Legends of Lancashire. Peter Landreth
the crimson colour which mantled his features, changing to a deadly paleness as he spoke, “should you fall, what is for me?”
“A safe return to your mistress.”
No answer was given; the page turned away his head, but not before a tear had fallen upon Tyldesley’s hand.
They had now marched for two hours, and the town of Wigan was seen in the distance. As they advanced, the reapers were busy in their quiet occupations, amidst the richly waving crops. The Earl of Derby was, in his own mind, contrasting the joys of peace, with the miseries of war, when, all at once, Lord Widdrington and Sir Thomas Throgmorton were galloping towards him. The earl spurred from the lines, and met them.
“The enemy is approaching—the day must be lost—they are some thousand strong.”
Derby turned pale at the intelligence. He had hoped to possess Wigan as a strong-hold, until he had cleared a way to Worcester, to join his Sovereign. But his paleness soon fled. “Dost see,” he proudly exclaimed, “these few reapers cutting down whole fields of corn—and shall we not take courage from them?”
Without ordering a halt, he wheeled round to the Tyldesleys, and announced to them the movements of the enemy.
“They have even taken possession of Wigan,” he said, “the strong-hold of loyalty.” The earl then uncovering his head, looked round upon his troops, and solemnly bade every soldier ask the blessing of the God of battles. The helmet was raised from every head, and every eye was fixed upward, as the small army prayed.
“Let your prayers,” interrupted Derby, “be sincere; and even that youthful page, whose cheek is pale for coming danger, may be nerved to deal havoc among the enemy. Now let the march be sounded, and let us, with all possible haste, scour to Wigan. And when we encounter, as soon we must—you have children—there is strength in your arm; you have wives—the thought is worth a hundred swords; you have a king—fight, therefore, in their defence! Less than an hour’s march must bring us front to front with the enemy, and they are reported to be numerous.”
“Front to front!” exclaimed Sir Thomas Tyldesley, “sword to sword! let us meet them!”
“Poor youth,” said Derby, as his eye rested on the pale face of the page, “thou hast neither a soldier’s form nor heart, thou shouldst have remained to amuse thy mistress. And yet” he added, as if entirely absorbed in his own remembrances, “my countess never required such a companion! heaven bless her, and guard her, should I never see her more!”
“Nor does my mistress, noble earl,” replied the page, quickly, while his dark and beautiful eye glowed keenly: “and I too, whatever my form and look may bespeak, am ready to lose a life for my sovereign. I shudder to draw a sword, but I will not shudder to receive it—aye, in my bosom!”
Never did the most herculean form appear more warlike, than did the youthful speaker. His firmly chiselled mouth was pressed together with a deadly expression of resolve, and the soft eyelash was arched, as if it could slay.
“Bravo,” exclaimed the elder Tyldesley, “a true knight; and yet fair sir, a maiden speaks of bosom—a hero speaks of heart!”
Unconsciously, at this moment, the page had spurred his steed, which plunged furiously. Like lightning, a slender arm reached over the proud mane—grasped the bridle—and in a moment, he was quiet as before. The strength of a giant horseman, could not have so tamed him. In the suddenness of the motion, the plumed beaver of the rider had fallen, and like some young and beautiful spirit of power, with dark ringlets, curling over a brow of glistening thought and love, and as if quelling the furious tempest, the page leaned forward, on his steed.
“Nay, nay,” said the earl, “spur on, and let us not delay to meet the foe.”
The gallant army marched on rapidly, and in a few minutes, as the sun streamed from the eastern clouds, the rays fell upon Wigan, seen in the distance. Only one sound was borne to the ear, and it was the trampling of horses. “They come,” was the general cry. “On, on,” exclaimed their leader, “let Charles’s banner be unfurled, and soon we shall plant it, to wave over the church tower!”
A few minutes more brought them to the entrance of the town. A strong hedge skirted both sides of the road. The windings were many and abrupt, and the sharp angular view, was over the rocky heights on the banks of the Douglas, and almost suggested the appearance of traitors, so unexpectedly were many of the scenes brought before them. The scenery of the country around, was wild, and marked that here, war would not be out of keeping. Young Tyldesley took his uncle’s hand, to bid him farewell, for now the impression rested on every mind, that from the unusual stillness, the stern sounds of combat might soon be heard. Silence seemed to be the soft whispers of a traitor! secret, but sure. A tear stole down the hardy cheek of the veteran, as he blessed his companion.
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