In three parts.
by G.P.R. James.
Originally published in Ainsworth's Magazine: A Miscellany of Romance (Chapman and Hall) vol.1 #4 (May 1842).
Part III.
The Battle.
"Cheer up, cheer up, Edith! cheer up, cheer up, Mary!" cried Ranulph, Earl of Chester, rushing in, fully armed, to rest for a moment or two in the ladies' bower of Rothelan. "What! faint hearts—faint hearts and white faces? No fear! no fear! It is these blubbering girls of yours who keep round you, like a flock of sheep, that sink your hearts down, and make you think the castle's lost before it's well beleaguered. Whip me such whimperers! Why, there's that great gaping girl, Margery, with her eyes as red as the inside of a baron of beef, and her mouth wide open, as if all her courage had just jumped out of it;—why, girl, if there was a hole as big as that in the castle wall, we should have all the Welshmen in. Come, get thee gone! fetch me a cup of sack and a nuncheon of bread; this exercise makes one hungry,—One should have a siege, or a battle, or a tournament, or something of that kind, at least every month, to keep one's spirits up and one's limbs active. I am growing old now and creaky, Edith, and must be roused every now and then. What a pity you wernt a boy, now! You'd fight in my stead!"
"Would to Heaven I were!" cried Edith, a gay, light-hearted, pretty girl, fit to make a capital soldier's bride of; "but, my dear father, it's hopeless now! I have prayed to St. Hilda, the last three years, to make a boy of me; but it's all in vain—Girl I am, and girl I must remain. But I can fight for you, for all that, if you will give me a bow and arrow; I can wing a shaft as well as any archer on the walls!"
The good Earl laughed, and kissed her cheek, saying, "Get thee gone for a saucy hussy! I don't love thee a bit. What a life thy husband will have of it. But we don't want such baby archers; it would but encourage these insolent Welshmen, to see that we brought out our women to fight them—The vagabond scum! to dare to wag their beards before my castle! Oh! when my ratcatchers come, I will soon rid the country of the vermin. Come, come, Mary, look up, look up! What, are you thinking of Roger Dutton?—I dare say we shall soon have gay Roger amongst us, with his lance in the rest, and your good father, too. It wont be told half-an-hour that Rothelan is besieged by the Welshmen, before old Hellfire de Lacy has his foot in the stirrup."
"But you forget, my dear uncle," said Mary, "that you and the King made him swear he would not be one night out of Chester Castle during the fair-time."
"An unlucky oath, by St. James and St. Jude!" cried the Earl, with a grave look. "But, tut! never mind: he will send Roger Dutton, at the head of all his men; and that will do as well, for gay Roger is a good soldier.—Ha! the sack;—come, Margery, taste the cup. You must shut your mouth, then;—but what makes you shake\your head so sadly, Mary? Yours used to be a merry heart as ever beat under a silk boddice, and you must have seen strife in your day with your good father; he was always in the heat of it. What makes you shake your head, I say?"
"Why, my dear uncle," replied Mary, in a sad tone, "when my father sent me here, he could but spare twelve spears to escort me, and I know there were very few men in the castle!"
"Tush!" cried the Earl, "they were out, playing the fool in the fair. He had five hundred men with him, not a month ago, with thirty knight's fees round about, from which he could get three hundred more, at a pinch, besides all the soccage-men, who would rise at a whistle from old De Lacy's lips!"
"But, alas! my dear uncle," replied Mary, "the truth may as well be told you. It is but little more than a fortnight since he sent away four hundred men from the castle, and a number more of the tenants round about, to help the Earl of Gloucester, somewhere between Worcester and Hereford."
The Earl swore aloud a very blasphemous oath, which, though common in those days in the mouths both of kings and courtiers, must not be repeated here. The news that he had received was evidently a terrible blow to his hopes, and for a minute or two he stood gazing into the large silver cup, tilled with wine, which he held in his hand, with a heavy brow and thoughtful air. Gradually, however, the cup got nearer to his lips, and when within a certain distance, he raised it suddenly, drained it to the last drop, and then exclaimed, "Well, it's no use calculating how soon rats will get into a sack of corn—We must keep them out, if we can; that's the only thing to be done.—Where's Roger Dutton, girl?"
"He is with my father," said Mary, "and I am sure—"
"Ay, so am I!" cried the old Earl. "He wont leave me here, like a pard in a cage, with all those Welshmen grinning at me through the bars, and not come to help me. My life to the grinders of a dead horse, if we do not see Roger Dutton here to-morrow before nightfall!"
"But does he know that you need him?" demanded Mary. "A thousand to one these men, who hem us in so closely, will prevent any news from reaching Chester."
"No, no!" cried the Earl, "I have taken care of that. At the hour of nine, this morning, I sent off two messengers on horseback and one on foot. The one on foot was caught, and had his throat cut with a long knife in a minute, for I watched them from the turret; one of the fellows on horseback, too, though he got well nigh through them all, was tumbled off his horse at last by an arrow in the shoulder; but the other—I could not well see, but I think it was the lad Gregory—made his way in spite of them, and though they gave chase on the beastly little lizards that they ride, he was full two hundred yards before them, when they passed over the hill."
"A lad!" cried Edith, "why, he's full forty, my dear father."
"Tut!" cried the Karl, "that's a lad to me, you saucy wench. I'm right glad your mother is not here, Madame Edith—she would be in a fine fright. But you have a stout heart."
"Not so stout but you may have to cut the string of my boddice," said Edith, "if you make such a terrible noise as there was upon the walls just now."
"Well, well, go to!" cried the Earl; "I have not time to gossip more with you; I must go and see what they are about. But take heart, take heart! there is no danger—they never can get in—they have no ladders or machines of any kind. Out upon it! we will throw the walls down upon them first! 'Tis but by starvation they can take us.—Ho, Barnaby! without there! look to the provisions and see there be no waste! What have ye got, man?"
"There are two cows and a bullock," said the man, "three pigs and an old sow, besides the fowls that the Lady Edith feeds in the morning: then we have bread enough for one day, and corn enough for another. The beer-cellar is half full, and there are three barrels of sack and a pipe of malvoisie. We can last well nigh for a week, my lord, without touching the horses."
"That'll—that'll do!" cried the Earl, "long ere that we shall have help;" and away he went to the battlements, where, somewhat to his surprise, he found no farther show of immediate attack, the Welshmen still surrounding the castle on every side, but keeping carefully beyond the ordinary flight of an arrow.
"Why, what are they about?" said the Earl to one of his old knights.
"Pon my life, 1 don't know, my lord," replied the other; "they seem tired of it, and are drawing off for the night."
"Pooh! nonsense!" cried the Earl, "it is not near nightfall."
"Within an hour, my lord," replied one of those who stood near; "'tis well nigh eight."
"How quick the time goes when one's busy," observed the Earl; "but who has got the sharpest eyes here? Let him run up to the top of the tower, and see what they're doing there—those men, I mean, far up the hill."
"The Lady Edith has the sharpest eyes," said a young gentleman near, who was never sorry to put himself in any sort of communication with his lord's daughter;—"don't you recollect she saw the heron when none of us could see it?"
"Well, call her! call her!" cried the Earl; "as they are not shooting any longer, there is no danger."
Away ran the youth, and in a few minutes more Edith and Mary and the whole host of maids crept out upon the battlements, with faces somewhat pale and wan, indeed, notwithstanding all the assurances of the young gentleman who had been sent to fetch them, that there was no risk of any kind.
"Come hither, Edith, come hither!" exclaimed Earl Ranulph; "run up to the top of the tower, and see what your sharp eyes will do. Do you see those white-shirted Welshmen on the hill just under the wood—five or six hundred of them, all gathered together? Go and see if you can find out what they are about;—make your eyes of use to some one."
Edith turned to obey, while the young gentleman who stood nigh said something about compensation, and eyes, and piercing hearts, and other things of the same kind, which made the lady give him a scornful look, and made the old Earl himself laugh heartily.
"These young fools!" he cried—"well a-day!—get thee gone, Edith! get thee gone! Why how now young Cholmondeley, you are not going too? Stay here, every one but Edith! Mary, you may go if you will; but that is enough."
Ladies are always fond of hunting in couples, and Mary accompanied her cousin up the numerous steps of the watch-tower, taking that opportunity of reading her own heart a sad homily upon all the consequences of her jealous passion, and asking herself how far the punishment would be carried. It was indeed an edifying and instructive lesson which she gave herself, and one which might also be not without its effect upon the reader, if we could relate all the reproaches which she addressed to herself, step by step, as she went up the stairs. But, dear reader, we have not time, and as those stairs were long, we must lift her and Edith to the top of the tower at once; and there they stood gazing around them over the wide spread hills and shady forests which at that time formed the principal feature of the fair principality. While Edith, however, fixed her eyes upon the spot to which her father had directed her attention, and easily discovered, though with no slight terror it must be owned, what the assailants were about, Mary's heart turned towards Chester, and her safe and happy home; and, as is so frequently the case, her eyes followed the direction of her thoughts. There she stood, then, leaning over the battlements, and, like sister Anne in the fairy tale, looking out to see if any one was coming. The road to Chester was clear enough before her eyes, and she could see it rise up over the neighbouring hill—lose itself in the wood upon the top—issue forth again in the valley beyond—and once more ascend the side of a steep but naked mountain.
Her eyes were little less good than those of her cousin, and, after gazing forth for about two minutes, she first gave a start, and then felt a strong inclination to clap her hands; but smothering her emotions, whatsoever they were, she demurely turned to her cousin, saying, "Well, Edith, have you found out what they are doing?"
"Making ladders, I think," said Edith, in a sad tone.
"Poor thing!" said Mary, with a saucy smile; "many a one will get a broken neck from those ladders, if they make them."
"How can you talk in such a way, Mary?" cried her cousin; "we are more likely to get our throats cut than they their necks broke. Why if they make enough of them they will soon be within the walls."
"We must keep them out, Edith," replied Mary, "but come, let us tell your father. You go down first, Edith; I wont lead the way down that narrow black staircase."
Edith accordingly began to descend, but Mary lingered for another moment, to look once more in the direction of Chester, But this time she could not restrain herself, and clapped her hands together, with a look of joy, ere she followed her cousin down to the walls.
"Why how now—how now, girls?" cried the old Earl, who was standing below with his young friend—"what different faces you bear. Here comes mirth and melancholy, God wot! and Mary, who was looking as sad and as silly as a kitten of eight days old, is now as merry as a garland girl. Come, speak! speak! what have you seen, Edith? What are the Welshmen about?"
"Making ladders, I am afraid," replied Edith.
"A dry curse blast them!" cried the Earl; "we shall now have to fight for it, indeed. But what makes you so saucy, Madame Mary? Do you want to be a concubine of Rice ap Griffith or Jorworth ap Jones?"
"Here, listen to me, Earl of Chester, and uncle mine," replied his niece, pulling his arm; "bend your head, bend your head! It is for your ear alone;" and as the good old Lord bowed down his head, she whispered something that soon produced a marvellous change.
"By the toe-bone of St. Ursula, which was sent me by the Abbot of Clairvaux!" exclaimed the Earl; "but it can't be true, girl! it can't be true!—the messenger only went at nine this morning—it can't be true, I say!"
"But it is," replied Mary; "three hours for him to go, and six hours for them to come, and two or three hours to get ready;—there's plenty of time, Karl of Chester."
Without more ado the old man ran up the stairs of the watch-tower, followed by the young gentleman whom he had stopped from going with his daughter and her cousin on the former occasion. Shading his eyes with his hands, the Karl gazed forth, exclaiming, before he had time to judge at all, "I can see nothing—it's all nonsense—the slut's deceived herself—Ha!—What—There does seem something like the glance of a spear-head!"
"Yes, my lord—yes," cried the young man; "I see them as plain as possible. They are coming down in force. Why, don't you see? It's an army—there are four or five thousand men—enough to drive all the Welsh into the sea."
The old Earl waved his hand, and gave a shout of joy, and then running down, he caught Mary in his arms, and kissed her half a dozen times. After which, he performed the same ceremony in regard to his daughter; his young companion being very well disposed to go through the same process, but not exactly venturing to do so.
The Earl was too old a soldier, however, to allow joy, and the prospect of relief, to put him off his guard, and though he suffered the news to spread amongst his soldiers, in order to give them encouragement and support, yet he cautioned them to watch with redoubled vigilance during the night. Nor did he alone hold out their own safety as a motive for activity and care, but he shewed them that they must be ready at a moment's notice to cooperate with their allies without, immediately the attack upon the enemy had commenced.
A man was also sent up to watch the advance of the relieving force, but the hopes and expectations of the little garrison of Rothelan were sadly diminished just before nightfall, by a report that the troops which had been seen coming, had marched away up a valley to the right, from which there was no possible means of reaching the castle without retreading their steps. Apprehension rose, as joy and satisfaction diminished, and it became a question, eagerly argued between the walls, whether the multitude which had been seen approaching, consisted of friends or of fresh enemies. Balancing between hope and fear, deep anxiety hung over the besieged household of the Earl of Chester for several hours after nightfall. The Earl himself visited every part of the walls, encouraged the soldiers, and assured them that there could be no doubt help was at hand, and that, at all events, the Welsh could not attempt to scale the battlements for many hours. All was quiet in the distance; the enemy lay tranquilly at about a couple of bow-shots from the castle on every side; and, after some wild singing and harping, seemed to give themselves up to the arms of slumber. As the sturdy old Noble made his solitary round, the moon was shining brightly, throwing his long shadow upon the planks of the drawbridge, when he walked across, to shew himself at the barbican.
"Well, Walter," he said to a sturdy old soldier, who was placed as warder to keep that important post, with About a dozen of younger and more active men, one half of whom were sleeping, and the other in the tower above—"Well, Walter, how goes your watch?"
The bluff Englishman, without any want of real respect, sat still on the bench behind the closed gates, polishing away at a lance's head, without thinking fit to rise even at his lord's approach.
"All goes well, my lord," he replied, looking up; "the thieves will not win the barbican easily—they know it, and will take two or three thoughts ere they begin the attack."
"Hark!" cried the Earl—there was a step."
"Some of the fellows above," replied the warder.
But just as he spoke, a hard, but dull sounding blow, was struck upon the gate, and, springing upon his feet, the soldier took a step towards a small slit in the heavy wooden door, formed as a sort of loophole to see through, but guarded by two strong iron bars. The old Lord was there before him, however, and the moment after he exclaimed, "Here, Walter, open the wicket! here is a single man without."
"Let me see, my lord—let me see first," cried the sturdy soldier; "you're old, and your eyes are dim; there may be more behind him."
Thus saying, he put his face to the aperture, and asked, "Who are you, my man, and where do you come from?"
"Hush!" said the Earl, pulling him back by the arm; "he may bring secret tidings. Open the wicket, I say, there is no one but himself."
At the same moment, the word "Chester," pronounced from without, satisfied the warder; and taking down the large key, he turned it in the lock, removed bolt, and bar, and chain; and while the Earl called for a light from above, opened the door just wide enough for one man to pass through. As he did so, with a swinging air and unsteady step, in rolled a strange-looking being, in habiliments not of the newest or most harmonious kind, with a cloak in tatters, a hood displaying a large hole on the top, heavy shoes, and loose linen stockings bound round his legs with thongs of leather, a long staff with a leaden head in his hand, a viol and bow upon his back, two long Welsh knives stuck in his girdle, and a large black leathern bottle under his arm.
"Who the devil are you?" cried the Earl, holding a torch, which his people had just brought him, to his strange visitor's face. The expression which it bore was that curious mixture of fun, enthusiasm, folly, and sadness, which can only be produced by a very near approach to complete intoxication.—"Who the devil are you, and what do you want?" exclaimed the Earl.
"Tell ye in a minute, old cock!" cried the man, clutching his viol from his back and putting it to his shoulder, while at the same time he began to sing—
"Roger Dutton's going to fight
In his doublet and his hose—
Who is wrong and who is right,
No one cares, and no one knows.
I'm one of Roger Dutton's soldiers, Lord bless ye! come to save Saint Ranulph, the good Earl of Chester, you jolly dog! only you see, we found two whole cart-loads of mead, as we came through the village, and what between that and the stuff we had in our bottles, we all got so drunk, that Roger couldn't make us fight to-night, but penned us up all in the valley, like a flock of sheep.
"Roger Dutton's going to fight
With the fiddlers and their crew;
If he meets the Welsh to-night,
He will beat them black and blue.
Long live Roger Dutton! gay Roger Dutton !—he's the lad, old corny!"
"How did you come here, then?" exclaimed the Earl. "Take him, Walter and Fitzhugh, and pump upon him till he's sober; then bring him to me in the hall. We must find out what all this means."
The Earl's orders were soon obeyed; and a considerable portion of cold water, poured in a continuous stream upon the unfortunate fiddler's head and face, so far restored him to sense and discretion, that when brought into the presence of the Earl again, he was enabled to give something like a coherent account of Roger Dutton's proceedings.
"By the Lord!" cried the Earl, when he had heard the whole story—"the boy's mad; but it's a gallant sort of madness, after all. Seventeen hundred fiddlers and harpers and mountebanks and tumblers—"
"And cobblers—my lord, and cobblers!" interrupted the man; "we have a great show of cobblers amongst us, and every cobbler brings his awl."
"And this is all he's got to fight an army of Welshmen with," said the Earl, thoughtfully. "Well, great things are often done with small means, and clean work comes out of dirty hands, they say. But how came you to stray away from the rest, my man?"
Why, I was sent," replied the fiddler. "I was the soberest and most discreet of the whole host; so gay Roger sent me to find my way here, and tell you that you would be delivered to-morrow, or he'd be food for the ravens."
"He's a fine fellow, by Saint James—he's a fine fellow!" was the reply.
"You see I can speak some Welsh, my lord," continued the man, "and so I feigned, when I got in amongst the Welshmen, to have come in from the country, just to see what they were about; and I sat down in one of their rings, and play ed them a tune, and sung them a song. It wasn't 'Roger Dutton's going to fight;' but then they would make me take some more mead, and I got fuddled, and fell fast asleep. I woke, by knocking my nose against the strings of my viol, and finding them all sleeping around me, I filched a knife or two, just for the sake of companionship, and then came on here the best way I could."
The fiddler's story was quite true. Roger Dutton had commenced his march a little after two o'clock; and about six, they fell in with some cartloads of mead, which were going to the camp of the besiegers. Neither the mead nor the drivers were suffered to escape, and this fresh supply of liquor, in addition to a quantity of strong drink which they had brought with them in bottles, so completely intoxicated the greater part of his host, that gay Roger Dutton dared not risk an encounter with the enemy that night. Happily for himself, the thick forest that lay between him and Rothelan sheltered him from the Welshmen; and, aided by the sober part of his force and his men-at-arms, he herded the rest in the valley, though it was not without great trouble that he prevented them from straggling about in such a manner as to give intimation of their proximity to the enemy's forces. Night, however, came on, just as he was struggling with these difficulties; and after some brawling, and some singing, and finishing the rest of the strong liquors which they brought with them, man after man fell under the influence of the drowsy god, leaving Roger Dutton, and a hundred and fifty of his more temperate or stronger-headed companions, to keep an anxious watch during the hours of darkness.
Anxiety to relieve the mind of Mary de Lacy, however, certainly induced Roger Dutton to commit a very imprudent act, in choosing out of the few who could speak Welsh, a messenger to bear the news of his approach to his friends in the castle. The result was better, as we have seen, than might have been anticipated; and it certainly is a fact, that we very often see the most rash and heedless proceedings, which any one might be tempted to prophesy would produce the most disastrous consequences, succeed perfectly, while prudence and wisdom are baffled and disappointed.
Happily for Roger Dutton, at that season of the year, night tucks up the tail of her gloomy mantle, so that it is not allowed to sweep the face of the earth for any great length of time; and his weary watch was ere long relieved, by seeing the gray dawn begin to peep over the hills. Allan, the harper, soon roused the fiddler and the drummer, who had been their great allies from the first, and running through the multitudes, who lay stretched amongst the fern and heath, they contrived to rouse a great number of the slumberers by sundry cuffs and pushes, kicks and shouts, none of the most tender or delicate description. Up started the motley group, at length, rubbing their eyes, stretching their limbs, yawning till their jaws cracked, and gazing around them with a somewhat surprised and wondering air. As few, however, of the men there present ever slept above one or two nights together in the same bed, their surprise was very soon overcome, especially as one or two mellow voices began to take up the song with which they had marched along, of—
"Roger Dutton's going to fight
In his doublet and his hose—
Who is wrong and who is right,
No one cares, and no one knows;"
bringing back again immediately to their recollection the business in which they engaged.
"Hurra, hurra, for gay Roger Dutton!" cried several voices, but several continued to stretch and yawn; and one man, who had an awful headache from the quantity, quality, and variety of his potations, thought fit to declare that he should like something to eat.
"By the back-bone of Judas, you must fight for it, then," exclaimed Allan, the harper; "but you will very soon have an opportunity of roasting a whole Welshman, if you like, and eating him, too—nobody will stop you."
"Ah, we shall find plenty of provisions in Rothelan," cried Roger Dutton, "of a better quality than that. Never fear, never fear! Let us drub the Welshmen but for the sake of an appetite, and then we'll have breakfast, and set the wine-tap running."
"Hurra for Roger Dutton!" cried a dozen voices.
"Roger Dutton's going to fight!" sung forth another.
"Beat your drum, Hal!" cried a third.
"Some one has stolen my hood!" exclaimed a fourth.
"It has crept away by itself!" cried a companion.
"The wind has blown it to pieces," rejoined another, with a laugh.
"No, no—there it is!" cried one of the fiddlers; "don't you see Tom has got it on a pole, and made a banner of it."
"It's the fiddler's banner—it's the fiddler's banner!" cried a number of voices.
"The barber's, more like," was the reply; "for it's mounted on a pole."
"Let each trade have its banner!" cried a cobbler; "here goes my apron upon Timothy's pike! The cobblers for ever!—we'll be the first in the fray!"
"Not before the tumblers!" answered another. "Martin, lend me your spear—my cloak shall serve our turn, and our banner shall be up first!" and running the sharp point of the spear through and through the cloak, he raised it high in the air.
Up went the cobbler's, the moment after, and a number of similar ensigns were displayed in various parts of the ground. The drums beat, the fiddles sounded; Allan, the harper, took up his song; and once more the wild and ludicrous procession, headed by Roger Dutton, with his ten men-at-arms, regained the high road, and marched on into the wood.
About a mile, or a mile and a half, remained to be traversed; and this, to say the truth, was the most dangerous part of the whole affair. The Welsh, as brave as lions when not taken by surprise, were famous for fighting in their woods, and laying in ambush for their enemies; and many a gallant army of Englishmen had thus been cut to pieces by the daring and skill of the native Britons. Such, however, was not destined to be the fate of Roger Dutton and his motley crew. The Welsh had not attacked Rothelan without being well aware that there were no troops to spare in Chester Castle, but, with the usual improvidence of barbarous armies, they had taken no precaution of any kind against surprise. They were all busy in various occupations, preparing for their own assault upon the walls, when suddenly a wild flourish of drums, trumpets, and all manner of instruments, burst upon their ear from the neighbouring wood, and then for the first time apprehension seized upon them. Hurry and confusion on the part of those who first heard the sounds produced doubt and dismay in the rest; and though eleven horsemen were all that appeared at first, yet a panic began to manifest itself, which increased in a terrible degree, when a multitude of men, whose arms and equipments they could not at all distinguish, was vomited forth from the wood on the hill side, with almost as many banners and ensigns as if if had been a royal army.
Roger Dutton's practised eye instantly discovered the effects of panic, even in the irregular troops of the Welsh, and shouting to his followers to run as fast as they could, in order to make the attack before the real character of his force could be discovered, he put his horse into a quick pace, and charged the enemy, followed by his ten men-at-arms, with their levelled lances.
With wild shouts and yells of every kind, with every sort of arms under the sun, but all rushing forward with the fury of demoniacs, the wild multitude behind him spread out over the hill side, and swept on in a long irregular line. Such a scene was never, perhaps, beheld by the eye of mortal man; and the Welsh, taken by surprise, thunderstruck, not knowing what to think, began to fly in every direction, in spite of the cries and remonstrances of their chiefs.
About two thousand men, indeed, kept together, and received Roger Dutton with a flight of short arrows, one of which wounded him in the arm, and another drove his horse almost mad with pain. Plunging into the midst of them, however, he smote down one or two with his lance. and then betaking himself to his long heavy sword, struck here and there around him, as his charger reared and plunged amongst the enemy. He and his little group of companions were soon surrounded on all sides, but at that moment one of the fiddlers saw his perilous situation, and shouting aloud, "Look to Roger Dutton—look to gay Roger Dutton! and down with the Welshmen!" a large body of the rabble poured on to his assistance, hewing their way with bills and hooks and guisarmes and swords, scattering the enemy to the right and left.
Though broken and dispirited, the Welsh might still have continued to fight against a body even more irregular than themselves, but at that instant the gates of Rothelan were thrown open, and thundering over the drawbridge came the old Earl of Chester, at the head of fifty men-at-arms. Animated by the sight, fiddlers, tumblers, cobblers, mountebanks, seemed inspired with almost superhuman courage: a tremendous effort was made upon the only body of enemies that still held firm, and after scarcely a minute's resistance, they were routed and flying from the field.
In about half an hour after, Mary de Lacy and her cousin Edith, standing under the arch of the barbican, saw the wild procession of Roger Dutton's strange army, winding down from the pursuit. At its head, or rather nearly at its head, came the young gentleman himself, on the right hand of the old Earl. But before them went Allan, the harper, stained with blood up to the very ears, accompanied on his right and left by the drummer and the fiddler, and still as he came he sung—
"Roger Dutton's won the fight
In his doublet and his hose,—
Who was wrong and who was right,
Ladye Mary cares and knows."
In five minutes more Roger Dutton sprang to the ground, and clasped Mary de Lacy in his arms.
"But you are wounded, Roger!" she cried with terror, seeing the arrow still sticking in his shoulder. "You are hurt!"
"Not too much to be married on Wednesday next, Mary dear," replied Roger Dutton. "Ay, I have your father's promise, Mary; and now I claim yours as my guerdon."
"It must not be refused," said Mary, with a deep blush.
"And what guerdon shall I give you," cried the old Earl of Chester, "for delivering me and mine in our utmost need?"
"I have but one boon to ask, my lord," replied Roger Dutton, "which is, the power of protecting these poor fellows, who have done such good service this day. What I claim from your lordship is, that you give to the Duttons of Dutton, for ever and a day, the rule and governance of Chester fair; for had I not in behalf of the people of that fair violated some bad laws, and set at defiance some wicked judges, you, my lord, would not have had so many stout hands to strike with Roger Dutton for the deliverance of Ranulph, Earl of Chester."
"It is yours, my dear, gay, wild, reckless, gallant friend," replied the Earl, grasping his hand. "It is yours, and the charter shall be drawn out immediately."
That charter, reader, was still in force within a few years of the present time.
Six days after that of which we have just spoken, the great hall in Chester Castle was in one blaze of light, and all the lords and ladies and noble gentlemen of the neighbouring country stood around. It was approaching the hour of midnight, and the Countess of Chester, who had been summoned from some distance, took by the hand her niece Mary, saying, "It is no use lingering, my child."
Trembling and blushing, Mary, now the bride of Roger Dutton, suffered her aunt to lead her to her father's presence, and kneeling at his feet, in her bridal attire, she besought his blessing ere she retired to her chamber.
"Two questions, ere 1 give it you, Mary!" cried the bluff old Lord. "Will you ever be jealous again?"
Mary looked up, with one of her merry glances breaking through her timidity, and replied, "Not if I can help it, my dear father; but I got the temper from you."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed the old Lord. "Will you ever give way to one of your violent passions again?"
"No, never!" cried Mary, earnestly, though with a smile; "Never! For the rest of my life, I will be a very lamb."
"And so at last, every Dutton will have his mutton!" said Allan, the Harper.