The Lancashire Traditions. John Roby
at the truth raised a slight quiver on the abbot's lip. The conversation of the stranger, the anxiety he displayed, with that of his brother of Kirkstall, seemed to point out the source and cause of his disaster.
"Now, varlet, answer truly, or thou diest," said Paslew, with a significant shake of the finger. "At whose instigation hast thou committed this foul treason against our house, and the good prospering of this realm?"
"The deed was not mine."
"Believe him not, my lord—we are upon our testimony," said the accusers.
Ralph, turning aside, met them face to face. He commenced a short but shrewd examination, as follows:—
"You were a-watching, I suppose?" said he, carelessly.
"Ay, were we," sharply replied three or four ready tongues.
"Then, how could I fire the beacon without your leave?" A short pause evinced their dislike to this question; but Will, more ready than discreet, soon summoned assurance to meet the inquiry, thus—
"My lord, we had just taken them into the hut, thinking to show them a courtesy; but that knave's throat holds more liquor than his mother's kneading-trough, or"—
"If in the hut, how could I set the beacon in a low?"
"But thou hadst a companion," hastily shouted Nicholas, finding their first position untenable.
"And how comes it to pass that ye be taking or guiding thither any person, and more particularly wayfarers, whom we know not? How comes it, I say, that ye suffer this without my permission?" said the abbot, sternly.
"Will was their guide; and we cared not to refuse your reverence's messenger."
"My messenger!" returned Paslew, with a glance that almost bent them to the ground.
"Please your highness," said Will, falling on his knees, "the stranger was a-visiting of the beacons, so said he, to know if they were carefully watched. He came to me, as with an authority from your reverence, and I mounted them up to the guard-house, unwillingly enough. 'Tis a sore pull for a pair of shanks like mine."
The abbot now saw plainly into the machinations by which he had been betrayed, and reprimanding his men for their negligence, and so careless an observance of his commands, ordered them off severally to the stocks. Their lamentations were loud but unavailing, especially when they found that Ralph was simply dismissed, for a space, to solitary confinement.
Yet was Paslew still at a loss to determine whence this subtle device originated, unless from his brother of Kirkstall, and he resolved to question Ralph secretly. It was owing to this purpose probably that the usual summary process of executive justice was not more speedily administered.
A great marvel and gossip, as may readily be supposed, now arose throughout the whole country. Rumour, with her hundred tongues, flew fast, and her wide wings overspread the land. From all quarters, conformably to the signal, the levies marched with great rapidity to Doncaster, where they found Lord D'Arcy, who seemed to feel, or to feign, astonishment at this sudden rising without his orders. One and all proclaimed that the appointed signal was from the Abbot of Whalley, at whose war-inciting torch the whole line of beacons had been kindled. A messenger, however, was soon forwarded to the camp, from Paslew, with an explanation of the affair, while at the same time he demanded their aid for the discovery and punishment of the offenders. But D'Arcy and Aske were too well pleased to see Paslew's crafty and selfish plans frustrated, whilst he was irretrievably committed to their cause. Tired of waiting the tardy result of negotiations with their sovereign, these ambitious spirits were glad to behold their army once more menacing the royalist position, hoping it would either quicken or terminate these dilatory proceedings. But the Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Shrewsbury, at the news of this unexpected rising, were mightily amazed. Their plans were at once terminated. Their emissaries had failed to bring intelligence previously of the intended gathering. In the midst of their dilemma word was brought that the Abbot of Whalley had first lighted up the blaze of insurrection. Secretly resolving that this meddling priest should sorely rue his mischievous exploit, they again found themselves unwillingly obliged to enter into fresh stipulations with their adversaries, though determining on delay, if possible, in the hope of dividing their leaders, and of extinguishing the rebellion in detail.
But we would crave the reader's return to the abbey, where Ralph was left in strict durance, and possibly in some danger from the vindictive purposes of the abbot.
Early on the following morning he was aroused from a deeptoned and laborious stertoration, by a figure that shook him as he lay, in a somewhat unceremonious fashion. The intruder was wrapped in a thick cloak or tunic, and he stood gruffly erect by the straw couch, whereon the prisoner's night-dreams had nestled in their first existence.
"I marvel thou sleepest so soundly! Thou art the first knave, I trow, that hast welcomed these walls with so loud a clarion."
"And what should ail the well-earned slumbers of Ralph Newcome? His sleep may be as sound as some of those, mayhap, that have softer beds and gayer clothing."
"But the gallows, man!—Hast had no glimpse of the noose in thy night visions?"
"Peradventure the hemp is not sown that shall make my collar. When the hangsman comes, 'tis time enough to wake; so, I pray thee, bereave not a poor man of the only solace the rich cannot purchase from him."
"Thou art a plain-spoken varlet, and I would but ask thy master's name and condition. Answer me straight—no equivocation, no shuffling or evasion shall serve thee; 'tis a stale device now, and will not avail."
"And who art thou, friend, that hast such a greedy appetite for men's names, thou canst not rest a-bed for the craving of thy stomach?"
"I am the abbot, and thou a prisoner in this good house. Fearful odds, methinks, for the strife."
"Now hark thee, most reverend abbot, my name thou knowest at a peradventure: but for the name of my master, as thou callest him, seeing it be a notable secret, thou mightest as well go ask his goshawk yonder, who, I guess, continues an unworthy prisoner as well as myself."
"I'll have the truth wrung from thy tongue. Thumbscrews and iron mittens will not be denied so easily."
"Humph!" said Ralph; "these be rare things for cracking the shell; but, for all that, I wot they'll not get at the kernel."
"What! defiest thou my power?—in my own custody too?" Paslew grew pale with anger; but the impolicy of this proceeding soon suggested itself to his wary, though at times impetuous, temper. Yet the stubborn disposition of his prisoner resisted alike his cajolements and his threats.
In vain were offers of reward multiplied; nor bribe nor entreaty could avail. Paslew then left him, threatening to extract by force what milder measures had failed to elicit. He had that morning despatched a messenger to the rebel chiefs at Doncaster with an explanation of the accident, likewise with an assurance of his good wishes to the cause; but still he delayed to go in person, or to send his quota of levies.
True, however, to his threats, if not to his promises, towards the close of the day he again visited the dungeon. He was accompanied by two grim attendants, whom he ordered to wait outside until their services should be required.
Ralph was striding lustily, and with evident impatience, over the damp floor; yet he scarcely seemed to notice the entrance of the abbot.
"How now!—Hast had aught, by way of special discovery, touching the name thou hadst forgotten this morning?"
"Yes, I have had a notable discovery therein," said Ralph, still holding on his pace diagonally, as heretofore.
"And may we graciously participate in the result? Doubtless 'tis a comfortable and happy revelation," said the abbot.
"'Tis to beware of three most unlucky things, persons, or properties, I trow—to wit, a parson's maid, a prior's sow, and an abbot's dinner."
"And what lack they in thy honest esteem?"
"A parson's maid