied Alizon.

  “Gude — vera gude,” rejoined the King. “But, entertaining this feeling, how conies it you screen so heinous an offender frae justice? Nae natural feeling should be allowed to weigh in sic a case.”

  “Nor should it, sire, with me,” replied Alizon— “because I believe my poor mother’s eternal welfare would be best consulted if she underwent temporal punishment. Neither is she herself anxious to avoid it.”

  “Then why does she keep out of the way — why does she not surrender herself?” cried the King.

  “Because—” and Alizon stopped.

  “Because what?” demanded James.

  “Pardon me, sire, I must decline answering further questions on the subject,” replied Alizon. “Whatever concerns myself or my mother alone, I will state freely, but I cannot compromise others.”

  “Aha! then there are others concerned in it?” cried James. “We thought as much. We will interrogate you further hereafter — but a word mair. We trust ye are devout, and constant in your religious exercises, damsel.”

  “I will answer for that, sire,” interposed Sir Richard Assheton. “Alizon’s whole time is spent in prayer for her unfortunate mother. If there be a fault it is that she goes too far, and injures her health by her zeal.”

  “A gude fault that, Sir Richard,” observed the King, approvingly.

  “It beseems me not to speak of myself, sire,” said Alizon, “and I am loth to do so — but I beseech your majesty to believe, that if my life might be offered as an atonement for my mother, I would freely yield it.”

  “I’ gude faith she staggers me in my opinion,” muttered James, “and I maun look into the matter mair closely. The lass is far different frae what I imagined her. But the wiles o’ Satan arena to be comprehended, and he will put on the semblance of righteousness when seeking to beguile the righteous. Aweel, damsel,” he added aloud, “ye speak feelingly and properly, and as a daughter should speak, and we respect your feelings — provided they be sic as ye represent them. And now dispose yourselves for the chase.”

  “I must pray your Majesty to dismiss me,” said Alizon. “It is a sight in which at any time I take small pleasure, and now it is especially distasteful to me. With your permission, I will proceed to Hoghton Tower.”

  “I also crave your Majesty’s leave to go with her,” said Dorothy.

  “I will attend them,” interposed Richard.

  “Na, you maun stay wi’ us, young sir,” cried the King. “Your gude father will gang wi’ ‘em. Sir John Finett,” he added, calling to the master of the ceremonies, and speaking in his ear, “see that they be followed, and that a special watch be kept over Alizon, and also over this youth, — d’ye mark me? — in fact, ower a’ the Assheton clan. And now,” he cried in a loud voice, “let them blaw the strake.”

  The chief huntsman having placed the bugle to his lips, and blown a strike with two winds, a short consultation was held between him and James, who loved to display his knowledge as a woodsman; and while this was going forward, Nicholas and Sherborne having come up, the squire dismounted, and committing Robin to his brother-in-law, approached the monarch.

  “If I may be so bold as to put in a word, my liege,” he said, “I can show you where a hart of ten is assuredly harboured. I viewed him as I rode through the park this morning, and cannot, therefore, be mistaken. His head is high and well palmed, great beamed and in good proportion, well burred and well pearled. He is stately in height, long, and well fed.”

  “Did you mark the slot, sir?” inquired James.

  “I did, my liege,” replied Nicholas. “And a long slot it was; the toes great, with round short joint-bones, large shin-bones, and the dew-claws close together. I will uphold him for a great old hart as ever proffered, and one that shall shew your Majesty rare sport.”

  “And we’ll tak your word for the matter, sir,” said James; “for ye’re as gude a woodman as any we hae in our dominions. Bring us to him, then.”

  “Will it please your Majesty to ride towards yon glade?” said Nicholas, “and, before you reach it, the hart shall be roused.”

  James, assenting to the arrangement, Nicholas sprang upon his steed, and, calling to the chief huntsman, they galloped off together, accompanied by the bloodhound, the royal cavalcade following somewhat more slowly in the same direction. A fair sight it was to see that splendid company careering over the plain, their feathered caps and gay mantles glittering in the sun, which shone brightly upon them. The morning was lovely, giving promise that the day, when further advanced, would be intensely hot, but at present it was fresh and delightful, and the whole company, exhilarated by the exercise, and by animated conversation, were in high spirits; and perhaps amongst the huge party, which numbered nearly three hundred persons, one alone was a prey to despair. But though Richard Assheton suffered thus internally, he bore his anguish with Spartan firmness, resolved, if possible, to let no trace of it be visible in his features or deportment; and he so far succeeded in conquering himself, that the King, who kept a watchful eye upon him, remarked to Sir John Finett as they rode along, that a singular improvement had taken place in the young man’s appearance.

  The cavalcade was rapidly approaching the glade at the lower end of the chase, when the lively notes of a horn were heard from the adjoining wood, followed by the deep baying of a bloodhound.

  “Aha! they have roused him,” cried the King, joyfully placing his own bugle to his lips, and sounding an answer. Upon this the whole company halted in anxious expectation, the hounds baying loudly. The next moment, a noble hart burst from the wood, whence he had been driven by the shouts of Nicholas and the chief huntsman, both of whom appeared immediately afterwards.

  “By my faith! a great hart as ever was hunted,” exclaimed the King. “There boys, there! to him! to him!”

  Dashing after the flying hart, the hounds made the welkin ring with their cries. Many lovely damsels were there, but none thought of the cruelty of the sport — none sympathised with the noble animal they were running to death. The cries of the hounds — now loud and ringing — now deep and doling, accompanied by the whooping of the huntsmen, formed a stirring concert, which found a response in many a gentle bosom. The whole cavalcade was spread widely about, for none were allowed to ride near the King. Over the plain they scoured, fleet as the wind, and the hart seemed making for a fell, forming part of the hill near the mansion. But ere he reached it, the relays stationed withi
n a covert burst forth, and, turning him aside, he once more dashed fleetly across the broad expanse, as if about to return to his old lair. Now he was seen plunging into some bosky dell; and, after being lost to view for a moment, bounding up the opposite bank, and stretching across a tract thickly covered with fern. Here he gained upon the hounds, who were lost in the green wilderness, and their cries were hushed for a brief space — but anon they burst forth anew, and the pack were soon again in full cry, and speeding over the open ground.

  At first the cavalcade had kept pretty well together, but on the return the case was very different; and many of the dames, being unable to keep up with the hounds, fell off, and, as a natural consequence, many of the gallants lingered behind, too. Thus only the keenest huntsmen held on. Amongst these, and about fifty yards behind the King, were Richard and Nicholas. The squire was right when he predicted that the hart would show them good sport. Plunging into the wood, the hard-pressed beast knocked up another stag, and took possession of his lair, but was speedily roused again by Nicholas and the chief huntsman. Once more he is crossing the wide plain, with hounds and huntsmen after him — once more he is turned by a new relay; but this time he shapes his course towards the woods skirting the Darwen. It is a piteous sight to see him now; his coat black and glistening with sweat, his mouth embossed with foam, his eyes dull, big tears coursing down his cheeks, and his noble head carried low. His end seems nigh — for the hounds, though weary too, redouble their energies, and the monarch cheers them on. Again the poor beast erects his head — if he can only reach yon coppice he is safe. Despair nerves him, and with gigantic bounds he clears the intervening space, and disappears beneath the branches. Quickly as the hounds come after him, they are at fault.

  “He has taken to the soil, sire,” cried Nicholas coming up. “To the river — to the river! You may see by the broken branches he has gone this way.”

  Forcing his way through the wood, James was soon on the banks of the Darwen, which here ran deep and slow. The hart was nowhere to be seen, nor was there any slot on the further side to denote that he had gone forth. It was evident, therefore, that he had swam down the stream. At this moment a shout was heard a hundred yards lower down, proceeding from Nicholas; and, riding in the direction of the sound, the King found the hart at bay on the further side of the stream, and nearly up to his haunches in the water. The King regarded him for a moment anxiously. The poor animal was now in his last extremity, but he seemed determined to sell his life dearly. He stood on a bank projecting into the stream, round which the water flowed deeply, and could not be approached without difficulty and danger. He had already gored several hounds, whose bleeding bodies were swept down the current; and, though the others bayed round him, they did not dare to approach him, and could not get behind him, as a high bank arose in his rear.

  “Have I your Majesty’s permission to despatch him?” asked Nicholas.

  “Ay, marry, if you can, sir,” replied James. “But ‘ware the tynes!— ‘ware the tynes!— ‘If thou be hurt with hart it brings thee to thy bier,’ as the auld ballad hath it, and the adage is true, as we oursel’s have seen.”

  Nicholas, however, heeded not the caution, but, drawing his wood-knife, and disencumbering himself of his cloak, he plunged into the stream, and with one or two strokes reached the bank. The hart watched his approach, as if divining his purpose, with a look half menacing, half reproachful, and when he came near, dashed his antlered head at him. Nimbly eluding the blow, which, if it had taken effect, might have proved serious, Nicholas plunged his weapon into the poor brute’s throat, who instantly fell with a heavy splash into the water.

  “Weel stricken! weel stricken!” shouted James, who had witnessed the performance from the opposite bank. “But how shall we get the carcase here?”

  “That is easily done, sire,” replied Nicholas. And taking hold of the horns, he guided the body to a low bank, a little below where the King stood.

  As soon as it was dragged ashore by the prickers, James put his bugle to his lips and blew a mort. A pryse was thrice sounded by Nicholas, and soon afterwards the whole company came flocking round the spot, whooping the death-note.

  Meanwhile, the hounds had gathered round the fallen hart, and were allowed to wreak their fury on him by tearing his throat, happily after sensibility was gone; while Nicholas, again baring his knife, cut off the right fore-foot, and presented it to the King. While this ceremony was performed, the varlets of the kennel having cut down a great heap of green branches, and strewn them on the ground, laid the hart upon them, on his back, and then bore him to an open space in the wood, where he was broken up by the King, who prided himself upon his skill in all matters of woodcraft. While this office was in course of execution a bowl of wine was poured out for the monarch, which he took, adverting, as he did so, to the common superstition, that if a huntsman should break up a deer without drinking, the venison would putrefy. Having drained the cup, he caused it to be filled again, and gave it to Nicholas, saying the liquor was needful to him after the drenching he had undergone. James then proceeded with his task, and just before he completed it, he was reminded, by a loud croak above him, that a raven was at hand, and accordingly taking a piece of gristle from the spoon of the brisket, he cast it on the ground, and the bird immediately pounced down upon it and carried it off in his huge beak.

  After a brief interval, the seek was again winded, another hart was roused, and after a short but swift chase, pulled down by the hounds, and dispatched with his own hand by James. Sir Richard Hoghton then besought the King to follow him, and led the way to a verdant hollow surrounded by trees, in which shady and delicious retreat preparations had been made for a slight silvan repast. Upon a mossy bank beneath a tree, a cushion was placed for the King, and before it on the sward was laid a cloth spread with many dainties, including

  “Neats’ tongues powder’d well, and jambons of the hog,

  With sausages and savoury knacks to set men’s minds agog” —

  cold capons, and pigeon pies. Close at hand was a clear cold spring, in which numerous flasks of wine were immersed. A few embers, too, had been lighted, on which carbonadoes of venison were prepared.

  No great form or ceremony was observed at the entertainment. Sir John Finett and Sir Thomas Hoghton were in close attendance upon the monarch, and ministered to his wants; but several of the nobles and gentlemen stretched themselves on the sward, and addressed themselves to the viands set before them by the pages. None of the dames dismounted, and few could be prevailed upon to take any refreshment. Besides the flasks of wine, there were two barrels of ale in a small cart, drawn by a mule, both of which were broached. The whole scene was picturesque and pleasing, and well calculated to gratify one so fond of silvan sports as the monarch for whom it was provided.

  In the midst of all this tranquillity and enjoyment an incident occurred which interrupted it as completely as if a thunder-storm had suddenly come on. Just when the mirth was at the highest, and when the flowing cup was at many a lip, a tremendous bellowing, followed by the crashing of branches, was heard in the adjoining thicket. All started to their feet at the appalling sound, and the King himself turned pale.

  “What in Heaven’s name can it be, Sir Richard?” he inquired. “It must be a drove of wild cattle,” replied the baronet, trembling.

  “Wild cattle!” ejaculated James, in great alarm; “and sae near us. Zounds! we shall be trampled and gored to death by these bulls of Basan. Sir Richard, ye are a fause traitor thus to endanger the safety o’ your sovereign, and ye shall answer for it, if harm come o’ it.”

  “I am unable to account for it, sire,” stammered the frightened baronet. “I gave special directions to the prickers to drive the beasts away.”

  “Ye shouldna keep sic deevils i’ your park, man,” cried the monarch. “Eh! what’s that?”

  Amidst all this consternation and confusion the bellowing was redoubled, and the crashing of branches drew nearer and nearer, and Nicholas Assh
eton rushed forward with the King’s horse, saying, “Mount, sire; mount, and away!”

  But James was so much alarmed that his limbs refused to perform their office, and he was unable to put foot in the stirrup. Seeing his condition, Nicholas cried out, “Pardon, my liege; but at a moment of peril like the present, one must not stand on ceremony.”

  So saying, he took the King round the waist, and placed him on his steed.

  At this juncture, a loud cry was heard, and a man in extremity of terror issued from the wood, and dashed towards the hollow. Close on his heels came the drove of wild cattle, and, just as he gained the very verge of the descent, the foremost of the herd overtook him, and lowering his curled head, caught him on the points of his horns, and threw him forwards to such a distance that he alighted with a heavy crash almost at the King’s feet. Satisfied, apparently, with their vengeance, or alarmed by the numerous assemblage, the drove instantly turned tail and were pursued into the depths of the forest by the prickers.

  Having recovered his composure, James bade some of the attendants raise the poor wretch, who was lying groaning upon the ground, evidently so much injured as to be unable to move without assistance. His garb was that of a forester, and his bulk — for he was stoutly and squarely built — had contributed, no doubt, to the severity of the fall. When he was lifted from the ground, Nicholas instantly recognised in his blackened and distorted features those of Christopher Demdike.

  “What?” he exclaimed, rushing towards him. “Is it thou, villain?”

  The sufferer only replied by a look of intense malignity.

  “Eh! what — d’ye ken wha it is?” demanded James. “By my saul! I fear the puir fellow has maist of his banes broken.”

  “No great matter if they be,” replied Nicholas, “and it may save the application of torture in case your Majesty desires to put any question to him. Chance has most strangely thrown into your hands one of the most heinous offenders in the kingdom, who has long escaped justice, but who will at length meet the punishment of his crimes. The villain is Christopher Demdike, son of the foul hag who perished in the flames on the summit of Pendle Hill, and captain of a band of robbers.”