II.
The Legend of Alman’s Death.

A TALE OF MELANDRA CASTLE.

WHEN the Roman general, Julius Agricola completed the subjugation of the Britons, he began to prepare for a permanent occupation of the country by erecting a series of strong military stations or forts throughout the entire kingdom. A number of these fortresses were built in Cheshire, Lancashire, and Derbyshire, and among the rest was Melandra Castle, erected on the banks of the river Etherow, in what is now known as the township of Gamesley. This fort was established about the end of the first century of the Christian era; it was well built and was of considerable size; moreover its importance was increased because it commanded the hill country north and east of Longdendale. It proved an admirable means of driving back the raids which the scattered hill-tribes were fond of making on the rich lands of the valley. The Romans originally called the fort “Zedrotalia,” but, on account of its standing in a district where oak trees were plentiful, it came to be known by its present name. Melandra is said to be a Roman name derived from the Greek Melandryon, which signifies “The heart of oak,” or “The heart in the oak,” and is supposed to have reference to the fact that the forests of Longdendale were noted for their splendid oaks at the time when the Romans built their station.

The site of the Castle has been excavated during the years 1899-1905, and the result of this has been the securing of ample proof that Melandra was a station of great strength and importance. The foundations of walls of considerable thickness, with the masonry still solid and straight as on the day when it was laid, have been unearthed. Pieces of pottery, broken weapons, and coins have been found. There is also an inscribed stone containing the inscription—“Cohortis Primæ Frisianorum Centurio Valerius Vitalis.” Dr. Watson, the eminent antiquary, translates this into “The Cohort of the First Frisians, Centurion Valerius Vitalis.” The Frisians were troops attached to the renowned Twentieth Legion—the “Valiant and Victorious”—and Valerius Vitalis is the only one of the Roman commanders whose name has been handed down.

Across the valley, some distance from Melandra, is a hill called Mouselow. This hill is supposed to have been a stronghold of the Ancient Britons. It forms a position of great natural strength, and was well adapted for military occupation in the days anterior to gunpowder and artillery. Several pre-historic weapons have been discovered near.

For a considerable time after the erection of Melandra Castle, the Roman garrison was much harassed by the activity of a chieftain who was encamped on Mouselow. This chief watched his opportunity, and rallying to his side the few fighting men of the Britons who were left, darted down on detached bands of the Roman soldiery, and left not one alive to tell the tale. Thus from the earliest days, it seemed fated that there was to be strife and enmity between the two strongholds. Even when the Romans had finally driven out the Britons, and razed the original building of Mouselow to the ground, the struggle did not cease; for after a time the legions were forced to leave the country, and no sooner had they turned their backs than the native chiefs were quarrelling over the spoils. One chief took possession of Melandra and became prince of that place, and a rival chief rebuilt the fort on Mouselow and took the title of Prince of Mouselow.

After a time came the Saxon invasion—bands of freebooters from the continent landed on these shores, and pillaged where they listed, some returning to their own land with the spoil they had won, others settling on the lands of the chiefs they had defeated and slain. Among the latter class was a Saxon chief named Alman—a brave, though ruthless warrior, who, after some fierce fighting put to death the Prince of Mouselow, and established himself in that mountain stronghold. Thereafter the country of Longdendale was never free from the depredations of this chief; his robber bands harassed the valleys, and no man’s property was safe if it happened to attract the attention of the new Prince of Mouselow. He terrorised the native chiefs, who were nearly all reduced to a state of vassalage by him; indeed, of all those chiefs, the Prince of Melandra alone maintained his former state of independence, and this principally because he was fortunate enough to hold a castle built by the Romans, which, as may be readily supposed, was the strongest fortress in that part of the country. Affairs were in this state when there occurred those incidents which form the substance of this legend.

Now Alman had set his heart upon winning the daughter of a neighbouring chief for his bride. She was named Ineld, and her father was the Lord of Woley—which at that time was a fair-sized town. He was a brave old man, but his forces had been defeated, and his territory ravaged by Alman’s soldiers, so he was somewhat afraid of the Prince of Mouselow, and more than half inclined to bestow his daughter’s hand upon Alman without ever consulting the girl’s wishes at all.

But it chanced that Ineld had views of her own upon the subject, and Alman and his robber ways were not to her liking. She had heard things of Alman and his doings which made the blood run cold.

One day there had come to her father’s gate an old woman, who craved an audience of the chief.

“Why are thine eyes so heavy with mourning?” asked the Lord of Woley. And the old dame made answer:

“O Chief, I am a widow, and the only stay and comfort of my old age was my son—an only child. He kept me from beggary and want. He loved a maiden, and hoped shortly to make her his wife, and even to-day they talked together by the roadside. But it chanced that the Prince of Mouselow rode by with his retinue, and, happening to catch sight of the maid, he ordered his guards to seize her and carry her to the castle. My son interfered, and in an instant the Prince of Mouselow slew him with his own hand. And now, O chief, I cry aloud to thee for justice.”

And another day one of her father’s serfs had come in weeping.

“My lord,” he cried, “I am heavy of heart. I have suffered a great wrong, and I look to thee for redress. My farm, as thou knowest, is on the boundary of the Prince of Mouselow’s territory, and to-day, in my absence, his men came and carried off my cattle and much store of corn. Also, when my wife, who is very fair, remonstrated with them, they seized her and carried her away to their prince, and my little child they slew with the sword.”

These things had Ineld heard, and they in no way predisposed her in favour of Alman, nor did the appearance of the chief when he came a-wooing, alter her first opinions of him. He was a rough, boisterous man, who drank deep, and swore loud oaths—fine and handsome of outward appearance, but a man lacking that refinement which most women prefer to see in men.

Having disclosed his intention to the Lord of Woley, Alman made his way to the fair Ineld’s side, but so used was he to wooing by force that he could not even now altogether rid himself of his blunt, repulsive manner.

“Ah, my May,” cried he, stealing behind the maid, and flinging his arm roughly about her waist, “one kiss from those rosy lipe of thine, and then we will talk of love.”

He laughed as the startled Ineld struggled to free herself from his grasp, but a scowl of anger swept over his face as, with her little hand, she struck him heavily upon the coarse lips which he had thrust near her face.

Then he laughed again, and even swore.

“By Woden,” said he, “but you are a fit wife for any chief. Little spitfire—but I like such play. Trust me, I love thee none the less for that blow. Some day I will tame thee, and then, by the gods, we shall make a mighty pair.”

“Never,” cried Ineld fiercely.

And, breaking away, she ran to the mansion, and hid herself in the women’s quarters, where even Alman dared not follow.

That day the Prince of Mouselow rode away immensely pleased with himself; he loved to see a maid full of fight, so he said, and he promised himself that Ineld should love him by and by. But the days went past, and do what he would, he could never persuade the maiden to grant him an interview alone.

His spirit chafed at the prolonged delay, and at length he determined upon bolder measures. He lay in wait in the woodland near the home of Ineld, and in due course his patient waiting was rewarded. The fair maiden appeared, and, first looking timidly around, as though to make sure she was unobserved, made her way through the glade to a spot near a fern-covered spring.

Alman chuckled to himself with glee, and silently he kept pace with the maiden, although remaining concealed the while.

When Ineld stopped, and showed unmistakable signs of going no further, the Prince of Mouselow emerged from the undergrowth behind which he had been hidden, and, with a laugh of triumph, stood before her.

“Now, my little vixen,” said he, “I have won you at last. Maids so coy as you must be wooed in rough fashion. And, once inside my mountain fortress, I doubt not your consent to wed Alman will soon be forthcoming.”

So saying, he made to carry her to the spot where his steed was tethered, for he would win his bride by force, even as he had won his wealth and lands.

Ineld screamed shrilly in terror, and the Prince clapped his rough hand upon her lips to stifle the cries.

“Cease such idle wailing,” said he. “The wood is deserted, no one can hear, nor would it greatly matter if they could. I hold thee now, and no man in all the land shall rob me of my prize.”

“Be not so sure of that,” said a voice at his shoulder, so suddenly and unexpectedly that Alman dropped the girl, who immediately, with a joyful cry, sprang to the side of the new comer.

“Lewin—sweetheart,” cried she—then could say no more by reason of the caress which her deliverer bestowed upon her.

“Ah,” cried Alman—a light breaking on him, as he recognised the youthful Lewin, Prince of Melandra. “So ’tis a lover’s tryst I have marred by my presence. Well, let us see who is the better man—Lewin or Alman, and the winner takes the maid.”

He loosened the short axe at his side, and, without pause, rushed on Lewin, waving the weapon aloft. Scarce had the youth time to thrust the maid behind him and draw his blade when the axe fell; but the sword of Lewin was swift to parry, and at the same instant he sprang aside. The axe missed him by a hairsbreadth, but the sword was shattered by the stroke, and the Prince of Melandra stood weaponless—at the mercy of Alman.

The Prince of Mouselow laughed, and again raised his axe to make an end, but Lewin, disdaining to fly, faced him calmly, awaiting death without a tremour. His cool and gallant bearing touched the fierce robber, and he dropped his arm.

“I could slay thee easily,” said he, “but I soil not my fame so. Thou art a brave man, and above all the chiefs about, hast hitherto opposed me with credit to thyself. I give thee thy life—the maiden goes with me. But this chance I give thee. Rally thy men and meet me now in battle array—Melandra against Mouselow, and we will fight for a noble prize—the lordship of all the land of Longdendale, and the fair Ineld for a queen. Thou may’st trust me. The maid stays in my keeping, but I touch her not until the battle has been fought and won.”

Lewin advanced and took the hand of Alman.

“I trust thee, Prince,” said he. “’Tis a noble act. Get thee to thy stronghold with the maiden, for soon the axe of Lewin will be knocking at thy door.”

Then, turning to the trembling girl, he whispered:

“Fear not, Ineld, I come quickly. Ere another hour is passed the war-song of Lewin will echo through the hills.”

Then he was gone.

An hour later Alman stood on the rampart of Mouselow, and gazed in the direction of Melandra. The warrior by his side pointed to a dancing light which played upon the distant fields and seemed to move on Mouselow. It was the sunlight reflected from a host of shields and spears.

“They come, my lord,” said he. And Alman answered:

“This Lewin keeps his word. The fight will be such as a soldier loves. Now get to your arms.”

The Prince of Mouselow watched the approach of the foe with gladness. Rude and tyrannous though he might be, he was yet a brave man, and asked for nothing better than a worthy foe and a fair field. It mattered little to him if death came in the conflict. His fathers had all died fighting, and he, too, longed to die in the thick of the fray. He loved fighting for fighting’s sake, and in the lust for the conflict he even forgot the fair Ineld—the prize for which he fought. Placing himself at the head of his men, he led them out of the fort, and soon the two forces were in touch with each other. The Prince of Melandra was at the head of his own troops, and as the two armies closed he gave forth his war shout and called upon his men to charge. The warriors clashed their axes and shields together, and cried aloud:

“Lewin we will follow thee to death. Lead on!”

And thus the great fight begun.

The battle lasted through the day, and it seemed almost certain that the superior force of the Prince of Mouselow would win. But the men of Melandra fought like heroes; they stubbornly maintained their ground, and, as the day passed, the battle was still undecided.

Throughout the combat Lewin seemed to bear a charmed life. He was ever in the thick of battle, and where his axe descended there death reigned in the foemen’s ranks. But towards the evening he realised that his rapidly thinning ranks were in danger of being enveloped by the greater number of the foe, and that if the battle was to be saved, it would require a superhuman effort.

Then, knowing that where he led his men would surely follow, he raised his war shout, and, with a mighty rush, charged single-handed on the foe. He was surrounded in an instant, and a score of blows were showered at his head. The peril of their chief so incensed the men of Melandra that they became like madmen, and swept onwards with a charge that nothing could withstand. This was exactly what Lewin had looked for, and, hoping to render the effect of the charge doubly sure, he still pushed on, making for the standard where Alman fought.

The Prince of Mouselow rallied his men about him, and, shoulder to shoulder, they stood to repel the onslaught. But the rush of Lewin was too fierce, the men of Mouselow were scattered like chaff, and Alman himself fell pierced by a score of blades.

With the fall of Alman the battle ended, his men fled from the field, and their dying chief turned and laughed as he watched them fly.

“They run,” said he—“the dogs. And yet—they fought bravely. Well, let them run. Ho. Lewin, the day is thine. Ineld is thine, and I—I die. Tell her I died as a brave man should—face to the foe. Valhalla calls me. Lewin, farewell.”

So he died.

The old chronicle tells us that he died as the sun set, and his spirit passed away with the dying beams to the eternal land of rest. It is said that so keen was the conflict, and so great was the bloodshed, that one part of the battlefield was afterwards termed Redgate in perpetual commemoration of the day. The spot whereon Alman died was called Almansdeath, a name it still retains.

Author’s Note.

There are many traditions which speak of the fierce encounters between the forces of Melandra and Mouselow. They are, however, extremely vague, and it is difficult to say whether the story of Alman refers to a battle between the Romans and the Britons, or a struggle of the later Saxon period. For the purpose of this narrative I have adopted the latter date. It may be added that Melandra has been a favourite theme with local writers. The following fragments from the pen of Thomas Barlow, the Longdendale poet, will serve as illustrations of the way in which the “castle” has been the subject of song and romance.

III.
King Arthur’s Adventure.

ARTHUR, son of Uthyr, Pendragon of Great Britain, organised that high order of Christian chivalry, commonly known as the knighthood of the Round Table. The companions of this Order bound themselves by oath to oppose the progress of paganism, to be loyal to the British throne, to fight—not for self-glory, but for the redressing of human wrong, to protect the defenceless, to show mercy to the fallen, to honour womanhood, and never to turn their backs upon a foe in battle.

It is said that God raised up King Arthur that he might render Britain free, drive out the heathen, purify his realm, and spread Christ among men. For this purpose, the Lady of the Lake, “clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,” gave to the king the huge cross-hilted sword, “Excalibur,” which was forged beneath the sea, whose blade was so bright that men were blinded by it, and before whose sweep no man might stand. With this blade, Arthur led his knighthood, and in twelve great battles overcame the Saxon heathen hordes. It is said that four of these great victories of the young Pendragon were fought in Lancashire, and that after the battles the knights of the Round Table rode through the country, redressing the wrongs of the people, and putting tyrants to the sword.

At this time there were great castles on the hills of Longdendale, and in one of these strongholds dwelt a cruel and treacherous knight of gigantic stature and enormous strength. On account of his many cruelties he was known as Sir Terrible. His fortress was built upon a commanding eminence; it was defended by ramparts surmounted by massive towers of stone, and was so strong a place that it had never yet been taken by a foe.

Sir Terrible was not married, though he was now in the prime of life. It was said that no woman would mate with him, so black were his deeds. Strange tales were told of his love passages, and many a country maiden had mysteriously disappeared. Rumour said that the knight carried off the maidens to his dreadful dwelling under cover of the darkness, and it was certain that when morning came, the cottage of each victim was found in ashes, and the dead bodies of the kinsfolk lay around. No trace of the maids could be found, and they were never seen again, though shrieks and cries of agony floated on the air from the direction of the castle walls.

Now King Arthur held Court after one of his great victories, which he won near Wigan, and to him flocked the people from far and near, laying their grievances before the King, and beseeching help at his hands. Among the rest came an old dame from Longdendale, who wept bitterly as she told her story, bewailing the loss of the fairest maid in all Cheshire. For it seemed that the maiden was the old dame’s grandchild, that they two lived in a lonely spot in the valley of Longdendale, that Sir Terrible had become enamoured of the maid, and had carried her to his castle, where he kept her a prisoner, neither suffering her to go out, nor yet anyone to hold converse with her. Also he had slain two noble knight-errants to whom the dame had told her tale, and who had chivalrously sought to rescue the maiden.

It was towards the close of the day when the old dame told her story, for there had been a large attendance of petitioners to see the King; moreover all the knights had left the court on some quest or other in keeping with their oaths as members of the Round Table. But when the King heard of the cruelty of Sir Terrible, he rose at once, the gentle look passed from his face, and in its place gleamed the determined light of battle. He donned his war-gear, and buckled the great sword “Excalibur” to his side. Then, accompanied only by a young squire, and dressed only as a simple knight, he rode away towards Longdendale.

The King rested for the night at the hut of a poor peasant, from whom he gleaned tidings of many fresh cruelties of Sir Terrible. Early in the morning he set out and soon came in sight of the Castle.

Now, as they rode, the young squire had been silent. But when the Castle towers hove in sight he spoke to the King.

“My liege,” said he, “My father was a knight at the court of Uthyr Pendragon, and was esteemed meet company for brave men. I, his son, have not yet done a deed worthy of mine ancestry. Grant, I pray, that this quest be mine to follow. ’Tis true I am untried, and the foe is strong, yet the cause is just, and, mayhap, God will nerve my arm.”

So he pleaded, for he desired above all else the chance to do some Christian deed that might win for him the fellowship of the Round Table.

After much persuasion the king at last granted him his prayer, and the Squire rode with a glad heart to the castle gate, while Arthur hid himself among the trees.

Reaching the gate, the squire thundered at it with his lance, and then drew back to wait. In answer to his knocking, the knight Sir Terrible appeared, ready mounted, armed with lance and sword.

“Villain and treacherous knight,” cried the squire. “How darest thou abduct innocent and defenceless maidens, whom all thy Order are bound to protect, keeping them as slaves within thy castle? I am come to make thee rue this foul insult to the order of our good King Arthur; for thy cruelties are a stain upon the honour of his knighthood, and a blotch upon the fair fame of his kingdom.”

“Thou discourteous churl,” answered Sir Terrible. “Do but lead on to yon level piece of green, and I will first meet thee in fair fight, and then send thy carcase to thy base born king.”

Now the squire, used to the honour of noble knights, turned to ride to the greensward indicated, but no sooner was his back turned than the treacherous Sir Terrible, couching his lance, drove at him between the shoulders, striking him so fierce a blow that the squire fell senseless to the ground.

Then the knight laughed loudly, and would have hacked off the head of his fallen foe, had not the king, who was now dismounted, stepped from the shelter of the trees, and stood above the prostrate squire.

“Thou cruel traitor,” cried the king. “That foul stroke shall cost thee thy life. Never have I seen a blow more foul.”

On seeing this new foe, Sir Terrible—who did not recognise the king—again couched his lance, and, without waiting to give his opponent chance to mount, and meet him in fair combat, charged down upon the king.

But Arthur stood calm and firm, and drawing Excalibur from its sheath, he stepped aside as the horseman charged, and smote with all his might. The blow cut clean through the lance close to the haft, and falling on the steed, brought it to the ground. Instantly the knight sprang up in terror.

“Now I know thee,” he cried. “Thou art Arthur Pendragon. No sword save the brand Excalibur could have struck so great a blow as that.”

“Thou speakest truly,” answered the king. “I am indeed Pendragon.”

Then the coward knight turned to fly, for well he knew that none might stand before Excalibur and live.

But the king stepped forward. He raised the great sword aloft. The blade flashed in the sunlight. It cut clean through the iron helm, and the head of Sir Terrible rolled on the sward.

After slaying the tyrant—so the story tells us—King Arthur restored the squire, who was merely wounded, and then the two, mounting their steeds, rode up to the castle gates. The king rode in front, and at his saddle bow there hung the bloody head of the dead tyrant.

Arthur raised his lance, and with it thundered on the outer gate.

“Ho! warder,” cried the king, “open instantly!”

But the warder made answer—

“Who art thou who knockest so loudly? Know that I hold the castle for Sir Terrible, and that I open only when my master comes.”

At which the king laughed.

“Then open hastily,” said he, “for thy master is here even now.”

And swinging his arms, he hurled the gory head of the traitor knight over the iron spikes of the gate, so that it fell with a thud at the feet of the warder. The terrified fellow shrieked and fled, and his cries rang through the castle, causing the men-at-arms to grasp their weapons and stand at attention.

By this time the king was hammering loudly at the gate—great blows that shook the stout oaken portal so that it trembled in its sockets, and threatened to fall into splinters.

“By my troth,” cried the captain of the men-at-arms, “but ’tis a mighty arm which deals such blows. No wonder our master fell before it.”

Then, leaning over the rampart, he called aloud:

“Ho! there without. Who art thou who makest such a din; and what is thy business?”

Then Arthur made answer:

“I am the king,”

Whereupon the men were overcome with fear, and casting aside their weapons, they opened the gate, and surrendered the castle to King Arthur. The king ordered all the captives to be set at liberty, and this was immediately done, the long procession of unfortunate victims of the cruelty of Sir Terrible passing before the king, each one blessing him for having wrought their deliverance.

Last of all came the maiden whose rescue had been the immediate cause of the king’s visit to Longdendale. She was wondrously beautiful, and as she stood before him, Arthur was so struck by her good looks that he could not refrain from passing knightly compliments.

“Such beauty as thine,” said he, “would best befit a court. ’Tis wasted in these wilds. Thou shalt have a place among the maidens who wait upon the Queen.”

But the maiden answered:

“If it please thee, sire, I would stay in fair Longdendale. I am but a country maiden. I love the free life of these hills and valleys; and at thy court I should be but as a wild bird in a cage.”

Whereupon the king, noticing her earnest look of supplication, smilingly bent his head, and suffered her to depart.

Now the rest of the tale is soon told. The king bestowed the castle and the lands of the dead Sir Terrible, upon the young squire who had accompanied him, and whom he now made into a knight.

And then great changes took place in that part of Longdendale. Instead of being looked upon with dread by all the people of the countryside, the castle came to be regarded as the seat of a protecting power, to whose lord the poor might look for succour in time of need, and for justice in all seasons.

And perhaps the greatest change of all took place in the maiden who had been rescued from the clutches of Sir Terrible by King Arthur and his squire. Formerly she had trembled at the very name of the lord of the castle, and had witnessed his approach with a terror as great as that which causes the timid to shrink from death. But now she shrank from his approach no longer, there were even whispers that she kept tryst with the new lord; and at length there arrived a day when the young knight came in state, and carried her to the castle—a willing captive—where, in the presence of the king, they were made man and wife. The two lived long and happily together, trusted by the king, respected by their equals, and beloved by all who were beneath them in station. The knight won great renown as a warrior, so much so that evil-disposed men feared to meet him, and during his lifetime, although there were wars in other parts of the kingdom, the land of Longdendale enjoyed peace.

In due time the knight and his lady had several fine sons, who grew up after the pattern of the king, and long maintained the fair fame of Arthur Pendragon in Longdendale, even in days after the good king had passed from life, to sail in the black barge with the three Queens, to Avilion, the Isle of Rest.

Author’s Note.

Concerning the connection of King Arthur with Longdendale, it may be of interest to mention that Bernard Robinson, in his “History of Longdendale,” writes thus:—“Traditions speak of castles and kings, and great bloody battles fought along the hills—traditions of the times of Aurelius Ambrosius, and King Arthur, that have come

“Floating down the tide of years’ mantled in mystery.”

I may further add that it is not surprising to find Longdendale associated by tradition with the great hero of English romance. Several great battles of King Arthur are said to have been fought in Lancashire and Cheshire, and the former county is very closely linked with the chief of the knights of the Round Table. The name Lancashire is said to mean “Lancelot’s Shire.” Lancelot of the Lake is reputed to have been monarch or ruler of this county.

IV.
The Legend of War Hill.

IT was early autumn of the year 1138, and the Valley of Longdendale was a vast tract of desolation. True, the trees were still decked with verdure, and the mellow tint of autumn clothed nature with a lovely garb. The streams still murmured with silvery splashes as they wandered through the woodland, and the birds warbled among the branches. In all this the valley was as of old—lovely, radiant, fair. But the song of the reaper was never heard; the fields were tangled and untilled, the instruments of husbandry were destroyed or abandoned, and a grievous famine reigned. For the demon of war was abroad, and the blight of his shadow had fallen on the fair Cheshire vale.

King Stephen was seated on the throne which he had won by violence. As he had usurped the sovereign power without the pretence of a title, he was necessitated to tolerate in others, the same violence to which he himself had been beholden for his crown. Even in time of peace the nobles made sad havoc with the property of the people, but now that war was in the land, and the forces of the Lady Matilda, King Henry’s child, sought to drive the usurper from the throne,—now, indeed, the castles poured forth bands of licensed robbers, and the homesteads of Longdendale were burned, the people driven to the woods, and the flocks and herds of the yeomen were confiscated.

Had the reader been privileged to wander through the woodland glades near Mottram, he would, maybe, have seen a group of fugitives bargaining with a sturdy forester for leave to shelter themselves in the depths of the forest, without fear of molestation.

“Thou hast known me all my life,” said the leader of the party, “for a patient, God-fearing, and faithful husbandman. I have ever kept the forest laws, and seek not to work harm therein even now. But Mottram town is no place for me, for all my poor belongings have been seized by the King’s men, and my hut has been burned to the ground. And but yesterday there came a party of the other side, and their leader had me up, and soundly thrashed me, because he said I helped the King, and was disloyal to the Princess. Helped the King, forsooth, when the King helped himself to all I had, and turned me out o’ doors to shift for myself.”

“And I,” quoth another, “come from Tingetvisie (Tintwistle), and there the townsfolk are so scared they dare not seek their beds at night. Nothing have I left to call my own, not even arms with which to protect myself. Truly the forest is a heaven to all such poor people as we.”

“Well, well,” grumbled the bluff forester, “get into the woods and hide yourselves, but play not with the deer at your peril. A pest on these troubles. I would the great folk would settle their differences themselves, and allow the poor to live in peace. Get off, I say, and hide yourselves. Steer clear of both King’s men and Queen’s men, and be damned to both sides.”

So saying he went on his way whistling, and the fugitives hastily left the path, and were soon lost from view in the undergrowth. There, like beasts of the forest, they lay by day, and emerged when the night fell, to pick up such scraps of food as were to be had by the way. Little wonder there were robbers on the roads in those times.

Days passed on, and the wanderers in the woods beheld parties of rovers, riding with lance and sword, now north, now south, as the tide of war ebbed and flowed. Rumours had reached them of an invasion of the Scots under King David, and following the rumours came bands of wild Highland men, who laid waste with fire and sword what little the robber-bands of the English knighthood had spared. The King of Scotland came south to aid his niece, the Princess Matilda, and with the appearance of his army on this side the border, the nobles who favoured the Princess arose. There was a mustering of all the able-bodied men of the Vale of Longdendale, and, glad to strike a blow to bring the state of tumult to an end, the men took sides.

“Hast thou heard the news?” asked one fugitive of another.

“To what news dost thou refer, good man?” was the reply. “Is it more of evil?”

“Nay, that is as thou listest,” was the answer. “’Tis said the King of Scots rides hither with a great following of men at arms, and that King Stephen’s forces muster for the combat. In that case there may be a great struggle toward, and now, maybe, we shall see the ending of all this strife and misery.”

“In that case, good man, methinks I will strike a blow for one side, so that the matter may indeed be ended.”

“On what side art thou?”

“I am for the Princess.”

“And I for King Stephen.”

“Then we are enemies, but I bear thee no ill-will. Mayhap we shall meet again in the battle.”

“Maybe. At least it will be better than starving in the woods. I wish thee a good-morrow.”

“And I thee. Farewell.”

Upon which the speakers went their several ways to arrange themselves beneath the banners of the cause they favoured.

Soon there was a fair mustering of each faction, and with the trains of knights, who came from north and south, the rival forces grew from companies into armies. King Stephen sent a great body of horse and foot to strengthen the array of those who fought beneath his banner, whilst stray bands of Highland men swelled the ranks of the warriors of Matilda.

Now the chief forester of Longdendale was a man with a kind heart, and to all those civil and respectable folk who took to the woods for a refuge, he showed such toleration and care as his position allowed; only upon the idle, thieves, and evildoers, was his anger bestowed. It was no new thing for him to meet with fugitives—particularly women—seeking shelter in the forest, and, accordingly, he gave little heed to a small band of riders in which were several females, who entered the forest of Longdendale upon a certain evening just before the hour of sunset.

“Another band of fugitives,” said he. “Poor souls; God have mercy on them.”

He would have passed on his way had not one of the band—a sturdy-looking young man, dressed in plain russet garb—thus accosted him:

“Ho there, fellow,” cried the youth. “Come thou hither, for I would have a word with thee.”

The tone in which the words were spoken was commanding, and to the forester it sounded insolent.

For answer he turned, and looking the horseman straight in the face said:

“Have a care, knave, what words thou usest to thy betters, or thou art likely to rue such speeches as that.”

The young man frowned, and, raising a light riding whip, made as though he would strike the forester. But the latter brought into position a stout oak staff which he carried, and, advancing boldly, said in a threatening voice:

“Take advice from an older man, and drop thy paltry weapon. Otherwise I shall be put to the necessity of cracking thy pate. One blast of this horn now dangling at my side will speedily summon some of the stoutest lads in Cheshire, and thou and thy followers will ere long be dangling from the nearest tree.”

So saying, the bold forester blew upon his horn, and scarcely had the echoes died away ere five stalwart men clad in green, each armed with yew-bow and quiver, and long knives at their girdle, burst from the thickets and ranged themselves by the forester’s side.

What the newcomers would have done with the old forester at their head, it is difficult to say; but a diversion was created by one of the female riders, chiding the horseman who had first spoken.

“Thou art over-hasty, and even rude,” said she; “where is thy discernment. Seest thou not that these men are honest, and wouldst thou set them against us?”.

Then, advancing alone, she bent in her saddle, and whispered something to the forester. The old man started, gazed at the speaker, for a moment, then doffed his cap, and bowed low. Next turning to the five who stood behind him, he cried:

“Uncover, and on your knees. It is the Queen.”

The Royal Matilda—for she it was, thus driven with her infant son, Henry, and a few faithful followers, to adopt the disguise of poor travellers, and to seek for a place of refuge until the coming battle should decide her fate—smiled graciously upon the old man and his companions.

“Methinks there is a likeness in all your faces,” said she. “Are these thy sons?”

“They are my sons,” answered the forester; “and withal thy loyal subjects, gracious lady, ready to give their lives for thee and thine.”

After a few further passages of speech, the chief forester led the way to his own dwelling—which was a strongly built and well concealed place, where, attended by his good wife, the Queen might rest secure until the battle had been fought and won.

Meanwhile the forester and his sons donned their war-gear, and when the time was ripe they took their stand with the rest of those who fought beneath the banner of the Queen.

It was in the gray dawning of an autumn day when the two armies met. The battle was fought on a hill in the Mottram township, where the ancient Church of Mottram now stands. But there was no sacred building there on that gray morning of long ago, when the clashing of arms awoke the echoes, and the air was heavy with the shrieks of dying men.

The army of Matilda was posted on the hill. Their position was strong and commanding. From it they could note the approach of the foe, and fight him with advantage. In the midst of their array rose the standard of the Princess—the royal banner of the great Henry—and by its side the bonnie flag of Scotland floated in the breeze.

As the gray light broke from the east, the watchers on the hill beheld the first line of Stephen’s forces emerge from the woods. The King’s army was a mighty host, the bright spears gleamed in the light of dawn, and the archers carried great quivers full of deadly goose-tipped shafts.

The royal force came on, and the leading ranks broke into a battle-chant as they neared the hill foot, and bent to meet the slope. The archers winged their shafts, the axes, bills, and pikes advanced; a rain of arrows beat whistling from the ranks upon the hill, and the great fight commenced.

Bit by bit the soldiers of Stephen advanced up the hill. They left many dead upon the slopes, but still the host went on. The army of Matilda hung thick and massive upon the crest, and waited with unbroken front for the closing of the foe; they rained down their flights of arrows, but kept their ranks unbroken, with bristling rows of pikes in front.

At length the advancing host drew near. The foremost men rushed bravely on, they clutched the wall of pikes with their hands, and strove to hew a way to victory. But the arrows fell among them, dealing death in full measure, and the brave men fell. Others took their places, and again the goose-shafts flew.

Now the advancing army remembered the trick of Norman William on the field of Senlac. At a given signal they turned and fled in apparent confusion. With a wild yell the unwary Highland men broke from their post upon the summit, and charged down to slay. Then, swift as lightning, the warriors of Stephen turned. Their archers met the onrush of the pursuers with a staggering volley of shafts. The pikes and bills charged up the slope. The axes hacked the brawny Scots, and the broken ranks upon the hill, opening wider yet to receive their retreating comrades, let in the charging body of the foe. After that there was a mingled mass of slaying men about the summit. The hosts of King Stephen girt the hill round, so that there was no escape for the men who stood upon it. Death was everywhere, death for the victors and the vanquished; for the soldiers of the Princess died as soldiers should, and they slew great numbers of the foe.