"They are my sons," answered the forester; "and withal thy loyal subjects, gracious lady, ready to give their lives for thee and thine."

After a few further pa.s.sages of speech, the chief forester led the way to his own dwelling--which was a strongly built and well concealed place, where, attended by his good wife, the Queen might rest secure until the battle had been fought and won.

Meanwhile the forester and his sons donned their war-gear, and when the time was ripe they took their stand with the rest of those who fought beneath the banner of the Queen.

It was in the gray dawning of an autumn day when the two armies met.

The battle was fought on a hill in the Mottram township, where the ancient Church of Mottram now stands. But there was no sacred building there on that gray morning of long ago, when the clashing of arms awoke the echoes, and the air was heavy with the shrieks of dying men.

The army of Matilda was posted on the hill. Their position was strong and commanding. From it they could note the approach of the foe, and fight him with advantage. In the midst of their array rose the standard of the Princess--the royal banner of the great Henry--and by its side the bonnie flag of Scotland floated in the breeze.

As the gray light broke from the east, the watchers on the hill beheld the first line of Stephen's forces emerge from the woods. The King's army was a mighty host, the bright spears gleamed in the light of dawn, and the archers carried great quivers full of deadly goose-tipped shafts.

The royal force came on, and the leading ranks broke into a battle-chant as they neared the hill foot, and bent to meet the slope.

The archers winged their shafts, the axes, bills, and pikes advanced; a rain of arrows beat whistling from the ranks upon the hill, and the great fight commenced.

Bit by bit the soldiers of Stephen advanced up the hill. They left many dead upon the slopes, but still the host went on. The army of Matilda hung thick and ma.s.sive upon the crest, and waited with unbroken front for the closing of the foe; they rained down their flights of arrows, but kept their ranks unbroken, with bristling rows of pikes in front.

At length the advancing host drew near. The foremost men rushed bravely on, they clutched the wall of pikes with their hands, and strove to hew a way to victory. But the arrows fell among them, dealing death in full measure, and the brave men fell. Others took their places, and again the goose-shafts flew.

Now the advancing army remembered the trick of Norman William on the field of Senlac. At a given signal they turned and fled in apparent confusion. With a wild yell the unwary Highland men broke from their post upon the summit, and charged down to slay. Then, swift as lightning, the warriors of Stephen turned. Their archers met the onrush of the pursuers with a staggering volley of shafts. The pikes and bills charged up the slope. The axes hacked the brawny Scots, and the broken ranks upon the hill, opening wider yet to receive their retreating comrades, let in the charging body of the foe. After that there was a mingled ma.s.s of slaying men about the summit. The hosts of King Stephen girt the hill round, so that there was no escape for the men who stood upon it. Death was everywhere, death for the victors and the vanquished; for the soldiers of the Princess died as soldiers should, and they slew great numbers of the foe.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MOTTRAM CHURCH AND THE WAR HILL, THE SITE OF THE BATTLE MENTIONED IN THE LEGEND.]

That was the last stand for the Princess Matilda in that part of Cheshire, and the old chronicles say that the blood shed in the battle ran in a stream down the slopes, and formed a great pool at the foot of the hill.

As the gray of the morrow's dawn fell upon the scene of battle, the pale light fell also upon a group of living beings, who stood upon the summit of the hill among the hosts of the dead.

Matilda, the Queen, was there--beaten and dismayed, since all hope was lost. The chief forester of Longdendale stood there also, and he, too, sighed, as one whose heart is broken--he had just been groping among the corpses, and had found what he sought.

"Are thy fears well founded?" asked Matilda, anxiously.

The old man pointed to the inert forms of five dead men.

"They were all I had--and I am an old man. Now they are gone, my very name must perish."

The royal lady looked at him for a moment, her whole being trembling with grief.

"My heart is broken," she said. "Yet what is my loss to thine?"

The old man took her hand, and kissed it.

"I am a loyal man--and an Englishman. I gave them freely to the cause of my Queen. Who am I that I should complain?"

Royal lady and lowly-born forester gazed into each other's eyes for a brief s.p.a.ce--their looks conveying thoughts which were too sacred for words--and then the Queen's train moved down the hill, and the old man was left alone--alone with his sorrow and his dead.

The world is full of changes, and ever on the heels of war comes the angel form of peace. Men called the hill whereon the battle had been fought Warhill, and in after days the builders raised the sacred pile of Mottram Church, where the soldiers of Matilda and Stephen fought and died.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

According to an old Longdendale tradition, the War Hill, Mottram, is the site of a battle which was fought in the twelfth century between the forces of the Princess Matilda and King Stephen.

V.

Sir Ro of Staley Hall.

There was a n.o.ble gathering in the great banqueting room of Staley Hall, on that memorable morning when Sir Ro or Ralph de Stavelegh entertained his guests for the last time ere he set sail for the Holy Land. The message of war had been sent through all merrie England, and many of the Cheshire knights were leaving their homes, their wide and pleasant meadows, and their dear wives and children, to engage in the stern conflict of the great Crusade. Sir Ro, of Staley, was one of the first to offer his sword in the holy cause. He was a brave knight, born of a war-like ancestry, and desirous above all things to risk his life in so sacred a war. And now he had called together his friends and neighbours, that they might feast once more in the old banqueting hall, and pledge themselves as true and leal comrades before the knight said farewell.

There were many brave knights and squires, many n.o.ble dames and fair maidens, seated about that hospitable board. But the lovliest of all women gathered there was the young lady of Staley, and the handsomest of men in that goodly company was the warrior knight, Sir Ro.

The feasting went on well into the night. In the minstrels' gallery there were harpers who harped of war, and bards who sang of heroes'

deeds and victory. The music was wild and glorious; it lured men to war, it breathed the spirit of strife, it lured the love of maidens to the man who wielded axe and sword. When the music ceased there were speeches made by the knights, and good wishes expressed, and the words of friendship pa.s.sed.

Then the Knight of Staley rose to bid farewell. He spoke of the true comradeship between his guests and himself. He begged them to see that no enemy laid waste his fair domain while he was distant at the war.

By every tie of friendship, he prayed them to protect well his dear lady should ever the need arise. Then, turning to his wife, he asked that she should hand her wedding ring to him, and the lady complied.

Holding up the ring, and in sight of all the guests, Sir Ro next snapped the golden circlet in twain, and, restoring one half to his spouse, he placed the other against his heart, swearing by that token to be a true lover and husband until death. On her part, the lady made a like vow, and thus, before all that n.o.ble company, they pledged again eternal troth.

On the morrow, with many bitter tears at the pain of the parting, with many tender kisses and protestations of fidelity, Sir Ro and his lady parted--the lady to her lonely bower, the knight to his ship, his journey, and the war.

Sir Ro sailed the seas in company with many other English knights and men-at-arms. They marched across the great desert, suffering many privations, often being in peril of death by the wilderness, and at other times endangered by the craft and might of the foe. They fought many battles, winning great glory for the Christian arms, and putting numbers of the Saracens to death. In all the fighting Sir Ro of Staley played a great part. He was ever in the thickest of the battle, his helm bore the marks and dints of many blows, his breast was scarred with wounds, his sword dulled with hacking, his axe chipped with striking. Wherever he rode the foe fell like hail beaten by the wind.

They were powerless before him; death came to them with the falling of his brand; and before his arm mult.i.tudes of heathen bit the dust.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "IN THE MINSTRELS' GALLERY."]

At length befell an evil day for the Christian army. Sir Ro was captured by a cunning strategy of the foe, and, bound hand and foot, was carried off to a Saracen town. There, stripped of his knightly raiment, and dressed in the poor garb of a palmer, he was cast into a filthy and dark dungeon, and there left to pine and die.

For long dreary months did the brave knight suffer this cruel captivity without a murmur or complaint. His cheeks grew white, his limbs thin, his frame was wasted; the palmer's dress hung loose about his figure. None would have recognised in that feeble prisoner the once gay and handsome lord of Staley Hall.

One night Sir Ro fell into a troubled sleep, in which he dreamed some horrid dream. It seemed that some great evil threatened his wife and kindred at home--an evil which he had no power to avert. So vivid was the dream that, on awakening, the force of his anguish was such as to cause his frame to tremble and his heart to languish with despair.

But, like a good Christian knight, he fell upon his knees and poured forth his soul in earnest prayer to G.o.d, asking his Heavenly Father to succour his wife in the hour of peril, and, by some means--if it were His will--to restore him to his home.

Having thus prayed, a calm fell upon the knight, and, repeating the Saviour's prayer, he laid himself upon his couch, and fell into a gentle sleep.

Sir Ro awoke with a start. It seemed as though a bright light from heaven blinded him. There was a warmth as of living fire about him.

All the cell seemed a-flame. Then his full senses came, and he leaped and cried aloud for joy.