Part 2

The day being far advanced before the King arrived at Stoke, he pitched his camp and deferred the battle till the day following. The forces of the Earl of Lincoln also encamped at a little distance from those of the King, and undismayed by the superior numbers they had to encounter, bravely entered the field the next day, and arranged themselves for battle, according to the directions of Colonel Swart and other superior officers. The charge being sounded, a desperate conflict was maintained with equal valour on both sides for three hours. The Germans were in every respect equal to the English, and none surpassed the bravery of Swart their commander. For three hours each side contended for victory, and the fate of the battle remained doubtful. The Irish soldiers, however, being badly armed, and the Germans being overpowered by numbers, the Lambertines were at length defeated, but not before their principal officers, the Earl of Lincoln, Lord Lovel, _Sir Thomas Broughton_, Colonel Swart, and Sir Thomas Gerardine captain of the Irish, and upwards of four thousand of their soldiers were slain.

Young Lambert and his tutor were both taken prisoners. The latter, being a priest, was punished with perpetual imprisonment; Simnel was too contemptible to be an object either of apprehension or resentment to Henry. He was pardoned, and made a scullion in the King's kitchen, whence he was afterwards advanced to the rank of falconer, in which employment he ended his days.

Sir Thomas Broughton is said to have fallen on the field of battle: but there remains a tradition, that he returned and lived many years amongst his tenants in Witherslack, in Westmorland; and was interred in the Chapel there; but of this nothing is known for certain at present, or whether he returned or where he died. Dr. Burn, speaking of the grant of Witherslack to Sir Thomas, on the attainder of the Harringtons in the first year of Henry's reign for siding with the house of York, and of its subsequent grant to Thomas Lord Stanley, the first Earl of Derby, on the attainder of Sir Thomas for having been concerned in this affair of Lambert Simnel, goes on to say--"And here it may not be amiss to rectify a mistake in Lord Bacon's history of that King, (Henry VII.) who saith that this Sir Thomas Broughton was slain at Stoke, near Newark, on the part of the counterfeit Plantagenet, Lambert Simnell; whereas Sir Thomas Broughton escaped from that battle hither into Witherslack, where he lived a good while _incognito_, amongst those who had been his tenants, who were so kind unto him as privately to keep and maintain him, and who dying amongst them was buried by them, whose grave Sir Daniel Fleming says in his time was to be seen there."

The erection of the new chapel of Witherslack by Dean Barwick, in 1664, at a considerable distance from where the ancient chapel stood, has obliterated the memory of his once well-known grave. With this unhappy gentleman the family of Broughton, which had flourished for many centuries and had contracted alliances with most of the principal families in these parts, was extinguished in Furness.

After these affairs the King had leisure to revenge himself on his enemies, and made a progress into the northern parts of England, where he gave many proofs of his rigorous disposition. A strict inquiry was made after those who had assisted or favoured the rebels, and heavy fines and even sanguinary punishments, were imposed upon the delinquents in a very arbitrary manner. The fidelity therefore of Sir Thomas Broughton's tenants to their fallen master was not without its dangers, and is a pleasing instance of attachment to the person of a leader in a rude and perilous age.

In the wars of the Roses the Broughtons had always strenuously supported the House of York. It is however remarkable that, the manor of Witherslack having been granted to Sir Thomas by Henry the Seventh in the first year of his reign, he should have joined the Pretender in arms against that monarch in the following year.

Methop and Ulva, though distinctly named in the title and description of this manor, yet make but a small part of it. They are all included within a peninsula, as it were, between Winster Beck, Bryster Moss, and Lancaster Sands.

The fate of Lord Lovel, another of the chiefs in this disastrous enterprise, is also shrouded in mystery. It has often been told that he was never seen, living or dead, after the battle.

The dead bodies of the Earl of Lincoln and most of the other principal leaders, it was said, were found where they had fallen, sword-in-hand, on the fatal field; but not that of Lord Lovel. Some assert that he was drowned when endeavouring to escape across the river Trent, the weight of his armour preventing the subsequent discovery of his body. Other reports apply to him the circumstances similar to those which have been related above as referring to Sir Thomas Broughton; namely, that he fled to the north where, under the guise of a peasant, he ended his days in peace. Lord Bacon, in his History of Henry the Seventh, says "that he lived long after in a cave or vault." And his account has been partly corroborated in modern times. William Cowper, Esquire, Clerk of the House of Commons, writing from Hertingfordbury Park in 1738, says--"In 1708, upon the occasion of new laying a chimney at Minster Lovel, there was discovered a large vault or room underground in which was the entire skeleton of a man, as having been sitting at a table which was before him, with a book, paper, pen, etc.; in another part of the room lay a cap, all much mouldered and decayed; which the family and others judged to be this Lord Lovel, whose exit has hitherto been so uncertain."

A tradition was rife in the village in the last century to the effect that, in this hiding place, which could only be opened from the exterior, the insurgent chief had confided himself to the care of a female servant, was forgotten or neglected by her, and consequently died of starvation.

The ancient Castle or Pile of Fouldrey, (formerly called Pele of Foudra, or Futher,) stands upon a small island near the southern extremity of the isle of Walney; and is said by Camden to have been built by an Abbot of Furness, in the first year of King Edward the Third (A. D. 1327). It was probably intended for an occasional retreat from hostility; a depository for the valuable articles of the Monastery of Furness; and for a fortress to protect the adjoining harbour; all which intentions its situation and structure were well calculated to answer at the time of its erection.

It seems to have been the custom in the northern parts of the kingdom, for the monasteries to have a fortress of this kind, in which they might lodge with security their treasure and records on the approach of an enemy; of this the Castle on Holy Island, in Northumberland, and Wulstey Castle, near the Abbey of Holm Cultram, in Cumberland, are examples. It has even been said that an underground communication existed between Furness Abbey and the Pele of Fouldrey.

The harbour alluded to, appears to have been of considerable importance to the shipping of that period, when the relations of Ireland with the monks had become established. In the reign of Henry the Sixth, it is mentioned as being found a convenient spot for the woollen merchants to ship their goods to Ernemouth, in Zealand, without paying the duty; and in Elizabeth's days as "the only good haven for great shippes to londe or ryde in" between Scotland and Milford Haven, in Wales.

It was apprehended that the Spanish Armada would try to effect a landing in this harbour.

GILTSTONE ROCK; OR, THE SLAVER IN THE SOLWAY.

The Betsey-Jane sailed out of the Firth, As the Waits sang "Christ is born on earth"-- The Betsey-Jane sailed out of the Firth, On Christmas-day in the morning. The wind was East, the moon was high, Of a frosty blue was the spangled sky, And the bells were ringing, and dawn was nigh, And the day was Christmas morning.

In village and town woke up from sleep, From peaceful visions and slumbers deep-- In village and town woke up from sleep, On Christmas-day in the morning, The many that thought on Christ the King, And rose betimes their gifts to bring, And "peace on earth and good will" to sing, As is meet upon Christmas morning.

The Betsey-Jane pass'd village and town, As the Gleemen sang, and the stars went down-- The Betsey-Jane pass'd village and town, That Christmas-day in the morning;

And the Skipper by good and by evil swore, The bells might ring and the Gleemen roar, But the chink of his gold would chime him o'er Those waves, next Christmas morning.

And out of the Firth with his reckless crew, All ready his will and his work to do-- Out of the Firth with his reckless crew He sailed on a Christmas morning! He steer'd his way to Gambia's coast; And dealt for slaves; and Westward cross'd; And sold their lives, and made his boast As he thought upon Christmas morning.

And again and again from shore to shore, With his human freight for the golden ore-- Again and again from shore to shore, Ere Christmas-day in the morning, He cross'd that deep with never a thought Of the sorrow, or wrong, or suffering wrought On souls and bodies thus sold and bought For gold, against Christmas morning!

And at length, with his gold and ivory rare, When the sun was low and the breeze was fair-- At length with his gold and ivory rare He sailed, that on Christmas morning He might pass both village and town again When the bells were ringing, as they rung then, When he pass'd them by in the Betsey-Jane, On that last bright Christmas morning.

The Betsey-Jane sailed into the Firth, As the bells rang "Christ is born on earth"-- The Betsey-Jane sailed into the Firth, And it _was_ upon Christmas morning! The wind was west, the moon was high, Of a hazy blue was the spangled sky, And the bells were ringing, and dawn was nigh, Just breaking on Christmas morning.

The Gleemen singing of Christ the King, Of Christ the King, of Christ the King-- The Gleemen singing of Christ the King, Hailed Christmas-day in the morning; When the Betsey-Jane with a thundering shock Went ripping along on the Giltstone Rock, In sound of the bells which seemed to mock Her doom on that Christmas morning.

With curse and shriek and fearful groan, On the foundering ship, in the waters lone-- With curse and shriek and fearful groan, They sank on that Christmas morning! The Skipper with arms around his gold, Scared by dark spirits that loosed his hold, Was down the deep sea plunged and roll'd In the dawn of that Christmas morning:--

While village and town woke up from sleep, From peaceful visions and slumbers deep-- While village and town woke up from sleep, That Christmas-day in the morning!

And many that thought on Christ the King, Rose up betimes their gifts to bring, And, "peace on earth and good will to sing," Went forth in the Christmas morning!

NOTE.

The rock thus named, lies off the harbour at Harrington, on the coast of Cumberland, and is only visible at low water during spring tides.

The Gleemen, or Waits, as the Christmas minstrels are called, still keep up their annual rounds, with song and salutation, and with a heartiness and zeal, which have been well described by the great Poet of the Lake district in those feeling and admirable verses to his brother, Dr. Wordsworth, prefixed to his Sonnets on the River Duddon.

In the parish of Muncaster, on the eve of the new year, the children go from house to house, singing a ditty, which craves the bounty, "_they were wont to have, in old king Edward's days_." There is no tradition whence this custom arose; the donation is two-pence or a pie at every house. Mr. Jefferson suggests, may not the name have been altered from Henry to Edward? and may it not have an allusion to the time when King Henry the sixth was entertained at Muncaster Castle in his flight from his enemies?

CRIER OF CLAIFE.

A wild holloa on Wynander's shore, 'Mid the loud waves' splash and the night-wind's roar! Who cries so late with desperate note, Far over the water, to hail the boat?

'Tis night's mid gloom; the strong rain beats fast: Is there one at this hour will face the blast, And the darkness traverse with arm and oar, To ferry the Crier from yonder shore?

A mile to cross, and the skies so dread; With a storm around that would wake the dead; And fathoms of boiling depths below; The ferry is hailed, and the boat must go.

Snug under that cliff, whence over the Mere, When summer is merry and skies are clear, In holiday times hearts light and gay Look over the hills and far away--

At the Ferry-house Inn, sat warm beside The bright wood-fire and hearthstone wide, A rollicking band of jovial souls With tinkling cans and full brown bowls.

Without, the sycamores' branches rode The storm, as if fiends the roof bestrode; Yet stout of heart, to that wild holloa The ferryman smiled--"The boat must go."

His comrades followed out into the dark, As the young man strode to the tumbling bark; And, wishing him luck in the perilous storm, With a shudder went back to the fireside warm.

An hour is gone! against wind and wave Well struggled and strove that heart so brave. Another! they crowd to the whistling door, To welcome the guide and his freight to shore.

But pallid, and stunn'd, aghast, alone, He stood in the boat, and speech had none: His lips were locked, and his eyes astare, And blanched with terror his manly hair.

What thing he had seen, what utterance heard, What horror that night his senses stirr'd, Was frozen within him, and choked his breath, And laid him, ere morning, cold in death.

But what that night of horror revealed, And what that night of horror concealed Of spirits and powers in storms that roam, Lies hid with the monk in St. Mary's Holm.

Still, under the cliff--whence over the Mere, When summer was merry and skies were clear, In holiday times hearts light and gay Looked over the hills and far away--

When the rough winds blew amid rain and cold, The Ferry-house gathered its hearts of old, Who sat at the hearth and o'er the brown ale, Oft talked of that night and its dismal tale.

And often the Crier was heard to wake The night's foul echoes across the lake; But never again would a hand unmoor The boat, to venture by night from shore:

Till they sought the good monk of St. Mary's Holm, With relics of saints and beads from Rome, To row to the Nab on Hallowmas night, And bury the Crier by morning's light.

With Aves muttered, and spells unknown, The monk rows over the Mere alone; Like a feather his bark floats light and fast; When the Crier's loud hail sweeps down the blast.

Speed on, bold heart, with gifts of grace! He is nearing the wild fiend-blighted place. Now heed thee, foul spirit! the priest has power To bind thee on earth till the morning hour.

He rests his oars; and the faint blue gleam From a marsh-light sheds on the ground its beam. There's a stir in the grass; and there's ONE on a knoll, Unearthly and horrid to sight and soul.

That horrible cry rings through the dark, As the monk steps out of the grounding bark; And he charms a circle around the knoll, Wherein he must sit till the mass bell toll.

Then over the lake, with the fiend in tow, To the quarry beyond the monk will go, And bury the Crier with book and bell, While the birds of morning sing him farewell.

The morn awoke. As the breezy smile Of dawn played over St. Mary's Isle, The tinkling sound of the mass-bell rose, And startled the valleys from brief repose.

Then, like a speck from afar descried, The monk row'd out on the waters wide-- From the Nab row'd out, with the fiend in his wake, To lay him in quiet, across the lake.

And fear-struck men, and women that bore Their babes, beheld from height and shore, How he reached the wood that hid the dell, Where he laid the Crier with book and bell.

"For the ivy green" the spell was told; "For the ivy green" his knell was knoll'd; That as long as by wall and greenwood tree The ivy flourished, his rest might be.

So did the good monk; and thus was laid The Crier in ground by greenwood shade. In the quarry of Claife the wretched ghost To human ear for ever was lost.

And country folk in peace again Went forth by night through field and lane, Nor dreaded to hear that terrible note Cry over the water, and hail the boat.

And still on that cliff, high over the Mere, When summer is merry, and skies are clear, In holiday times hearts light and gay Look over the hills and far away.

But what that night of horror revealed, And what that night and morrow concealed, Of spirits so wicked and given to roam, Lies hid with the monk in St. Mary's Holm.

Peace be with him, peaceful soul! Long his bell has ceased to toll. Green the Isle that folds his breast; Clear the Lake that lull'd his rest.

Though the many ages gone Long have left his place unknown; Yet where once he kneel'd and pray'd, By his altar long decay'd, Stranger to this Island led! Humbly speak and softly tread; Catching from the ages dim This, the burden of his hymn:--

"Ave, Thou before whose name Wrath and shadows swiftly flee! Arm Thy faithful bands with flame, Earth from foulest foes to free.

"Peace on all these valleys round, Breathe from out this Islet's breast; Wafting from this holy ground Seeds of Thy eternal rest.

"Wrath and Evil, then no more Here molesting, all shall cease. Peace around! From shore to shore-- Peace! On all Thy waters--peace!"

NOTES TO "CRIER OF CLAIFE."

The little rocky tree-decked islet in Windermere, called St. Mary's, or the Ladye's Holme, hitherto reputed to have formed part of the conventual domains of the Abbey at Furness, had its name from a chantry dedicated to the Virgin Mary, which was standing up to the reign of King Henry the Eighth, but of which no traces are now remaining. "When," says an anonymous writer, "at the Reformation, that day of desolation came, which saw the attendant priests driven forth, and silenced for ever the sweet chant of orison and litany within its walls; the isle and revenues of the institution were sold to the Philipsons of Calgarth. By them the building was suffered to fall into so utter a state of ruin, that no trace even of its foundations is left to proclaim to the stranger who meditates upon the fleeting change of time and creed, that here, for more than three centuries, stood a hallowed fane, from whence at eventide and prime prayers were wafted through the dewy air, where now are only heard the festal sounds of life's more jocund hours." Lately renewed antiquarian investigation has, however, disclosed the erroneousness of the generally received statement respecting the early ownership of this tiny spot; as in Dodsworth's celebrated collection of ancient evidences there is contained an Inquisition, or the copy of one, taken at Kendal, so far back as the Monday after the feast of the Annunciation, in the 28th Edward the Third, which shews that this retreat, amid the waters of our English Como, appertained not to Furness Abbey, but to the house of Segden, in Scotland, which was bound always to provide two resident chaplains for the service of our Ladye's Chapel in this island solitude. For the maintenance and support of those priests, certain lands were given by the founder, who was either one of that chivalrous race, descended from the Scottish Lyndseys "light and gay," whose immediate ancestor in the early part of the thirteenth century had married Alice, second daughter and co-heiress of William de Lancaster, eighth Lord of Kendal; and with her obtained that moiety of the Barony of Kendal, whose numerous manors are collectively known as the Richmond Fee; or the chantry may have owed its foundation to the pious impulses of Ingelram de Guignes, Sire de Courci, one of the grand old Peers of France, whose house, so renowned in history and romance, proclaimed its independence and its pride in this haughty motto:--

"Je ne suis Roy ni Prince aussi, Je suis Le Seignhor de Courci."

And which Ingelram in 1285 married Christiana, heiress of the last de Lyndsey, and in her right, besides figuring on innumerable occasions as a feudal potentate, both in England and Scotland, he became Lord of the Fee, within which lies St. Mary's Isle.

On an Inquisition taken after the death of Johanna de Coupland, in the 49th Edward the Third, it was found that she held the advowson of the Chapel of Saint Mary's Holme, within the lake of Wynandermere, but that it was worth nothing, because the land which the said Chapel enjoyed of old time had been seized into the hands of the King, and lay within the park of Calgarth. It is on record, however, that in 1492, an annual sum of six pounds was paid out of the revenues of the Richmond Fee, towards the support of the Chaplains; and in the returns made by the ecclesiastical Commissioners in Edward the Sixth's reign, "the free Chapel of Holme and Wynandermere" is mentioned, shortly after which it was granted, as aforesaid, to the owners of Calgarth.