Part 5

When the shooting was finished the Baron was in a great rage, and he sought for some means of evading the fulfilment of his promise. Turning to Robin Hood he made an offer--that if the outlaw, with his own hands, cast down the great stone which stood upon Werneth Low, then the Baron would not only bestow the maiden upon her lover, but would give her a good dowry into the bargain. On the other hand, if Robin failed to accomplish the task, the whole matter must rest where it was, and the maiden remain a captive.

Greatly to the surprise of all, Robin agreed to the proposal.

"I will humour thee this once," said he to the Baron. "But if thou attemptest to get behind thy word when the feat is done, my good foresters shall fall upon thee and knock sparks out of thy baronial hide."

"If thou doest the feat," quoth the Baron, "rest assured I shall keep my promise."

For the task he had set bold Robin was, as the Baron well knew, a thousand times more difficult than that of shooting at the Picking Rods.

Robin Hood conversed awhile with Friar Tuck, and then the whole company moved off to the summit of Werneth Low. The stone, or rock, as it should more properly be called, was a huge mass almost the height of a man. It had occupied its position on the summit of Werneth since the world was created. A round half-dozen of the Baron's retainers failed to lift it. But Robin Hood, casting aside his jerkin, and baring his brawny arm, raised the great stone slowly aloft, and then, with one mighty throw, cast it out westward towards the sunset, and, amid a wild shout of triumph, it disappeared in the distance.

They afterwards found the stone in the bed of the River Tame, near the woods of Arden, and, under the name of "Robin Hood's Stone" it remains in that same spot to this day.

Now there are some who profess to believe that no mortal power could cast that stone so great a distance, and they explain the event by supposing that Robin was in league with the good fairies, who gave him strength to lift the stone, and then, (invisible to men) flew away with it, and dropped it in the Tame. And perhaps these people may be right.

Be that as it may, there is no record to show that the bold bad Baron disbelieved in Robin's powers, and we may take it for granted that the lovely maiden was duly released, that she married the lad of her choice, and that they lived happy ever afterwards, as they certainly deserved to do.

* * * * *

It is asserted by some that there was a much smaller stone near the great Robin Hood Stone on Werneth Low, and that Little John afterwards threw this stone in the direction of the one thrown by Robin. The second stone, being lighter, travelled a few yards further than the first, but the throw being not so skilful the stone was broken in several pieces by the fall. It lies to this day near the Robin Hood Stone in the waters of the River Tame, and it still retains the name of that giant forester Little John.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

The "Robin Hood relics," referred to in the foregoing legend, are objects of great local interest and curiosity. The "Robin Hood's Picking Rods" are situated on Ludworth Moor, and consist of portions of two upright stone pillars rising from a massive stone base. They are thought by many to be relics of the Druidical period, and are referred to in the "Legend of Coombs Rocks"--the first legend of the present series. It is said that they received their present name because Robin Hood and his outlaws used them as a target for their arrows, and the dents in the pillars are said to have been caused by the arrow points.

The "Robin Hood Stone" is a huge rock which lies in the bed of the River Tame near the Denton Cemetery at Hulme's Wood, almost opposite the Arden Paper Mill.

As stated in the legend, there are fragments of Little John's stone near it, and old traditions state that both stones were thrown to their present positions from the top of Werneth Low by the two foresters whose names they bear. Certain indentations in the larger stone are said to be the imprints of the fingers of Robin Hood, whose grip was so strong that he left the impression in the solid stone.

VII.

The Abbot of Basingwerke

Or THE WEHR-WOLF OF LONGDENDALE.

Glossop, which in the Doomsday survey was reckoned as part of Longdendale, was granted by William the Conqueror to his natural son, William Peveril--Peveril of the Peak,--whose descendant was disinherited by Henry II. for procuring the death of the Earl of Chester by poison, when the township reverted to the Crown. King Henry, however, being on a military expedition to North Wales, became acquainted with the monks of Basingwerke, and in return for their friendship and attention he bestowed the township upon Basingwerke Abbey.

A road which crosses a portion of Longdendale is known as The Monk's Road, and is so called because the Monks of Basingwerke are said to have made and used it. On the wildest part of this road stands a large stone, hollowed out in the shape of a rude seat, which is said to have been the seat of the Abbot of Basingwerke, who periodically held open-air court on that spot. The stone is known as "The Abbot's Chair."

On a certain day in the reign of good King Henry, the Abbot of Basingwerke sat in state upon the stone seat of "The Abbot's Chair." He was holding a court for the receipt of all his rents and tithes, for the dispensation of justice in that part of his possessions, and for the purpose of hearing any petitions which the people might wish to make. To him came an old dame, full of woe and misery, and almost blind with the falling of bitter tears. Her tale was enough to melt the stoutest heart. She had an enemy, and the enemy was a woman who dabbled in witchcraft. Through the agency of evil spirits, this witch had brought death upon the old dame's husband and on all her children, so that now she was all alone in the world, and knew not where to look for shelter or for bread. It was said, also, that the witch possessed the power of changing her shape, appearing now as a woman, now as a man, now as an animal or bird, so that it was almost impossible to catch her and bring her for punishment.

The Abbot of Basingwerke, on hearing the story, was very angry. He first relieved the distress of the poor woman, and then pronounced an awful curse upon the wicked witch.

"May the hand of Heaven fall upon this wicked mortal," cried the Abbot, "and in whatever shape she be at the present moment, may that shape cling to her until justice has been done."

Then he prophesied that ere long the righteous wrath of heaven would fall upon the witch, and that a bitter death would assuredly be her portion. And the old dame went away satisfied.

Now it chanced that that very morning the witch had changed herself into a wehr-wolf, and was even then prowling about the forest in search of victims. And by further good luck it happened that good King Henry II., who was on a visit to the Baron of Ashton-under-Lyne, was out hunting in company with his son, Prince Henry, the Lord of Longdendale, the Baron of Ashton, and other noblemen and knights of the district, The Royal party hunted chiefly in the forests of Longdendale, which were noted for wild boars, deer, and game of every description. And inasmuch as it was customary at a Royal hunt for every portion of the forest to be explored, and all the game therein, great and small, driven forth before the hunters, there was--providing there was any efficacy in the Abbot's curse--every prospect of the wicked old witch being immediately laid by the heels. On former occasions when she had assumed the form of an animal, it had always been easy for her, if pursued, to fly into the nearest thicket, and there resume her human shape, or else to suddenly disappear altogether. But if the Abbot's curse took effect and compelled her to remain in the garb of a wehr-wolf, then it was almost certain that she would meet her doom before the sun set.

The hunt proceeded, and the huntsmen met with good sport, but the chief success of the day fell to the lot of the Lord of Longdendale, who slew "several horrible British tigers," and after a tough struggle succeeded in killing the largest wild boar which was ever seen in Cheshire.

Prince Henry, who was a valiant youth, was desirous of imitating the exploits of the Lord of Longdendale, and accordingly he repaired to a gloomy part of the forest in search of some worthy adventure. Here, to his great surprise, he was suddenly set upon by a fierce old wehr-wolf, which, taking him unawares, seemed likely to put him to death.

At the first assault the Prince's steed, by swerving as the wehr-wolf sprang, luckily saved the rider, and Prince Henry was enabled to bring his hunting spear to bear upon the beast. He drove at it, and although he succeeded in piercing its side, so that it cried out horribly--more like a human cry than a beast's, said the Prince, when he afterwards came to recount the story of the combat--yet it seized the spear handle in its forepaws, and with a snap of its great jaws broke the spear clean in two, so that the Royal huntsman was left almost defenceless. He drew out his long hunting-knife and buried it to the hilt as the beast sprang at him, but though he fought bravely and long, the terrible thing succeeded in pulling him from his horse to the ground. Here the Prince gripped the beast by the throat, but his strength was much spent, and it seemed almost certain that he must succumb. Fortunately, however, he had been followed at a distance by the Baron of Ashton, who arrived upon the spot just in time to turn the fight, and to engage and finally slay the wehr-wolf.

Great honour was, of course, bestowed upon the Baron of Ashton, and the carcase of the wolf was taken in triumph to the Castle at Ashton-under-Lyne. Upon the beast being opened, its stomach was found to contain the heads of three babes which it had devoured that morning.

Much talk then ensued as to the unusual fierceness shown by the wehr-wolf, and the Prince again and again asserted that at times the cries of the beast were most human in sound. A forester, also, on hearing of the exploit, came forward and gave some strange testimony.

"May it please your highness," said he, "I was to-day lying in a doze beneath the greenwood, whither I had crawled to hide, the better to enable me to watch and ambush certain forest marauders who interfere with the deer, when I was suddenly startled by a strange noise, and, on looking through the copse, beheld a wehr-wolf tearing at its own skin as though it desired to cast it off, even as a man discards his clothes. And the thing screamed and moaned piteously, and it seemed to me that a woman's cracked voice, muttering wild incantations, emerged from the beast's throat. Upon hearing which I was sore afraid, thinking I was bewitched by the evil one, and I fled."

Divers others had also strange tales to tell of the wehr-wolf's actions, and that same evening, on the Abbot of Basingwerke coming to dine with the Royal hunting party at the hall of Ashton-under-Lyne, it was proved beyond doubt that the wehr-wolf was none other than the wicked witch.

Thus was the curse of the Abbot speedily fulfilled and justice meted out. Needless to say that witch was never seen again.

VIII.

The Devil's Elbow.

The traveller through the valley of the Etherow is invariably impressed with the wild grandeur of the scenery, and in nine cases out of ten his attention is especially claimed by the bold rock escarpment known as "The Devil's Elbow," which frowns high over the course of the stream. The situation of the rock is certainly romantic: the wild moorlands of bog and heather stretch away on either side, in fact the rock stands on the verge of some of the wildest mountain scenery of Great Britain. The very name of the place is suggestive of legend, and one is not surprised to learn that there are some queer stories related concerning the neighbourhood; one of these explains how the rock came to receive its name.

The date of the story is uncertain--that fact, however, should not trouble the reader. At the time when the events now to be related actually occurred, there was a castle standing on one of the heights above the Etherow; it was a strong castle, fit home for a proud old feudal lord; and its owner, De Morland, was one of the most haughty of those barons who claimed descent from the great Norman lords who landed with William the Conqueror. Little is known of him beyond the fact that he was immensely proud of his long ancestry, that he was very fierce, that he was rich, and looked with scorn upon most of the gentry of the neighbourhood. These things certainly do not speak much for his good sense, for why a man should imagine that the possession of a few more pieces of gold or silver makes him a better man than his neighbour, is a mystery. For instance, a thief may by successful robbery become wealthier than an honest poor man, but surely the mere possession of greater wealth does not make him better than the poor man. The principle of this holds good with regard to wealth, no matter how it may have been secured. So, after all, the Baron de Morland had no sound base on which to build up his pride.

The baron had a daughter named Geraldine, who was born on May day, and was as sweet as the month in which she was born. Her teeth were like pearls, her hair gleamed like gold, her skin was the fairest, and her figure the most beautiful ever known in Longdendale. Altogether she was a maid to set the hearts of men aflame with love.

Now it should be stated at the outset that the maiden had been wooed by more than one noble suitor, but she had an eye to none save a brave young knight who came from Mottram. His name was Sir Mottram de Mossland, and he was lord of a castle--something similar in appearance to that of the Baron de Morland, but not quite so grand--which stood on a bold ridge near Mottram town. This knight had long been in love with the lady Geraldine, and on several occasions had managed to get interviews with his lady-love. We may be sure he lost no time in making known to her the state of his heart, and in ascertaining the exact condition of her own. They kissed, and swore fidelity to each other, and generally behaved like all young lovers do. But bye and bye the Baron de Morland got to hear of this lover's business, and he swore a terrible oath concerning it.

"By my halidome," swore he, in the hearing of his daughter; "Who is this upstart de Mossland? Are his lands to be compared with mine? Is his name to be linked with that of de Morland? Shall one of his hated blood mate with my own superior stock. Out upon the thought. I will slay him sooner. Yea, by my halidome, and all the saints whom I adore, I swear most solemnly that if I know him to speak another word with my daughter, it shall be the last word he shall ever speak. For I will have his blood."

The Lady Geraldine heard this terrible oath, and knowing the character of her furious parent well, was quite certain that he would carry out his threat. So, fearing for the safety of her lover, she had a message conveyed to him, begging him, if he really cared for her, to cease his stolen visits for a time. The lover, though sorely troubled, obeyed her requests, and the days passed by in fruitless sighing and longing.

Of course, it goes without saying, that, although he might refrain from speaking to the maid, a handsome and brave gallant like Sir Mottram de Mossland would yet be on the alert to secure a glimpse of his lady-love, and would worship her with his eyes even if his lips were doomed to be closed. And so it came to pass that, day by day, often in disguise, he followed her path, and gazed longingly at her from a distance. Now, one day when she was out riding on her milk-white palfrey, her steed took fright, and ran away, and would certainly have leaped down a dreadful precipice--carrying the lady to death,--if the gallant Sir Mottram had not sprung at its head, and pulled it, by main force, to a place of safety.

Now, in spite of his lady-love's message, he could no longer refrain from speaking, and, folding her in his arms, he kissed her, and asked for some token of love in return. The maid kissed him gladly, and promised to marry him in spite of her stern and cruel father. Then, full of joy, Sir Mottram went on his way singing gaily, for his heart was lifted up by the promise of his lady-love.

Unfortunately, however, the Baron de Morland was riding that way, and when he beheld the transports of Sir Mottram he immediately guessed what had been toward, and he at once began to swear again. No oath was too strong for him to use concerning the family of Sir Mottram de Mossland. It should be stated in explanation, that years before, the Baron had been in love with Sir Mottram's mother--then a pretty maiden in her teens--and had been rejected by her in favour of Sir Mottram's father. Hence the Baron de Morland could never bear the sight or mention of a de Mossland, and hence his hatred of a union between Sir Mottram and his daughter Geraldine.

Full of anger the Baron rode home to his castle, and there at once sent for his daughter.

"You minx," cried he, "is't true that you have promised yourself to that foul de Mossland?"

"It is true, my father," said Geraldine, in a low yet clear voice. "What else could I do since I love him? Moreover, he is not a foul knight, but is brave and true."

Now the Baron swore again.

"You witch," he cried, "know this, rather than you should wed de Mossland--yea, by all the saints I swear it!--I will send you to the devil."

"Oh, my father!" shrieked Geraldine, "have mercy!"

And her shrieks rang through the castle, till the serving maids and the men-at-arms came running in to see what was the matter.

But the Baron took up his sword, and with the flat of it struck right and left, and drove them forth. Then, turning once more to her, he shouted:

"Mark well what I say. If you speak to de Mossland again I will summon the devil's aid, and you shall be sorely punished."

Then he left the room, and the lady fainted.

Now, the Lady Geraldine was bold enough, as became a daughter born of a race of fighting men, and, having pledged her word to her lover, she had no intention of going from it. So, on the day appointed, she proceeded to a certain spot, where her lover met her, all prepared for flight. The lovers kissed, and then the knight began:

"Dear Geraldine," said he.--But before he could proceed further, an awful thing happened. A dark form rose up between them, and, on looking at it they knew it was the Devil. He was in his own shape, with horns, hoofs, and tail complete. With a mocking laugh he bent his elbow, and made as though to seize the maid, but Sir Mottram, throwing his arms about her, turned and fled, hoping to be able to cross a running stream before the devil could touch them, and then, by the laws of sorcery, they would be free from satanic molestation.

The devil, however, gained on them rapidly, and it appeared certain that he would catch them, when, just as he put out his hand to touch the maid, a strange light appeared in the sky, and a voice called out the one word--"Hold."

The Devil staggered as though he had been shot, and when he recovered the light had vanished, and with it the maiden and her lover.

They were never seen again, but the legends say that they were made perfectly happy by the fairies, and that they still haunt the banks of the Etherow at certain seasons of the year in the forms of two white swans.

As for the devil, he received a shock. At the moment the light appeared, his right arm had been bent at the elbow for the purpose of seizing hold of his prey, but lo! when his victims had disappeared, he found that the powers which had delivered them from him had turned his right arm into stone. Not a muscle of it could he move, it would not bend, it was worse than useless, it was an encumbrance.

So Satan, being a philosopher in his way, determined to make the best of a bad job. He tore the arm out by the roots, and left it there--the elbow showing prominently over Longdendale. And that is how the great rock known as the Devil's Elbow came to be perched high up above the Etherow valley.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

The Devil's Elbow is the name given to a picturesque rock which stands on the brow of a high and steep hill above the valley of the Etherow. This rock is one of the landmarks of the Longdendale country.

IX.

The Legend of Charlesworth Chapel.

An old chapel at Charlesworth is said to have owed its foundation to the circumstances narrated in the following tradition.

Once upon a time--it is impossible to say exactly when, because, unfortunately, the records as to date have been lost, but it was certainly in that halcyon period of English history which is generally spoken of as "the olden time"--a traveller was on his way from the northern parts of England to London. Here again the chronicles are slightly obscure, because there is no mention of his name, and opinions differ as to his occupation. Some state that he was an Irish merchant, others that he was a priest. But be that as it may, all agree that he made the journey, that he made it on foot and alone. For the purposes of this story, therefore, it will suffice to refer to him as "The Traveller."

He had reached that portion of Derbyshire known as the Peak, and was journeying over that part of the Peak which includes Coombs Rocks and the hills above the River Etherow, when he found himself overtaken by the night-fall. The track he was travelling was but ill-defined; it led through a desolate region--in fact, one of the wildest regions in all Britain--and, therefore, was but seldom used. As a consequence it was no easy task to keep to it in broad daylight, and when the darkness enveloped the moor, the danger of losing it was very great. To-day, when almost every acre of the country is cultivated and drained, the neighbourhood though savage enough is comparatively a safe one to travel, but in the time of which we speak there were treacherous bogs on every side in which the unwary might easily be swallowed up.

Accustomed as he was to the perils and vicissitudes of a wandering life, the Traveller was, nevertheless, somewhat dismayed to find himself be-nighted so far from any habitation, and in a country altogether strange to him.

"Now may the good saints protect me," mused he, "for of a truth I am like to need their intercession this night. Already the path grows fainter, the skies seem charged with rain, and the wind moans eerily."

He wrapped his cloak tighter about his limbs, and stepped along at a brisker pace.

"If only the night would clear," he said, "so that I could see distant objects, then should I be likely to make my way in safety from this desolate moor. But the darkness hangs heavy like a pall: it is damp as though the clouds were settling on the heather, and--ha!"