Chapter 3

"Rash fool, thou hast earned thy doom. The blood be on thine own head. Thou art the sacrifice!"

This was said in a voice of terrible and fiendish malignity. A loud tramp, as of a mighty host, was heard passing away, and Oliver now beheld the form of his betrothed.

"Eleanor! Here! In this unholy place!" cried her lover. But the maiden was unable to answer.

"There's blood upon my hand!" said he, holding it up in the now clear and unclouded moonlight. "Art thou wounded, lady?"

"I know not," she replied; "I was alone. Yet I felt as though some living thing were nigh--some unseen form, of terrible and appalling attributes! Was it not a dream?"

"Nay," said Oliver, pensively; "methought another was beside thee!"

"I saw him not."

"How camest thou hither?"

"Let us be gone," said she, trembling; "I will tell thee all."

She laid her head on his shoulder. It throbbed heavily. "I am now free. The accursed links are broken. I feel as though newly wakened from some horrible dream! Thou hast saved me, Oliver. But if thine own life is the price!"

"Fear not; I defy their devilish subtilty--in their very den too: and thus, and thus, I renounce the devil and all his works!"

He spat thrice upon the ground, to show his loathing and contempt.

"Oh! say not so," cried Eleanor, looking round in great alarm.

Oliver bore her in his arms from that fearful spot. He accompanied her home; and it was near break of day when, exhausted and alone, she again retired to her chamber. By the way Oliver told her that he had found a mysterious tablet on the edge of the brook the same morning. He had luckily hidden it in his bosom, and he felt as though a talisman or charm had protected him from the spells in the "Fairies' Chapel."

Springtide was past, and great was the stir and bustle for the approaching nuptials between Oliver Chadwyck and the Lady Eleanor. All the yeomanry, inhabitants of the hamlets of Honorsfield, Butterworth, and Healey, were invited to the wedding. Dancers and mummers were provided; wrestlers and cudgel-players, with games and pastimes of all sorts, were appointed. The feasts were to be holden for three days, and masks, motions, and other rare devices, were expected to surpass and eclipse every preceding attempt of the like nature.

Eleanor sat in her lonely bower. It was the night before the bridal. To-morrow would see her depart in pageantry and pomp--an envied bride! Yet was her heart heavy, and she could not refrain from weeping.

She sought rest; but sleep was denied. The owl hooted at her window; the bat flapped his leathern wings; the taper burned red and heavily, and its rays were tinged as though with blood; the fire flung out its tiny coffin; the wind sobbed aloud at every cranny, and wailed piteously about the dwelling.

"Would that I might read my destiny," thought she. Her natural inclination to forbidden practices was too powerful to withstand.

Now there was formerly an ancient superstition, that if, on the night before marriage, a taper were burned, made from the fat of a young sow, and anointed with the blood of the inquirer, after sundry diabolical and cabalistical rites at midnight, a spirit would appear, and pronounce the good or evil destiny of the querent.

Eleanor had prepared the incantation ere she laid her throbbing head on the pillow. Whether or not she slept, is more than we can divulge. Such, in all probability, was the case; dreams being the echo only of our waking anticipations.

She thought there came a rushing wind. The door flapped to and fro, the curtains shook, and the pictures glared horribly from the wall. Suddenly--starting from the panel, with eyes lighted up like bale-fires, and a malignant scowl on her visage--stalked down one of the family portraits. It was that of a female--a maiden aunt of the house of Byron, painted by one of the court artists, whom the king had brought from France, and patronised at a heavy cost. This venerable dame appeared to gaze at the spectator from whatsoever situation she was beholden. The eyes even seemed to follow you when passing across the chamber. A natural consequence though, and only marvelled at by the ignorant and illiterate.

This ancient personage now advanced from her hanging-place, and standing at the foot of the bed, opened out a fiery scroll with these ominous words:--

"Maid, wife, and widow, in one day, This shall be thy destiny."

Eleanor struggled hard, but was unable to move. She laboured for utterance, but could not speak. At length, with one desperate effort, a loud cry escaped her, and the vision disappeared. She slept no more, but morning disclosed her haggard cheek and sunken eye, intimating that neither hope nor enjoyment could have been the companion of her slumbers.

It was a bright morning in June. The sun rode high and clear in the blue heavens. The birds had "sung their matins blythe" ere the bridegroom arrived with his attendants. Merrily did the village choristers acquit themselves in their vocation, while those that were appointed strewed flowers in the way. The bells of St Chad trolled out their merry notes when the ceremony was over, and the bride, on her snow-white palfrey, passed on, escorted by her husband, at the head of the procession. Gay cavaliers on horseback, and maidens prancing by their side, made the welkin ring with loud and mirthful discourse. The elder Byron rode on his charger by the side of Jordan Chadwyck and his eldest son, with whom rode the vicar, Richard Salley, nothing loath to contribute his folly to the festival.

As the procession drew nigh to the hall, a messenger rode forward in great haste, whispering to Byron, who, with angry and disordered looks, shouted aloud to Oliver--

"Away--away! The cowardly Traffords are at our threshold. They have skulked out, like traitors as they be, knowing our absence at the feast. 'Tis an old feud, and a bloody one. Who is for Byron? Down with the Traffords!"

The old man here put spurs to his horse, and galloped off with his attendants.

"A Byron--a Byron!" shouted Oliver, as he followed in full cry, first leaving his wife under a suitable and safe escort. Soon they routed the enemy, but the prediction was complete; for Eleanor became

"Maid, wife, and widow, in one day!"

her husband being slain during the battle.

The blood of man was held of little account in those days, if we may judge by the following award on the occasion:--

"In virtue of a writ of appeal of death, sued out against Sir John Trafford, Knight, his tenants and servants, the sum of sixty pounds was deemed to be paid by Trafford to Biroun, to be distributed amongst the cousins and friends of the late Oliver C., in the parish church of Manchester, on the award of Sir Thomas Stanley, Knight, _Lord Stanley_--viz. ten marks at the nativity of John the Baptist, and ten marks at St Martyn, yearly, until the whole was paid, and all parties to be fully friends. Dated London, 24th March, 20 Edward IV. 4018."

[1] Whitaker's _Hist. Whalley_, p. 441.

[2] Corry's _Lancashire_.

[3] _Mag. Britan._ York, p. 391.

[4] Here vulgarly called the Tearn Barn (tithe-barn) in Wales; distinctly seen in showery weather, but invisible in a settled season.

[5] On a bleak moor, called Monstone Edge, in this hamlet, is a huge moor-stone or outlier, which (though part of it was broken off and removed some years ago) still retains the name of Monstone. It is said to have been quoited thither by Robin Hood, from his bed on the top of Blackstone Edge, about six miles off. After striking the mote or mark aimed at, the stone bounced off a few hundred yards and settled there. These stones, however, in all probability, if not Druidical, were landmarks, the ancient boundary of the hamlet of Healey; and, as was once customary, the marvellous story of this ancient outlaw might be told to the urchins who accompanied the perambulators, with the addition, probably, of a few kicks and cuffs, to make them remember the spot.

THE LUCK OF MUNCASTER.

_K. Hen._--"From Scotland am I stolen, even of pure love, To greet mine own land with my wishful sight."

_King Henry VI._

"It shall bless thy bed, it shall bless thy board, They shall prosper by this token; In Muncaster Castle good luck shall be, Till the charmed cup is broken."

Gamel de Pennington is the first ancestor of the family of whom there is any recorded account; he was a person of great note and property at the time of the Conquest, and the family, having quitted their original seat of Pennington in Lancashire (where the foundation of a square building called the Castle is still visible), he fixed his residence at Mealcastre, now called Muncaster. It is said that the family originally resided nearer the sea, at a place not far from the town of Ravenglass, where at present are the ruins of an old Roman castle, called Walls Castle. The old tower of the present mansion-house at Muncaster was built by the Romans, to guard the ford called St Michael's Ford, over the river Esk, when Agricola went to the north, and to watch also the great passes into the country over the fells, and over Hard Knot, where is the site of another fortress constructed by them, apparent from the traces existing to this day.

Muncaster and the manor of Muncaster have long been enjoyed by the Penningtons, who appear to have possessed it about forty years before the Conquest, and ever since, sometimes collaterally, but for the most part in lineal descent by their issue male, to this very time.

There is a room in Muncaster Castle which still goes by the name of Henry the Sixth's room, from the circumstance of his having been concealed in it at the time he was flying from his enemies in 1461, when Sir John Pennington, the then possessor of Muncaster, gave him a secret reception.

The posts of the bed in which he slept, which are of handsome carved oak, are also in the same room in good preservation.

When the period for the king's departure arrived, before he proceeded on his journey, he addressed Sir John with many kind and courteous acknowledgments for his loyal reception, lamenting, at the same time, that he had nothing of more value to present him with, as a testimony of his good-will, than the cup out of which he crossed himself. He then gave it into the hands of Sir John, accompanying the present with the following blessing:--"The family shall prosper as long as they preserve it unbroken;" which the superstition of those times imagined would carry good fortune to his descendants. Hence it is called "_The Luck of Muncaster_." It is a curiously-wrought glass cup, studded with gold and white enamel spots. The benediction attached to its security being then uppermost in the recollection of the family, it was considered essential to the prosperity of the house at the time of the usurpation that the Luck of Muncaster should be deposited in a safe place; it was consequently buried till the cessation of hostilities had rendered all further care and concealment unnecessary. Unfortunately, however, the person commissioned to disinter this precious jewel let the box fall in which it was locked up, which so alarmed the then existing members of the family, that they could not muster courage enough to satisfy their apprehensions. It therefore (according to the traditionary story still preserved in the family) remained unopened for more than forty years, at the expiration of which period a Pennington, more hardy or more courageous than his predecessors, unlocked the casket, and exultingly proclaimed the safety of the Luck of Muncaster.

When John, Lord Muncaster (the first of the family who obtained a peerage), entered into possession of Muncaster Castle, after his elevation in 1793, he found it still surrounded with a moat, and defended by a strong portcullis. The family having of late years entirely resided upon their estate of Wartee in Yorkshire, the house was in so very dilapidated a state that Lord Muncaster was obliged to rebuild it almost entirely, with the exception of Agricola's Tower, the walls of which are nine feet thick. The elevation of the new part is in unison with that of the Roman tower, and forms altogether a handsome castellated building. The situation is eminently striking, and was well chosen for commanding the different passes over the mountains. It is surrounded with mountain scenery on the north, south, and east; while extensive plantations, a rich and cultivated country, with the sea in the distance, makes a combination of scenery than which it is scarcely possible to imagine anything more beautiful or more picturesque.

We are tempted to conclude this description with the words of John, Lord Muncaster, who himself so greatly contributed to its renovation. Upon being requested to give an outline of its beauties, he replied that it consisted of "wood, park, lawn, valley, river, sea, and mountain."

The reason or excuse we give for introducing within our Lancashire series this tradition, of which the occurrences took place in a neighbouring county, is, that the family was originally native to our own. By the village of Pennington, situated about midway between Dalton and Ulverstone, is the Castle Hill, the residence of this family before the Conquest. The area of the castle-yard appears to have been an octagon or a square, with obtuse angles, about forty-five yards in diameter. The south and east sides have been defended by a ditch about ten yards wide, and by a vallum of earth, still visible. There are no vestiges of the ancient building. It stood apparently on the verge of a precipice, at the foot of which flows a brook with great rapidity. The side commands an extensive view of the sea-coast and beacons, and was excellently situated for assembling the dependants in cases of emergency. The name is diversely written in ancient writings, as Penyngton, Penington, Pennington, and in Doomsday Book _Pennegetun_, perhaps from _Pennaig_, in British "a prince or great personage," to which the Saxon termination _tun_ being added, forms Pennegetun, since smoothed into Pennington.

PART FIRST.

"Come hither, Sir John de Pennington, Come hither, and hearken to me; Nor silver, nor gold, nor ladye-love, Nor broad lands I give unto thee."

"I care not for silver, I care not for gold, Nor for broad lands, nor fair ladye; But my honour and troth, and my good broadsword, Are the king's eternally."

"Come hither, Sir John, thou art loyal and brave," Again the monarch spake; "In my trouble and thrall, in the hour of pain, Thou pity didst on me take.

"The white rose withers on every bough, And the red rose rears its thorn; But many a maid our strife shall rue, And the babe that is yet unborn.

"I've charged in the battle with horse and lance, But I've doffed the warrior now; And never again may helmet of steel Bind this burning, aching brow!

"Oh, had I been born of a simple churl, And a serving-wench for my mate, I had whistled as blithe as yon knave that sits By Muncaster's Castle gate!

"Would that my crown were a bonnet of blue, And my sceptre yon shepherd's crook, I would honour, dominion, and power eschew, In this holy and quiet nook.

"For England's crown is a girdle of blood, A traitor is every gem; And a murderer's eye each jewel that lurks In that kingly diadem!

"Hunt on! hunt on, thou blood-hound keen; I'd rather an outcast be, Than wade through all that thou hast done, To pluck that crown from thee!"

"Then tarry, my liege," Sir John replied, "In Muncaster's Castle gate; No foeman shall enter, while sheltered here From Edward's pride and hate."

"I may not tarry, thou trusty knight, Nor longer with thee abide; Ere to-morrow shall rise on these lordly towers, From that gate shall a monarch ride.

"For a vision came to my lonely bed, And that vision bade me flee; And I must away, ere break of day, O'er the hills to the south countrie.

"But take this cup,--'tis a hallowed thing, Which holy men have blessed; In the church of the Holy Sepulchre This crystal once did rest;

"And many a martyr, and many a saint, Around its brim have sate; No water that e'er its lips have touched But is hallowed and consecrate.

"'Tis thine, Sir John; not an empire's worth, Nor wealth of Ind could buy The like, for never was jewel seen Of such wondrous potency.

"It shall bless thy bed, it shall bless thy board, They shall prosper by this token; In Muncaster Castle good luck shall be, Till the charmed cup is broken!"

Sir John he bent him on his knee, And the king's word ne'er did err, For the cup is called, to this blessed hour, "THE LUCK OF MUNCASTER."

PART SECOND.

"Oh haste, Sir William of Liddislee My kinsman good at need, Ere the Esk's dark ford thou hast passed by, In Muncaster rest thy steed;

"And say to my love and my lady bright, In Carlisle I must stay, For the foe is come forth from the misty north, And I cannot hence away;

"But I must keep watch on Carlisle's towers With the banner of Cumberland; Then bid her beware of the rebel host, Lest they come with sword and brand.

"But bid her, rather than house or land, Take heed of that cup of grace, Which King Henry gave to our ancestor, The 'LUCK' of our noble race.

"Bid her bury it deep at dead of night, That no eye its hiding see. Now do mine errand, Sir William, As thou wouldst prosperous be!"

Sir William stayed nor for cloud nor shrine, He stayed not for rest nor bait, Till he saw the far gleam on Esk's broad stream, And Muncaster's Castle gate.

"From whence art thou in such fearful haste?" The warder wondering said; "Hast thou 'scaped alone from the bloody fight, And the field of the gory dead?"

"I am not from the bloody fight, Nor a craven flight I flee; But I am come to my lady's bower, Sir William of Liddislee."

The knight to the lady's bower is gone: "A boon I crave from thee, Deny me not, thou lady bright," And he bent him on his knee.

"I grant thee a boon," the lady said, "If it from my husband be;" "There's a cup of grace," cried the suppliant knight, "Which thou must give to me."

"Now foul befa' thee, fause traitor, That with guile would our treasure win; For ne'er from Sir John of Pennington Had such traitrous message been."

"I crave your guerdon, fair lady, 'Twas but your faith to try, That we might know if the 'Luck' of this house Were safe in such custody.

"The message was thus, thy husband sent; He hath looked out from Carlisle wa', And he is aware of John Highlandman Come trooping down the snaw;

"And should this kilted papistry Spread hither upon their way, They'll carry hence that cup of grace, Though thou shouldst say them nay.

"And thy lord must wait for the traitor foe By the walls of merry Carlisle; Else he would hie to his lady's help, And his lady's fears beguile.

"Thy lord would rather his house were brent, His goods and his cattle harried, Than the cup should be broken,--that cup of grace, Or from Muncaster's house be carried."

The kinsman smiled on that fond lady, And his traitor suit he plied: "Give me the cup," the false knight said, "From these foemen fierce to hide."

The lady of Muncaster oped the box Where lay this wondrous thing; Sir William saw its beauteous form, All bright and glistering.

The kinsman smiled on that fond lady, And he viewed it o'er and o'er. "'Tis a jewel of price," said that traitor then, "And worthy a prince's dower.

"We'll bury the treasure where ne'er from the sun One ray of gladness shone, Where darkness and light, and day and night, And summer and spring are one:

"Beneath the moat we'll bury it straight, In its box of the good oak-tree; And the cankered carle, John Highlandman, Shall never that jewel see."

The kinsman took the casket up, And the lady looked over the wall: "If thou break that cup of grace, beware, The pride of our house shall fall!"

The kinsman smiled as he looked above, And to the lady cried, "I'll show thee where thy luck shall be, And the lord of Muncaster's pride."

The lady watched this kinsman false, And he lifted the casket high: "Oh! look not so, Sir William," And bitterly she did cry.

But the traitor knight dashed the casket down To the ground, that blessed token; "Lie there," then said that false one now, "Proud Muncaster's charm is broken!"

The lady shrieked, the lady wailed, While the false knight fled amain: But never durst Muncaster's lord, I trow, Ope that blessed shrine again!

PART THIRD.

The knight of Muncaster went to woo, And he rode with the whirlwind's speed, For the lady was coy, and the lover was proud, And he hotly spurred his steed.

He stayed not for bog, he stayed not for briar, Nor stayed he for flood or fell; Nor ever he slackened his courser's rein, Till he stood by the Lowthers' well.

Beside that well was a castle fair, In that castle a fair lady; In that lady's breast was a heart of stone, Nor might it softened be.

"Now smooth that brow of scorn, fair maid, And to my suit give ear; There's never a dame in Cumberland, Such a look of scorn doth wear."

"Haste, haste thee back," the lady cried, "For a doomed man art thou; I wed not the heir of Muncaster, Thy '_Luck_' is broken now!"

"Oh say not so, for on my sire Th' unerring doom was spent; I heir not his ill-luck, I trow, Nor with his dool am shent."

"The doom is thine, as thou art his, And to his curse, the heir; But never a luckless babe of mine That fearful curse shall bear!"

A moody man was the lover then; But homeward as he hied, Beside the well at Lord Lowther's gate, An ugly dwarf he spied.

"Out of my sight, thou fearsome thing; Out of my sight, I say: Or I will fling thine ugly bones To the crows this blessed day."

But the elfin dwarf he skipped and ran Beside the lover's steed, And ever as Muncaster's lord spurred on, The dwarf held equal speed.

The lover he slackened his pace again, And to the goblin cried: "What ho, Sir Page, what luckless chance Hath buckled thee to my side?"

Up spake then first that shrivelled thing, And he shook his locks of grey: "Why lowers the cloud on Muncaster's brow, And the foam tracks his troubled way?"

"There's a lady, the fairest in all this land," The haughty chief replied; "But that lady's love in vain I've sought, And I'll woo none other bride."

"And is there not beauty in other lands, And locks of raven hue, That thou must pine for a maiden cold, Whose bosom love ne'er knew?"