CHAPTER I.
There is no part of inhabited England, rural or urban, to be found precisely in the same condition, or presenting the same aspect, as in the days of King Henry the Third. And if the baronial hall of the Bellamonts is no longer to be found in situ at Swarkstone, on the Derbyshire banks of the Trent, the devastating hands of Time and Warfare must be blamed, not the present chronicler.
Besides the Danish Sverk or Swark's tun (or territorial enclosure), Sinfin Moor, Chellaston, and all the lands down to the broad river, had been included in the demesne granted to his Norman follower and his descendants by William the Conqueror, who took and gave the property of the conquered with a like lavish profusion. But the lands have been denuded of wood, partitioned, bought, sold, passed in heirship or exchange for centuries since a Bellamont held sway over all.
The very eminence from which their castellated hall looked down upon the distant river has been levelled and ploughed up, as if to score out all record of Bellamont possession.
Yet the Bellamonts left a memorial of their occupancy which should have embalmed their name in history, and kept it sweet and fresh in the memories of men, had gratitude been as vital or hereditary as a benefaction.
How many travellers from London, or Oxford, or Leicester, or Ashby-de-la-Zouch, to Derby, passing in all those centuries over Swarkstone Bridge, have paused to ask when, or why, or by whom it was there erected for their convenience?
Tradition is best preserved when crystallised in a story.
There were gay doings in the hall and the villages around Bellamont in the June of 1258, when a noble party of guests had assembled at the hall to share the festivities at the forthcoming marriage of the ladies Idonea and Avice, the twin daughters of Richard Earl Bellamont and his noble countess.
More than one disappointed suitor was there amongst the party, either too proud to show his wounds, or gallantly indifferent; for as the earl's only son had been drowned in his childhood, the fair maidens were known to be co-heiresses, and not a neighbouring lord or knight but would have been well pleased to add a slice of the Bellamont lands to his own estate.
Then report said the sisters were wonderfully fair and virtuous; that their lady-mother had early initiated them into the mysteries of good housewifery; and the learned Prior of Burton (John de Stretton) had opened unto them the still greater mysteries of reading, writing, accounts, and religion—not least, if last.
No wonder, then, that many a lance was set in rest and broken in tilt or tourney for one or other of the sisters, seeing they were endowed with beauty, wealth, thrift, learning, and the Christian graces.
Such prizes are not often offered for the winning.
The Countess Joan would fain have given one of her daughters to a kinsman, William Harpur, of Ticknall, but fate, and, it may be, Prior John, had determined otherwise.
Idonea had promised her hand to Sir Ralph de Egginton; and Sir Gilbert Findern—in whose gardens bloomed the fair blossoms his father had brought from the Holy Land—was the heart's-chosen of sweet Avice.
"Two as gallant knights, my lady," said the earl to his busy spouse, "as father could desire for the honour and protection of his girls, when his own arm grows feeble, or his grey head rests on a stone pillow. Methinks thy kinsman, Will Harpur, covets most my coffer and lands, he was so willing to bid for Avice when Idonea said 'nay' to his suit."
However that might be, both he and the prior joined the gay cavalcade that issued from the triply arched gateway of the hall, bent on flying their hawks on Sinfin Moor. Gay, indeed, if brilliant apparel, buoyant hearts, and bounding steeds might count for gaiety. Luxury in dress was an enormity of the time, as of this.
The young Ladies Bellamont, considering their rank, made less ostentatious display of wealth in their attire than any of their companions that bright June morning. Each wore a cyclas, or tunic of purple velours (velvet) bordered with gold, over a tawny silken robe, that hid the long points of their embroidered shoes, as they reined in their palfreys, gracefully seated on the new high-backed side-saddles, the observed of all observers.
Yet they did not court undue observation. Indoors the sunny curls of Avice or the darksome tresses of Idonea flowed freely over their shoulders, simply confined by a ribbon fillet or a chaplet of fresh flowers. But then a kerchief of white Cyprus-lawn, cunningly folded as a wimple o'er the head, and a gorget round the throat, served as a modest screen alike from the ardent sun and the free glances of strangers. And, as was their wont when the year was in its prime, over her wimple Idonea wore a chaplet of rare red roses, Avice one of blushing white.
The earl was wont to call them his two sweet roses and laughingly bid their wooers beware the thorns. But little of thorns did their favoured knights think as down the steep hill they rode together, each displaying in his velvet cap and cyclas of embroidered silken samite the colour of his ladye-love.
Deep as the red heart of the rose was the cyclas worn over the buff-leather surcoat of Sir Ralph de Egginton, and a carbuncle blazed in his dagger hilt. White as purity was the samite cyclas of Sir Gilbert Findern, but it was girdled by a leathern dagger-belt, bestudded with pink coral and pearls, as was the haft of his weapon, and in either cap or bonnet was his lady's symbol, in token the wearer laid his life at her feet, and was equally ready to live or die for her.
There was more thought of living than of dying that bright morning, as, following closely Prior John and the old earl, each knight with his hooded sacret perched on his hawking-glove, each lady with her merlin, they laughed and jested merrily, or whispered words of sweetness not for second ears; and the happiness of the fine young couples, their means and their future homes were freely discussed behind them in the midst of arguments on the merits of favourite falcons.
There was a motley following of esquires, yeomen, pages, villeins on horseback and on foot, with every species of hawk the law permitted; grooms with dogs in the leash; but chief of all the falconer, conspicuous in his green cloth surcoat, with the square frame he held around him, on which were perched and held by silken jesses the peregrine falcons of his master, and the sparrow-hawk of the prior, who had doffed his cowl and frock for the occasion, as freely as the earl and his friends their rough-weather mantles.
On went they all at a gentle trot, with the bright day before them, and were crossing the common road which ran from Derby to the river, some of the more eager galloping on ahead to Sinfin Moor, when suddenly the loud blast of a horn wakened the echoes, and startled speech to silence.
It was not the horn of a huntsman, but a sharp imperative blast that spoke of emergency.
Again and again it was repeated. Horses neighed, and eyes were turned to other eyes in silent question. The lips of Avice turned pale, the cheeks of Idonea flushed crimson as her own roses, her heart beat quick as that of her gentler sister seemed to stop its beating.
"What can it bode?" rose to the lips of both in different intonations.
"No evil, Avice, rest assured," answered Sir Gilbert, cheerily, "and if there were, am I not here to guard you with my life?" Yet as he spoke he bethought him that a dagger was but a sorry trust to warrant such high words, and longed for his good sword.
The cavalcade had come to a standstill, and the horses pawed the ground impatiently, the hot-blooded earl chafing almost as impatiently as his steed.
"Marry!" cried he, "for what are we waiting here, like a brood of frightened chicks? Let us on and meet the messenger, whatever be his tidings." And forward he went, with the bold prior by his side, and the whole hawking party after him—some brave, all curious.
Two minutes more, and a mounted herald came in sight, guarded by four pursuivants; their horses' limbs and trappings wet, as if they had forded the river, then lowered by long draughts of the thirsty sun.
"Weareth he not the Earl of Leicester's badge and cognisance?" asked the earl. "My old eyes are hardly to be trusted."
"Aye, my lord, and he spurs as if in haste," replied the prior.
In haste, indeed! The herald bore a double message from his noble lord, Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester; first—without the herald's long preamble—as the mouthpiece of their sovereign lord, King Henry, to summon his loyal barons and knights to assemble in a parliament at Oxford on the eleventh of that same month of June; and secondly from Simon de Montfort's self, to bid those same barons and knights come to the Oxford parliament armed, and with armed attendants, in order, if needful, to wrest from the king the ratification of the great charter they had obtained from his weak predecessor by like means at Runnymede.
They were moreover bidden to meet for conference in Leicester the following day. Desiring first to learn how many of the county knights were of the Bellamont company, so as to spare him needless journeying, the herald then set spurs to his steed, and was off with his followers in all haste to Derby, urgency serving as his excuse for declining the proffered hospitality of the good earl.
Here was a summons as startling as it was sudden and peremptory!
The falconer might carry his hawks back to the mews. There was a duty more imperative than filling the larder under the name of sport.
Back went the gallant hawking party, in more of haste and excitement, if less of glee, than when they had left the great gateway at a canter scarce half an hour before, by the sun.
The warder on the watch threw open the great gates in consternation, certain some mischance had happened.
Lady Joan left her housewifery, and was there in her lap-cloth (or apron) to receive them, with a face full of apprehension.
"There can be no hawking to-day, Joan," said her lord, "we must don harness and speed to Leicester. The king hath summoned a parliament to meet him at Oxford."
"Arm! A parliament! Do parliaments assemble in arms?"
"This will, good Joan, for so hath decided Simon de Montfort. But never look so scared, my lady. And you, my blooming roses, need not droop; there will be no bloodshed. You will have your gallant bridegrooms back ere another week be out," answered the earl, cheerily.
"But the bridal—the banquet?" cried the dame, in dismay.
The young knights helping their downcast fair ones to alight, seemed each to put a like question in an undertone, pressing the gloved hands they were so loth to relinquish, even for an hour.
"If the bridegrooms be impatient, and the earl be willing, the bridal can precede the parliament," suggested the prior. "I am here, and Father Paul"—referring to his attendant priest—"can have his vestments and the chapel ready long ere noon. What say ye, Bellamont, and Lady Joan? And these fair maidens, Idonea and Avice, what say ye? Shall the church bind ye ere the bridegrooms go?"
The damsels blushed; the two knights looked eagerly for their replies.
Ere they could speak the old earl blurted forth, "Nay, nay, Prior John, the nation's charter must take precedence of private contracts. And whoe'er heard of a happy wedding without a feast; a feast to rich and poor. And, look up, my bonny roses, I will bring your brave knights back ere this day week. Say I not well? The banquet will not suffer from delay."
What could they say?
That was the ninth, the twelfth had been appointed for the nuptials. Great were the preparations. Their lady-mother would be displeased if aught of state were wanting at the ceremony or the banquet.
"Our private inclinations must give place to duty," answered Idonea, proudly, red as the roses round her wimple.
"Be it as my good father and Sir Gilbert will," was the response of Avice, in lower and milder tone.
"Be it as I will, children. And now, on with your lap-cloths and away to help your busy mother and her handmaidens to provide a hasty meal, whilst we exchange our hawking-gear for shirts of mail. And you, Prior John, may say your Benedicite over our hasty repast, to bless our enterprise. And I pray you, and such of our friends as go not with us, of your courtesy abide here our return. Will Harpur here will do devoir for me."
The two knights, conversing earnestly apart, looked at each other with contracted brows, as if Will Harpur were no favourite with either.
The old earl turned to them. "Lack you aught, sirs, that would call you to Egginton or Findern ere you ride to Leicester, or go you on with me?"
"With you, my lord," replied Sir Ralph for both. "We but seek to despatch a trusty messenger to our homes to keep back preparations there, and cool expectations."
"Friar Paul will do your errand faithfully, sir knights," kindly volunteered the obliging prior; "he starts in an hour with a scroll of mine for the monastery, and can take Findern and Egginton by the way."
"Thanks, prior. Our own esquires and foot-pages must follow us."
With that the group dispersed, to add to the general commotion. In the great hall there was a hurrying of serving men from kitchen and buttery with large dishes to cover the boards on movable tressels, that did duty as tables, already spread by dainty handmaids with fair linen napery, and platters of coarse bread (to serve afterwards as doles to the poor). Solid joints and lighter dainties, already prepared for the deferred wedding-feast, were brought forward to grace this parting meal—a parting meal, indeed, and it seemed to cast a shadow on the hurried preparations beforehand.
The lady was not pleased to surrender the peacock with his outspread tail, or the plumed cygnet for aught but the grand occasion, if the lamb and the salmon had to share the fate of the great joints; and when the bearer of the great silver saltcellar (set midway on the board to mark the bounds of rank from dependents) stumbled and shed his precious condiment upon the floor, she was as much disposed to shed tears as to rate him for his clumsiness.
There were other moist eyes besides the troubled dame's. In the maidens' bower the gentle Avice scarcely could cast aside her wimple, and don her lap-cloth for the tears she shed, and stronger-nerved Idonea had scarcely self-command to comfort her.
"I feel as if Sir Gilbert was leaving me for ever," said the former, through her tears, "and there would be no bridal."
"And what of Sir Ralph? Nay, Avice, do not be cast down. We must show braver faces to our betrothed, or we may dishearten and unfit them for the work before them. Come, dry your eyes, and haste with me to relieve our dear mother of her many cares."
There was a clink of metal everywhere, a running to and fro of foot-pages, with casques or coats of mail, a clank of hoofs and hammers in the courtyard and the blacksmith's shed, the rivetting of armour, the nailing of horseshoes, the harnessing of steeds; and then the clangour of a bell to announce refection ready.
It was a hurried repast, partaken of by mailed knights, lacking only gauntlets and helmets to be fully armed, as were their attendant esquires and pages. And as none knew if the parliament so attended would pass peacefully, it was aught but a gladsome gathering.
As was the custom, the ladies shared the platters of their spouses or betrothed, and so there were opportunities for hopeful or consoling words between the lovers; and then with full cups drained to "The King and Magna Charta!" earl and knights were up with the rest. Idonea and Avice clasped on the casques of their lovers, and were gallantly repaid.
A fatherly kiss from the earl, and he was off with a goodly train of armed knights and esquires, two of whom carried symbolic roses in their casques, the spoil of maidens' chaplets.
A pattering of young feet up the oaken stairs, a straining of eyes and waving of kerchiefs from the bower-window. Soon the party was seen to cross the Swarkstone ford, the sun shining on helms of gold and silver and steel, on lance-heads and waving pennons, and then—and then—came the waiting, whilst Prior John discoursed to them of Christian hope and trust, and William Harpur dwelt on the probability of strife and bloodshed, and my lady called on them for help to entertain such guests as still remained at Swarkstone Hall.
(To be concluded.)
WINTER
WINTER
The keen, clear air—the splendid sight—
We waken to a world of ice;
Where all things are enshrined in light,
As by some genie's quaint device.
'Tis winter's jubilee this day
His stores their countless treasures yield;
See how the diamond glances play,
In ceaseless blaze, from tree and field.
The cold, bare spot where late we ranged,
The naked woods, are seen no more;
This earth to fairy land is changed,
With glittering silver sheeted o'er.
O God of Nature! with what might
Of beauty, shower'd on all below,
Thy guiding power would lead aright,
Earth's wanderer all Thy love to know!
Andrews Norton.
[AN OLD MAN'S VISIONS IN THE FLAMES.]
By JOS. CULLEN SAWTELL.
Beside a simple hearth I sit alone
To watch the plumes of smoke and fitful blaze,
And here reflecting how the time has flown,
I see in flames the sights of bygone days:
I'm sixty-six, with hair of purest white,
My brow is wrinkled in a thousand creeks,
And dim is now what once was clearest sight,
And hollow what were round and ruddy cheeks.
But stay—a vision in the flame appears:
With flowers a village churchyard path is strewn,
A youth and maiden hale and young in years
Are wedded 'midst the blossomings of June.
Alas! it scarcely seems but yesterday—
For I was that glad youth; and by my side
There stood, from head to foot in white array,
Her face adorned with smiles, my loving bride.
The flames burn low; there comes a change of sight.
I stand, as once I stood, with bated breath
And anxious mind, throughout the lengthened night,
To watch an awful strife 'twixt life and death.
At length the morning broke—outside 'twas gay,
But inside, sad; my wife had sweetly smiled,
And falling back had calmly passed away,
And I was left with Fan, my only child.
There courses down my cheek the usual tear—
I'll brush it back, and find a brighter theme;
See, flames are burning up with ruddy cheer,
And I can now discern a sunnier gleam;
Aye, aye! and 'tis a brighter theme to think
How Fan grew up and was beloved by all,
How never from a duty would she shrink,
Nor scruple to respond to ev'ry call.
Oft would she pluck and save the fairest bloom,
Or gather bunches of the rarest flow'rs,
And decorate a lonely cottage room
To brighten up a widow's dreary hours.
Her form was seen beside the sick man's bed,
To whom she read, and laboured to inspire:
And sanctity was in her as she led
On Sunday morn the simple village choir.
But tears course down, the fire again burns low;
The brighter th' sun, the darker follows shade,
Sweet years flew on—then heaven why was it so?—
I see the open grave where Fan was laid.
* * * * *
This life is sorrow-burdened: yet if bright
And framed of worldly bliss without alloy,
We should not see the worth of true delight,
Nor strive to gain an everlasting joy!
[THE SHEPHERD'S FAIRY.]
A PASTORALE.
By DARLEY DALE, Author of "Fair Katherine," etc.