The Lancashire Witches by William Harrison Ainsworth

W >> William Harrison Ainsworth >> The Lancashire Witches

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53

Meantime, the abbot had been led to the chief room of the mill, where
all the corn formerly consumed within the monastery had been prepared,
and which the size of the chamber itself, together with the vastness of
the stones used in the operation of grinding, and connected with the
huge water-wheel outside, proved to be by no means inconsiderable.
Strong shafts of timber supported the flooring above, and were crossed
by other boards placed horizontally, from which various implements in
use at the mill depended, giving the chamber, imperfectly lighted as it
now was by the lamp borne by Abel, a strange and almost mysterious
appearance. Three or four of the miller's men, armed with pikes, had
followed their master, and, though much alarmed, they vowed to die
rather than give up the abbot.

By this time Hal o' Nabs had joined the group, and proceeding towards a
raised part of the chamber where the grinding-stones were set, he knelt
down, and laying hold of a small ring, raised up a trapdoor. The fresh
air which blew up through the aperture, combined with the rushing sound
of water, showed that the Calder flowed immediately beneath; and, having
made some slight preparation, Hal let himself down into the stream.

At this moment a loud crash was heard, and one of the miller's men cried
out that the arquebussiers had burst open the door.

"Be hondy, then, lads, and let him down!" cried Hal o' Nabs, who had
some difficulty in maintaining his footing on the rough, stony bottom of
the swift stream.

Passively yielding, the abbot suffered the miller and one of the
stoutest of his men to assist him through the trapdoor, while a third
held down the lamp, and showed Hal o' Nabs, up to his middle in the
darkling current, and stretching out his arms to receive the burden. The
light fell upon the huge black circle of the watershed now stopped, and
upon the dripping arches supporting the mill. In another moment the
abbot plunged into the water, the trapdoor was replaced, and bolted
underneath by Hal, who, while guiding his companion along, and bidding
him catch hold of the wood-work of the wheel, heard a heavy trampling of
many feet on the boards above, showing that the pursuers had obtained
admittance.

Encumbered by his heavy vestments, the abbot could with difficulty
contend against the strong current, and he momently expected to be swept
away; but he had a stout and active assistant by his side, who soon
placed him under shelter of the wheel. The trampling overhead continued
for a few minutes, after which all was quiet, and Hal judged that,
finding their search within ineffectual, the enemy would speedily come
forth. Nor was he deceived. Shouts were soon heard at the door of the
mill, and the glare of torches was cast on the stream. Then it was that
Hal dragged his companion into a deep hole, formed by some decay in the
masonry, behind the wheel, where the water rose nearly to their chins,
and where they were completely concealed. Scarcely were they thus
ensconced, than two or three armed men, holding torches aloft, were seen
wading under the archway; but after looking carefully around, and even
approaching close to the water-wheel, these persons could detect
nothing, and withdrew, muttering curses of rage and disappointment.
By-and-by the lights almost wholly disappeared, and the shouts becoming
fainter and more distant, it was evident that the men had gone lower
down the river. Upon this, Hal thought they might venture to quit their
retreat, and accordingly, grasping the abbot's arm, he proceeded to wade
up the stream.

Benumbed with cold, and half dead with terror, Paslew needed all his
companion's support, for he could do little to help himself, added to
which, they occasionally encountered some large stone, or stepped into a
deep hole, so that it required Hal's utmost exertion and strength to
force a way on. At last they were out of the arch, and though both banks
seemed unguarded, yet, for fear of surprise, Hal deemed it prudent still
to keep to the river. Their course was completely sheltered from
observation by the mist that enveloped them; and after proceeding in
this way for some distance, Hal stopped to listen, and while debating
with himself whether he should now quit the river, he fancied he beheld
a black object swimming towards him. Taking it for an otter, with which
voracious animal the Calder, a stream swarming with trout, abounded, and
knowing the creature would not meddle with them unless first attacked,
he paid little attention to it; but he was soon made sensible of his
error. His arm was suddenly seized by a large black hound, whose sharp
fangs met in his flesh. Unable to repress a cry of pain, Hal strove to
disengage himself from his assailant, and, finding it impossible, flung
himself into the water in the hope of drowning him, but, as the hound
still maintained his hold, he searched for his knife to slay him. But he
could not find it, and in his distress applied to Paslew.

"Ha yo onny weepun abowt yo, lort abbut," he cried, "wi' which ey con
free mysel fro' this accussed hound?"

"Alas! no, my son," replied Paslew, "and I fear no weapon will prevail
against it, for I recognise in the animal the hound of the wizard,
Demdike."

"Ey thowt t' dule wur in it," rejoined Hal; "boh leave me to fight it
owt, and do you gain t' bonk, an mey t' best o' your way to t' Wiswall.
Ey'n join ye os soon os ey con scrush this varment's heaod agen a stoan.
Ha!" he added, joyfully, "Ey'n found t' thwittle. Go--go. Ey'n soon be
efter ye."

Feeling he should sink if he remained where he was, and wholly unable to
offer any effectual assistance to his companion, the abbot turned to the
left, where a large oak overhung the stream, and he was climbing the
bank, aided by the roots of the tree, when a man suddenly came from
behind it, seized his hand, and dragged him up forcibly. At the same
moment his captor placed a bugle to his lips, and winding a few notes,
he was instantly answered by shouts, and soon afterwards half a dozen
armed men ran up, bearing torches. Not a word passed between the
fugitive and his captor; but when the men came up, and the torchlight
fell upon the features of the latter, the abbot's worst fears were
realised. It was Demdike.

"False to your king!--false to your oath!--false to all men!" cried the
wizard. "You seek to escape in vain!"

"I merit all your reproaches," replied the abbot; "but it may he some
satisfaction, to you to learn, that I have endured far greater suffering
than if I had patiently awaited my doom."

"I am glad of it," rejoined Demdike, with a savage laugh; "but you have
destroyed others beside yourself. Where is the fellow in the water?
What, ho, Uriel!"

But as no sound reached him, he snatched a torch from one of the
arquebussiers and held it to the river's brink. But he could see neither
hound nor man.

"Strange!" he cried. "He cannot have escaped. Uriel is more than a match
for any man. Secure the prisoner while I examine the stream."

With this, he ran along the bank with great quickness, holding his torch
far over the water, so as to reveal any thing floating within it, but
nothing met his view until he came within a short distance of the mill,
when he beheld a black object struggling in the current, and soon found
that it was his dog making feeble efforts to gain the bank.

"Ah recreant! thou hast let him go," cried Demdike, furiously.

Seeing his master the animal redoubled its efforts, crept ashore, and
fell at his feet, with a last effort to lick his hands.

Demdike held down the torch, and then perceived that the hound was
quite dead. There was a deep gash in its side, and another in the
throat, showing how it had perished.

"Poor Uriel!" he exclaimed; "the only true friend I had. And thou art
gone! The villain has killed thee, but he shall pay for it with his
life."

And hurrying back he dispatched four of the men in quest of the
fugitive, while accompanied by the two others he conveyed Paslew back to
the abbey, where he was placed in a strong cell, from which there was no
possibility of escape, and a guard set over him.

Half an hour after this, two of the arquebussiers returned with Hal o'
Nabs, whom they had succeeded in capturing after a desperate resistance,
about a mile from the abbey, on the road to Wiswall. He was taken to the
guard-room, which had been appointed in one of the lower chambers of the
chapter-house, and Demdike was immediately apprised of his arrival.
Satisfied by an inspection of the prisoner, whose demeanour was sullen
and resolved, Demdike proceeded to the great hall, where the Earl of
Derby, who had returned thither after the midnight mass, was still
sitting with his retainers. An audience was readily obtained by the
wizard, and, apparently well pleased with the result, he returned to the
guard-room. The prisoner was seated by himself in one corner of the
chamber, with his hands tied behind his back with a leathern thong, and
Demdike approaching him, told him that, for having aided the escape of a
condemned rebel and traitor, and violently assaulting the king's lieges
in the execution of their duty, he would be hanged on the morrow, the
Earl of Derby, who had power of life or death in such cases, having so
decreed it. And he exhibited the warrant.

"Soh, yo mean to hong me, eh, wizard?" cried Hal o' Nabs, kicking his
heels with great apparent indifference.

"I do," replied Demdike; "if for nothing else, for slaying my hound."

"Ey dunna think it," replied Hal. "Yo'n alter your moind. Do, mon. Ey'm
nah prepared to dee just yet."

"Then perish in your sins," cried Demdike, "I will not give you an
hour's respite."

"Yo'n be sorry when it's too late," said Hal.

"Tush!" cried Demdike, "my only regret will be that Uriel's slaughter is
paid for by such a worthless life as thine."

"Then whoy tak it?" demanded Hal. "'Specially whon yo'n lose your chilt
by doing so."

"My child!" exclaimed Demdike, surprised. "How mean you, sirrah?"

"Ey mean this," replied Hal, coolly; "that if ey dee to-morrow mornin'
your chilt dees too. Whon ey ondertook this job ey calkilated mey
chances, an' tuk precautions eforehond. Your chilt's a hostage fo mey
safety."

"Curses on thee and thy cunning," cried Demdike; "but I will not be
outwitted by a hind like thee. I will have the child, and yet not be
baulked of my revenge."

"Yo'n never ha' it, except os a breathless corpse, 'bowt mey consent,"
rejoined Hal.

"We shall see," cried Demdike, rushing forth, and bidding the guards
look well to the prisoner.

But ere long he returned with a gloomy and disappointed expression of
countenance, and again approaching the prisoner said, "Thou hast spoken
the truth. The infant is in the hands of some innocent being over whom I
have no power."

"Ey towdee so, wizard," replied Hal, laughing. "Hoind os ey be, ey'm a
match fo' thee,--ha! ha! Neaw, mey life agen t' chilt's. Win yo set me
free?"

Demdike deliberated.

"Harkee, wizard," cried Hal, "if yo're hatching treason ey'n dun. T'
sartunty o' revenge win sweeten mey last moments."

"Will you swear to deliver the child to me unharmed, if I set you free?"
asked Demdike.

"It's a bargain, wizard," rejoined Hal o' Nabs; "ey swear. Boh yo mun
set me free furst, fo' ey winnaw tak your word."

Demdike turned away disdainfully, and addressing the arquebussiers,
said, "You behold this warrant, guard. The prisoner is committed to my
custody. I will produce him on the morrow, or account for his absence to
the Earl of Derby."

One of the arquebussiers examined the order, and vouching for its
correctness, the others signified their assent to the arrangement, upon
which Demdike motioned the prisoner to follow him, and quitted the
chamber. No interruption was offered to Hal's egress, but he stopped
within the court-yard, where Demdike awaited him, and unfastened the
leathern thong that bound together his hands.

"Now go and bring the child to me," said the wizard.

"Nah, ey'st neaw bring it ye myself," rejoined Hal. "Ey knoas better nor
that. Be at t' church porch i' half an hour, an t' bantlin shan be
delivered to ye safe an sound."

And without waiting for a reply, he ran off with great swiftness.

At the appointed time Demdike sought the church, and as he drew near it
there issued from the porch a female, who hastily placing the child,
wrapped in a mantle, in his arms, tarried for no speech from him, but
instantly disappeared. Demdike, however, recognised in her the miller's
daughter, Dorothy Croft.

CHAPTER VIII.--THE EXECUTIONER.

Dawn came at last, after a long and weary night to many within and
without the abbey. Every thing betokened a dismal day. The atmosphere
was damp, and oppressive to the spirits, while the raw cold sensibly
affected the frame. All astir were filled with gloom and despondency,
and secretly breathed a wish that, the tragical business of the day were
ended. The vast range of Pendle was obscured by clouds, and ere long the
vapours descended into the valleys, and rain began to fall; at first
slightly, but afterwards in heavy continuous showers. Melancholy was the
aspect of the abbey, and it required no stretch of imagination to fancy
that the old structure was deploring the fate of its former ruler. To
those impressed with the idea--and many there were who were so--the very
stones of the convent church seemed dissolving into tears. The statues
of the saints appeared to weep, and the great statue of Saint Gregory de
Northbury over the porch seemed bowed down with grief. The grotesquely
carved heads on the spouts grinned horribly at the abbot's destroyers,
and spouted forth cascades of water, as if with the intent of drowning
them. So deluging and incessant were the showers, that it seemed,
indeed, as if the abbey would be flooded. All the inequalities of ground
within the great quadrangle of the cloisters looked like ponds, and the
various water-spouts from the dormitory, the refectory, and the
chapter-house, continuing to jet forth streams into the court below, the
ambulatories were soon filled ankle-deep, and even the lower apartments,
on which they opened, invaded.

Surcharged with moisture, the royal banner on the gate drooped and clung
to the staff, as if it too shared in the general depression, or as if
the sovereign authority it represented had given way. The countenances
and deportment of the men harmonized with the weather; they moved about
gloomily and despondently, their bright accoutrements sullied with the
wet, and their buskins clogged with mire. A forlorn sight it was to
watch the shivering sentinels on the walls; and yet more forlorn to see
the groups of the abbot's old retainers gathering without, wrapped in
their blue woollen cloaks, patiently enduring the drenching showers, and
awaiting the last awful scene. But the saddest sight of all was on the
hill, already described, called the Holehouses. Here two other lesser
gibbets had been erected during the night, one on either hand of the
loftier instrument of justice, and the carpenters were yet employed in
finishing their work, having been delayed by the badness of the weather.
Half drowned by the torrents that fell upon them, the poor fellows were
protected from interference with their disagreeable occupation by half a
dozen well-mounted and well-armed troopers, and by as many halberdiers;
and this company, completely exposed to the weather, suffered severely
from wet and cold. The rain beat against the gallows, ran down its tall
naked posts, and collected in pools at its feet. Attracted by some
strange instinct, which seemed to give them a knowledge of the object of
these terrible preparations, two ravens wheeled screaming round the
fatal tree, and at length one of them settled on the cross-beam, and
could with difficulty be dislodged by the shouts of the men, when it
flew away, croaking hoarsely. Up this gentle hill, ordinarily so soft
and beautiful, but now abhorrent as a Golgotha, in the eyes of the
beholders, groups of rustics and monks had climbed over ground rendered
slippery with moisture, and had gathered round the paling encircling the
terrible apparatus, looking the images of despair and woe.

Even those within the abbey, and sheltered from the storm, shared the
all-pervading despondency. The refectory looked dull and comfortless,
and the logs on the hearth hissed and sputtered, and would not burn.
Green wood had been brought instead of dry fuel by the drowsy henchman.
The viands on the board provoked not the appetite, and the men emptied
their cups of ale, yawned and stretched their arms, as if they would
fain sleep an hour or two longer. The sense of discomfort, was
heightened by the entrance of those whose term of watch had been
relieved, and who cast their dripping cloaks on the floor, while two or
three savage dogs, steaming with moisture, stretched their huge lengths
before the sullen fire, and disputed all approach to it.

Within the great hall were already gathered the retainers of the Earl of
Derby, but the nobleman himself had not appeared. Having passed the
greater part of the night in conference with one person or another, and
the abbot's flight having caused him much disquietude, though he did not
hear of it till the fugitive was recovered; the earl would not seek his
couch until within an hour of daybreak, and his attendants, considering
the state of the weather, and that it yet wanted full two hours to the
time appointed for the execution, did not think it needful to disturb
him. Braddyll and Assheton, however, were up and ready; but, despite
their firmness of nerve, they yielded like the rest to the depressing
influence of the weather, and began to have some misgivings as to their
own share in the tragedy about to be enacted. The various gentlemen in
attendance paced to and fro within the hall, holding but slight converse
together, anxiously counting the minutes, for the time appeared to pass
on with unwonted slowness, and ever and anon glancing through the
diamond panes of the window at the rain pouring down steadily without,
and coming back again hopeless of amendment in the weather.

If such were the disheartening influence of the day on those who had
nothing to apprehend, what must its effect have been on the poor
captives! Woful indeed. The two monks suffered a complete prostration of
spirit. All the resolution which Father Haydocke had displayed in his
interview with the Earl of Derby, failed him now, and he yielded to the
agonies of despair. Father Eastgate was in little better condition, and
gave vent to unavailing lamentations, instead of paying heed to the
consolatory discourse of the monk who had been permitted to visit him.

The abbot was better sustained. Though greatly enfeebled by the
occurrences of the night, yet in proportion as his bodily strength
decreased, his mental energies rallied. Since the confession of his
secret offence, and the conviction he had obtained that his supposed
victim still lived, a weight seemed taken from his breast, and he had no
longer any dread of death. Rather he looked to the speedy termination of
existence with hopeful pleasure. He prepared himself as decently as the
means afforded him permitted for his last appearance before the world,
but refused all refreshment except a cup of water, and being left to
himself was praying fervently, when a man was admitted into his cell.
Thinking it might be the executioner come to summon him, he arose, and
to his surprise beheld Hal o' Nabs. The countenance of the rustic was
pale, but his bearing was determined.

"You here, my son," cried Paslew. "I hoped you had escaped."

"Ey'm i' nah dawnger, feyther abbut," replied Hal. "Ey'n getten leef to
visit ye fo a minute only, so ey mun be brief. Mey yourself easy, ye
shanna dee be't hongmon's honds."

"How, my son!" cried Paslew. "I understand you not."

"Yo'n onderstond me weel enough by-and-by," replied Hal. "Dunnah be
feart whon ye see me next; an comfort yoursel that whotever cums and
goes, your death shall be avenged o' your warst foe."

Paslew would have sought some further explanation, but Hal stepped
quickly backwards, and striking his foot against the door, it was
instantly opened by the guard, and he went forth.

Not long after this, the Earl of Derby entered the great hall, and his
first inquiry was as to the safety of the prisoners. When satisfied of
this, he looked forth, and shuddered at the dismal state of the weather.
While he was addressing some remarks on this subject, and on its
interference with the tragical exhibition about to take place, an
officer entered the hall, followed by several persons of inferior
condition, amongst whom was Hal o' Nabs, and marched up to the earl,
while the others remained standing at a respectful distance.

"What news do you bring me, sir?" cried the earl, noticing the officer's
evident uneasiness of manner. "Nothing hath happened to the prisoners?
God's death! if it hath, you shall all answer for it with your bodies."

"Nothing hath happened to them, my lord," said the officer,--"but--"

"But what?" interrupted the earl. "Out with it quickly."

"The executioner from Lancaster and his two aids have fled," replied the
officer.

"Fled!" exclaimed the earl, stamping his foot with rage; "now as I live,
this is a device to delay the execution till some new attempt at rescue
can be made. But it shall fail, if I string up the abbot myself. Death!
can no other hangmen be found? ha!"

"Of a surety, my lord; but all have an aversion to the office, and hold
it opprobrious, especially to put churchmen to death," replied the
officer.

"Opprobrious or not, it must be done," replied the earl. "See that
fitting persons are provided."

At this moment Hal o' Nabs stepped forward.

"Ey'm willing t' ondertake t' job, my lord, an' t' hong t' abbut,
without fee or rewort," he said.

"Thou bears't him a grudge, I suppose, good fellow," replied the earl,
laughing at the rustic's uncouth appearance; "but thou seem'st a stout
fellow, and one not likely to flinch, and may discharge the office as
well as another. If no better man can be found, let him do it," he added
to the officer.

"Ey humbly thonk your lortship," replied Hal, inwardly rejoicing at the
success of his scheme. But his countenance fell when he perceived
Demdike advance from behind the others.

"This man is not to be trusted, my lord," said Demdike, coming forward;
"he has some mischievous design in making the request. So far from
bearing enmity to the abbot, it was he who assisted him in his attempt
to escape last night."

"What!" exclaimed the earl, "is this a new trick? Bring the fellow
forward, that I may examine him."

But Hal was gone. Instantly divining Demdike's purpose, and seeing his
chance lost, he mingled with the lookers-on, who covered his retreat.
Nor could he be found when sought for by the guard.

"See you provide a substitute quickly, sir," cried the earl, angrily, to
the officer.

"It is needless to take further trouble, my lord," replied Demdike "I am
come to offer myself as executioner."

"Thou!" exclaimed the earl.

"Ay," replied the other. "When I heard that the men from Lancaster were
fled, I instantly knew that some scheme to frustrate the ends of justice
was on foot, and I at once resolved to undertake the office myself
rather than delay or risk should occur. What this man's aim was, who
hath just offered himself, I partly guess, but it hath failed; and if
your lordship will intrust the matter to me, I will answer that no
further impediment shall arise, but that the sentence shall be fully
carried out, and the law satisfied. Your lordship can trust me."

"I know it," replied the earl. "Be it as you will. It is now on the
stroke of nine. At ten, let all be in readiness to set out for Wiswall
Hall. The rain may have ceased by that time, but no weather must stay
you. Go forth with the new executioner, sir," he added to the officer,
"and see all necessary preparations made."

And as Demdike bowed, and departed with the officer, the earl sat down
with his retainers to break his fast.

CHAPTER IX.--WISWALL HALL.

Shortly before ten o'clock a numerous cortege, consisting of a troop of
horse in their full equipments, a band of archers with their bows over
their shoulders, and a long train of barefoot monks, who had been
permitted to attend, set out from the abbey. Behind them came a varlet
with a paper mitre on his head, and a lathen crosier in his hand,
covered with a surcoat, on which was emblazoned, but torn and reversed,
the arms of Paslew; argent, a fess between three mullets, sable, pierced
of the field, a crescent for difference. After him came another varlet
bearing a banner, on which was painted a grotesque figure in a
half-military, half-monastic garb, representing the "Earl of Poverty,"
with this distich beneath it:--

Priest and warrior--rich and poor,
He shall be hanged at his own door.

Next followed a tumbrel, drawn by two horses, in which sat the abbot
alone, the two other prisoners being kept back for the present. Then
came Demdike, in a leathern jerkin and blood-red hose, fitting closely
to his sinewy limbs, and wrapped in a houppeland of the same colour as
the hose, with a coil of rope round his neck. He walked between two
ill-favoured personages habited in black, whom he had chosen as
assistants. A band of halberdiers brought up the rear. The procession
moved slowly along,--the passing-bell tolling each minute, and a muffled
drum sounding hollowly at intervals.