Imatges de pàgina
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LAUDS had long been sung, and the monks of the priory of St. Martin's-leGrand were buried in deep sleep, when the great bell at the outer gate was rung violently. The porter rose shivering from his pallet, (for it was February, and the cold was intense) and hastened to the wicket.

"What wouldst thou have, my son?" enquired the monk, holding aloft his iron lamp to take a survey of the features of the person who had disturbed him at so unseasonable an hour.

"Sir Giles Acheson, a prisoner in Lud-Gate, is at the point of death, and would fain receive absolution at the hands of one of the fathers," replied the messenger, "prithee, hasten and let them know my errand."

Bidding the messenger wait awhile, the aged porter hobbled back, and proVOL. X.

See page 66.

ceeded to awaken one of the monks. The call was instantly obeyed without a murmur by a brother; who, after rubbing his eyes and yawning once or twice, took his breviary and crucifix, and, in company with the messenger, hastened to administer ghostly consolation to the expiring wretch at whose request he had been summoned.Quickly threading the dark and narrow streets, the monk and the messenger gained the area on the north side of St. Paul's Cathedral, through which the wind blew in loud and violent gusts, and shook the coarse vestments of the priest, who clung tightly to his guide with his left hand; while, with his right, he held on his hood, for the snow was falling fast, and the ground was slippery. The tall towers of the cathedral rose high above the buildings on either side, and served to increase the gloom. No sound could be heard, save the harsh creaking of the nume rous sign-boards as they swung to and fro with the gale; and no light guided their steps, except an occasional flash from a window or loop-hole in the

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houses of those who had prolonged their revels till that late hour. At length they reached Lud-Gate, then, and for many years after, a prison for debtors. After the heavy falling of an iron bar and the withdrawing of sundry bolts, the monk was admitted, and at once shewn into a miserable apartment; in a corner of which, upon a pallet, lay one who seemed the very picture of misery and despair. As the father entered, the wretched prisoner turned his wild and bloodshot eyes upon the holy man; and, covering his face with his hands, uttered a groan so piteous, that it made even the goaler shudder, accustomed as he was to distress and misfortune. The monk knelt by the side of the dying man, and whis pered a few words of consolation in his ear, but they appeared only to add to his agony.

wretch like me; my polluted soul hath much to disgorge, and I would not keep thee in this horrid cell. The thirst of gain, the love of play, hath made me tenant of this vile prisonMy debts are numberless as are mine enemies, and I am justly punished for my foul misdeeds. 'Twas I who stabbed Ralph Gisors the vintner, in the porch of the Blackfriars, because he demanded payment of a tun of wine."

The monk shuddered involuntarily and crossed himself.

"Ay," continued the knight, "I struck him under the left pap with my dagger, and no one witnessed the murder. My hand is red with the blood of others-but I cannot restore them; yet there is one whom I can save, whom I falsely accused; father, 'tis Archibald Mervyn!" Here he paused, and gasped for breath, but shortly re"Oh! no, no, no," sighed the pri-sumed in a weaker tone, "he wronged soner, "tis bootless now, the leech gives me no hope! I would make my shrift, but when I would pray, a hideous fiend cries in my ears Woe unto them which be shedders of innocent blood, and whose tongues work mischief against their fellows! Father, canst thou tell me if aught hath been heard of Archibald Mervyn of Bluns don, him who was arrested of high treason in Autumn by past ?" Here the knight raised himself upon his elbow, and throwing back the dark matted locks which half concealed his sallow and emaciated features, looked earnest ly and enquiringly in the face of the monk.

"No tidings have been heard of him ye speak of," replied the father: "some say he hath entered a monastery in Normandy."

"He was mine enemy," shrieked the wretch, "mine enemy! my mortal foe, whose very name

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"Peace, peace; this is not fitting language for an expiring sinner; look on this emblem of one, who, in dying agony, prayed for those who had sought his blood."

The prisoner did look: he gazed for a moment on the uplifted crucifix, the figure of which flashed brightly in the torch light, muttered something inaudible between his closed teeth, and fell backwards in a swoon. By the help of strong waters he was restored to a state of consciousness, but appeared much exhausted.

"Good holy man," said the miserable knight, shedding a flood of scalding tears, "forgive the ravings of a

me, robbed me of my bride, and jeered me for my want of skill in the crossbow at a shooting match. I feared to resent it openly, and accused him of treason. But ah! do not leave me," cried the miserable knight, finding that his voice was sinking; then with an effort"What, ho! goaler, a light! I have more to say! Is there no hope? Ah, that shape! he comes, Oh mercy, Jesu!"

"I am here," said the monk, bending over the struggling wretch, but he spoke to a deaf ear; the guilty spirit of Sir Giles Acheson had fled for ever! Gazing for a moment on the lifeless corpse which, worn to a skeleton, and retaining on its countenance the marks of despair and anguish, the holy man fell on his knees, and prayed fervently for the soul of the departed knight. He was aroused by the entrance of the goaler, whom he left in charge of the body, and hastened back to the priory to note down the confession he had received, pondering as he went on what he had heard from the dying lips of him who had driven Archibald Mervyn into exile.

At a fitting opportunity the monk took care to lay the whole story of Sir Giles' confession before the king, but Henry's avarice would not allow him to credit the relation, as Mervyn's estates had been seized by the crown, and that mercenary sovereign taking advantage of his flight, found a good pretext for retaining the forfeited property. But Henry's schemes of extortion received a temporary check shortly after: news had arrived that his persevering and

bitter enemy the Dowager Duchess of
Burgundy, was hatching a plot to thrust
him from the throne, and a counterfeit
earl was, as every one knows, presented
to the duchess by one Symon, a
priest. It will be needless to detail the
particulars of this celebrated plot, upon
which so much has been written. It is
well known that the duchess favoured
the views of the pretended earl, and as-
sisted him with a body of Flemish troops
under the command of a valiant and
experienced captain. Her court at that
time was crowded by the proscribed
friends of the fallen house of York, who,
though aware of the imposture, gladly
joined the enterprise in the hope of
recovering their confiscated estates,
should the tide turn in favour of Sym-
nel. Among the malcontents were the
Earl of Lincoln and Lord Lovell, who
took upon them the command of the
rebel army fearing, however, to trust
themselves in England at once, they
sailed into Ireland, and at Dublin
crowned their counterfeit earl King of
England. But the subtle policy of Henry
enabled him to sift this conspiracy to
the bottom; every movement of his ene-
mies was reported to him by spies, some
of whom even mingled in the train of
the duchess herself. At length the ex-
pedition landed in the month of June on
the coast of Lancashire, and compelled
Henry to maintain his right by force of
arms. The assistance which the rebels
had received from Sir Thomas Brough-
ton, a man of great power in the north
of England, although it alarmed Henry,
urged him at the same time to be wary,
and taught him that the better way to
proceed was by strengthening his own
forces, whatever success his rival might
obtain amongst the disaffected. The
time however arrived, when the strength
of either party was to be tried by a fierce
and sanguinary conflict. The army of
the king was at Newark when his scouts
brought intelligence of the near ap-
proach of the rebel forces. Surrounded
by many nobles and knights, several of
whom had served under his banner at
the decisive battle of Bosworth Field,
Henry pushed forward to meet his ene
mies. Among those who enlisted them-
selves under his standard were the
Earl of Shrewsbury, Lord Strange, and
Sir John Cheny, all men of approved
courage and counsel. The two armies
came in sight of each other on the even-
ing of the 15th June, near the village of
Stoke, and Henry encamped for the
night, resolving, as Speed tells us, to
end the rebellion "according to the
manfull fashion of the English," by the

sword. An awful stillness reigned throughout both camps when the broad red disk of the moon rose from the horizon, and threw a lurid glare over the landscape. Dark groups of figures occasionally appeared, moving so noiselessly that the whispers of their sentinels might be distinctly heard. The wind was hushed, the king's banner aver his tent hung sluggishly on the staff, and the rich pavilion sparkled with the night dews. Within one of the tents surrounding that of the king sat Sir John Cheny, pondering on the probable issue of the morrow's contest. His huge frame was cased in a magnificent suite of fluted harness; his burgonet stood on the rude table against which he leant, while his right hand unconsciously sheathed and unsheathed his poignard, the hilt of which, glittering with many costly jewels, reflected the flickering and uncertain blaze of an expiring lamp in all directions. Suddenly the hasty challenge of the sentinel without aroused him from his reverie, and the next moment one of his followers entered to say that a stranger desired to speak with him in private.

"Bid him come hither, Oliver," said the knight," and see that thou be within call."

The soldier disappeared and immediately returned, ushering in an armed stranger, whose height and size seemed magnified through the gloom. He was clad in a suit of worn and battered armour, and wore a closed-faced helmet without plume or crest. As soon as they were alone, Sir John, in a calm but resolute tone, partaking both of curi osity and doubt, enquired the occasion of this visit.

"I bring tidings of the rebel army encamped yonder," was the reply, "and I would fain shew my loyalty to King Henry in to-morrow's fight."

"What is your name, and-"

"My name, "echoed the stranger, with a sigh, "may not be told; and it little boots a banished man what name he bears, so that his deeds shew him guiltless. Let this be pledge of my faith;-my father saved your life at Bosworth field, when you were unhorsed by the Boar of York."

"Ha! Sir Thomas Mervyn, my good old friend; but no, his son was attainted of high treason, and entered a monastery to save his life."

Sir John noticed not the heaving of the stranger's broad chest, which neither his breast-plate nor leather surcoat could conceal.

"Be brief, sir," rejoined the knight,

with some asperity, "and tell me what news thou hast. If you are the son of that good old knight, why this mystery ?"

"I swear by all the blessed saints," interrupted the stranger, "that my purpose is good. Let this suffice for the present. The Almans, under Swart, their captain, are two thousand strong, and are to back the fierce Irishmen, who will lead the rebel van. This is the order of their battle. I have mingled in their councils and learned the secrets well. I have a small company under my command, which I will lead against the Alman Captain-farewell, sir, to-morrow will shew me a true man despite of false friends."

So saying, ere the knight could utter a word in reply, the stranger abruptly quitted the tent, leaving Sir John to meditate on what he had heard. Although somewhat doubtful of the truth of this intelligence, Sir John proceeded at once to the king's pavilion, and laid the whole before his royal master.

Henry thought proper to anticipate the attack of the Irish troops, who, as he judged, were intended to take off the edge of his own army's attack, while their disciplined troops were kept in reserve. The first streak of light in the east was the signal for both parties to prepare for the bloody struggle; and, as the sun rose, it disclosed to view a scene of great martial splendour. The royal army occupied a little eminence by the side of a wood, and myriads of weapons flashed in the sunbeams; while banners and pennons fluttered in the breeze, indicating the presence of a vast number of knights and gentlemen, among whom were Vernon of the Peak, Grey of Ruthin, Nevyl of Thortingbrig, Shurley, Folgehan, Markham, Arundil, Ranisford, Griffin, and a host of others, whose names may be found in the Chronicle of John Speed, or the more tedious relations of Polydore Virgil. Over the ranks of the rebel army flew the banners of the Earl of Lincoln, Lord Lovel, Sir Thomas Boughton, and the Irish Earl of Kildare, with many pennons of the disaffected English gentlemen who had joined them. Henry, surrounded by his friends, attentively observed his enemies as they formed in order for the attack.

"Ha! by our lady," he exclaimed, as he looked on the vanguard of the rebels, which was composed of the grim and fierce-looking Irishmen, but poorly clad and ill-furnished with

arms;

"these be bold hearts who will charge upon our spearmen with their uncouth weapons. Sir John Cheny, to you we give command of our lances; Sir Ralph Fynder will support you if there be need. Remember your accustomed valour, and deal these rebels such blows as thou gavest Blanch Sanglier and his friends."

The knight bowed until his raised beaver touched his horse's mane, and immediately rode off to take his post. Five minutes more, and a loud shout, mingled with the clang of weapons, told that the two armies had joined.On came the ferocious Irish troops, yelling like demons, casting stones and darts, and brandishing their skeins; but they were met by a band of the royal archers, whose shafts were poured upon them in showers, and with such fatal precision, that the ground was quickly covered by scores of dead and expiring wretches. Astonished at this reception, the Irish paused for a moment; but, disdaining to fly, (alas! what refuge could they anticipate by flying?) they encouraged each other by loud shouts, and continued to advance; but their hour was come; ere they had time to recover from the dreadful execution of the English bowmen, Sir John Cheny, at the head of his lances, dashed in amongst them, and the slaughter became frightful. Armed only with weapons, which were but of little avail agaiust their mounted and steel-clad enemies, the wretched Irishmen fell like the leaves in Autumn.At this juncture, however, a band of Flemish Lunzneehts threw themselves in the way of the English knight, and the combat became obstinate, for the Flemings, forming in a ring, defied the repeated charges of the Englishmen. In the mean time the battle raged with great fury in other parts of the field, but as this tale relates more to the detail of individual than of general strife, it will be confined to the narration of a portion only. Despairing of ever forcing the close ranks of the Flemish spearmen, Sir John Cheny drew off his men, and a body of pikemen, led by Sir Ralph Fynder, advanced to relieve him and his company, when the struggle was renewed with increased fury. Contrary to their expectations, the English pikemen found their adversaries as obstinate as themselves, and even better disciplined. The fight raged furiously for some time, when the Flemish Captain Swart, like a furious torrent rushed with his company to the assistance

of their fellows. They were armed with heavy two-handed swords, a weapon much used in those days, particularly by the Germans-and immediately charged the English pikemen in flank, striking down all who opposed them. Some of the English, relinquish ing their spears, drew their swords and obstinately disputed the ground; but many fell beneath their enemies' huge weapons, when suddenly a body of men armed with bills and leaden mills, and headed by the stranger who visited Sir John Cheny on the night previous, rushed to the assistance of their countrymen, and blows, groans, and shouts indicated the fury of both parties. The armourer's art had almost reached its acme in those days, and Swart was cased to the teeth in a magnificent suit of fluted and engraved steel armour, but in lieu of helmet he wore a richly wrought cap of the same metal, which while it protected his head did not conceal his visage, enflamed by exertion, and its fierceness enhanced by a beard and moustaches of raven black. He managed his two-handed sword with fatal dexterity, accompanying every blow by a Flemish oath, which, if not so expressive as the expletives of those whom he fought against, were no less vehement. His face and figure were truly martial; he was indeed such an one as may be seen portrayed in the woodcuts of Albert Durer, or the more recent engravings of Van Leyden; tall, broad-shouldered and commanding, a fit study for the sculptor or the painter. Enraged at this accession to the force of his enemies, many of whom he had mowed down with his tremendous espadon, Swart foamed like the boar when brought to a stand by his unrelenting pursuers, and his heavy rapid strokes did fearful execution. Twice did the strange man-at-arms (whose dress and weapons, with the exception of what appeared to be a party-coloured sash, were precisely the same as when he entered the tent of Sir John Cheny), attempt to get within the sweep of Swart's huge weapon, but as often was he obliged to retreat precipitately. length an English soldier beat down a man at the feet of the Flemish captain, who stumbled over the body and was near falling. This was perceived by one of the Englishmen, who, drawing his dagger, rushed forward to close with Swart. But he suffered immediately for his temerity.

At

"Ha, dog!" cried Swart in his native tongue, "wilt grapple with me?"

He thrust the soldier from him as he spoke, and the next moment swept the man's head from his shoulders. This, however, gave the man-at-arms an opportunity which he had long sought, and rushing forward he closed with Swart, who thus obliged to relinquish his espadon, grappled tightly with his adversary, and a violent struggle ensued. Both were powerful men and the contest was for life or death; they fell and rolled on the ground locked in each other's grasp, neither of them liking to relinquish his hold to clutch a weapon. At length the Englishman's hand reached his antagonist's throat above the gorget, and his iron gripe made the Fleming's swarthy countenance grow still darker; the opportunity was not to be lost; the man-atarms loosening his right hand drew his dagger, and buried it to the hilt in the throat of Swart, whose thick moustaches were instantly dyed with blood. The blow was fatal; the Flemish captain with a convulsive throe, yielded up his courageous soul, and his conqueror, starting to his feet, found that he was left almost alone: the Flemings had been forced back upon a troop of horse who had cut them to pieces.

Whilst this was passing, the King beheld from the hill the discomfiture of the rebel army and the capture of the counterfeit Earl, and afterwards descended to view the slain. Many pressed round the monarch in the hope of being favourably noticed, while he thanked some and smiled upon others in token of his approval of their conduct. At length the King approached that part of the field where the Flemings had manifested such undaunted courage, and the vanquisher of Swart, quickly closing his burgonet, which he had opened to admit the air, beheld the approach of Henry with a throbbing breast. He hesitated whether to remain or pass on, but ere he had determined, he was in the midst of the party, and Sir John Cheny immediately pointed out the valiant soldier to his sovereign.

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By our Lady of Walsingham!" exclaimed the King, 66 we must not forget those who have perilled their lives for our safety!"

Then addressing himself to the manat-arms, he inquired his name. He whom thus questioned paused for a moment, then slowly raising his beaver, replied

"Archibald Mervyn, an it please your Grace."

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