Читать книгу Malvern Chase - W. S. Symonds - Страница 5

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In the days of the Norman kings the forest laws were far more oppressive than they are now, and the Chase of Malvern stretched away for miles with here and there a village and a church rising in the clearings. Even in the time of Edward the First and his son-in-law Gilbert de Clare, the Red Earl of Gloucester, land which now the farmer's axe has cleared and converted into pastures was covered with wood, dense thickets and the yellow gorse, the haunts of the wild boar and the wild deer, while the bittern was a common bird in the meres, and the beaver still haunted the Severn at Beverley. But now both boars and bitterns are become rare, and the stag is not nearly so abundant as it was in the days of my grandfather.

Still the chase of boar or deer was far more accessible to the dwellers in the forest than it ever was in the days of the Red Earl, when a man hardly dare venture out of the line of the trackways or cut a new path through the thickets lest he should disturb the wild beasts in their lairs. The owners of the principal keeps and castles--such as Hanley and Branshill Castles, or Castlemereton and Birtsmereton Keeps--now claimed a right of chase in portions of the forest near them, as having been granted to their forefathers for services rendered in years gone by.

The largest range in our neighbourhood was that of the Earl of Warwick in the right of his Countess, Ann Beauchamp, who was the owner of Hanley Castle and other vast possessions. Our forester, Hasting, was a ranger of Lord Warwick's, and so had built a woodman's lodge, which he called "The Robin Hood," at Castlemereton, as being near to the haunts of some of the stags in the Gullet Pass and about the Swineyard Hill, and where, after a deer had been killed, it could be flayed and dressed. This lodge was a mere log house, but was filled with various implements of the woodman's craft, such as long-bows and cross-bows, bags of quarrels, sheaves of arrows, boar-spears, falcon tressels and fishing gear. Against the beams of timber there hung knives and bills, axes for falling timber, large boots made of buck's hides, and leathern jackets which would defy the most thorny thicket.

It was at "The Robin Hood" that Hasting and I formed most of our hunting plans, and more than once after a long chase and we had been overtaken by nightfall, have we been glad of the rude shelter and passed the night there with fern for our bedding and deer skins for our coverlids. On the day before the boar hunt we passed most of our time at the lodge making the necessary arrangements and sending messages to the neighbouring gentry, with requests to bring the particular dogs we required, and whose attendance was often, to us at least, of more importance than their masters.

Thus we invited Sire Hugh Calverley of Branshill Castle across the Malverns, and his son, begging of him to bring his famous boarhounds, Hecate and Styx. Sire John Carfax of Castlemereton was the possessor of several fox curs which he used for hunting vermin, but they had remarkable noses, and might be useful as the ground was parched and dry. Kitel of Pendyke managed his dogs right well, and Bessie would surely join us in the forest. John Berew knew more of kine than hounds, but he was sure to keep his tongue quiet, and was a right sterling fellow if a boar was brought to bay. Then there was the Rector of Broomsbarrow, a great lover of the chase, and who knew the lair of every stag within five miles of his residence, with the Prior of Newent, who would even hunt foxes on the hill of Maia, if he could find no nobler game. Nay, it was even reported by scandalous tongues that he had been seen chasing hares with his fox curs in Lent.

Another point to ascertain from "The Robin Hood" was the whereabouts of the boar and his lair. This, as far as we could judge from the accounts of foresters, was somewhere in the Gullet dingle among a thicket of hollies above the Dead Oaks, and where tradition says Sire John Oldcastle lay hid during three days when our house at Birtsmereton was searched by the bloodhounds of the Archbishop Arundel, and even our secret room in the pannelled chamber was considered to be unsafe.

The Gullet Pass is situated between the great camp of Midsummer Hill and the hill of the Swineyards, which Gilbert de Clare granted to the dwellers around Ledbury whereon to pasture their swine, and all around the camp there have grown up dense thickets, which form excellent shelter for deer or wild boar, although tradition says that a British town once clustered around the base of these hills.

Early on the appointed morning I mounted my iron grey, "Sir Roland," and accompanied by Hasting rode by the trackway from Theocsbury, past the pilgrims' inn known as the "Duke of York," to Ledbury and Hereford. This village hostel has for many years been a kind of half-way house or resting-place for religious pilgrims travelling to Hereford to worship at the shrines of St. Ethelbert or St. Cantilupe, and was frequently the rendezvous of the Red Earl and his son who was afterwards killed at the battle of Bannockburn, when they hunted among the dense thickets of the Hawthorns or the Ragged Stone, or sought the lair of the boar in the wilds of the Howling Heath.

"The Duke of York" is a rambling wooden edifice with the tabard of the Duke Richard hanging from a pole which stands on the great open common which surrounds the inn, and is the village green in the forest below the hills. Here we found John Berew engaged with a tankard of cider and a toast with borage, and carrying a huge boar-spear. He had also brought some hinds as beaters, and they too were draining horn after horn of their favourite beverage. In a short time Kitel of Pendyke rode up, accompanied by his daughter Bessie, looking like a summer rose as she gave us a cheery "good morrow," and patted her palfrey's neck. With them also rode Rosamond Berew and the Brydges of Eastington, lovers of the chase, and famous for their skill in archery. As our custom is, when hunting near the only village hostel for many a mile in these wild woodlands, we all partook of the host's cheer, the fair damsels touching each cup of hippocrass with their cherry lips before we drank, cap in hand, to their health and luck to our own spears. Rosamond Berew rode a grey jennet, full of mettle, which she managed with grace and spirit. She wore a dark grey riding gown, cape and hood, with her nut brown hair loose down her back. A look of dignity told of her ancient lineage, which her grandfather used to say was that of "warriors before the Norman had a beginning." The expression of her face was grave, tending even to melancholy, when not lighted by that smile which Hasting used to call the "angel's look." It was now arranged that our horses should be sent by the trackway which led towards Broomsbarrow, in case the boar broke away through the forest before he was brought to bay, and we proceeded on foot up the pass to the trysting-place on the summit, the ladies only riding on horseback.

At the Holly Bush Pass we met a numerous party assembled. Sire Hugh Calverley rode up to the meet. With him was Lachmere of Severn End, who was on a visit to Branshill, with Bromwich of Broomsbarrow, the Prior of Newent, and the Rector of Broomsbarrow.

They brought a goodly staff of woodmen to drive the thickets, and dogs of various kinds followed their masters. Sire Hugh was not dressed in hunting gear, but rode up in his gown of violet-coloured cloth with purfled sleeves. The velvet which adorned the sleeves showed his rank of knight. He was a handsome man of somewhat proud bearing, and wore a short beard. He wore peaks to his shoes of considerable length, but not so long as those of his son Roger, who was dressed as if for a Court instead of a hunt of the boar. We other hunters wore the hunting gear of woodcraft, namely, skull caps of deer hide, surmounted by the feathers of the eagle, the heron, or the bittern, while here and there was a cap with the wing of the wild goose across the front. Then we had boots which came up to the thigh, without the long and peaked toes so ill adapted for charging through a thicket. The forester of Branshill and Hasting were both equipped, after the fashion of the times of Chaucer, in green hood and jerkin, green baldrics, and large horns by their sides; and Hasting wore on his breast a St. Gunhilda of silver, while he of Branshill wore an effigy of St. Christopher. All had boar-spears and sharp daggers, but the bows and arrow sheafs were left behind. The parsons rode on dainty palfreys with embossed bridles jingling in the wind, and their gown sleeves were lined with fur, with hoods like those for women.

The Prior of Newent gave us a merry nod and an invitation to see his young dogs course a leveret in the summer, while he invited one and all present to a miracle play on the ensuing week.

Sire John Carfax, of Castlemereton, brought his magnificent sleuth-hound Hercules, and boasted that he "was of the blood of the celebrated dog Hades, which had been laid on the scent of that arch-heretic Sire John Oldcastle, who had obtained shelter in the neighbourhood, and would, no doubt, have pulled him down on the very crest of the Malverns, if it had not been that some churl had spilt his own blood upon the trail and thus baffled the hound by fresh blood." "This churl," he said, "lived somewhere near Pendyke," and I observed that Rosamond Berew looked pale and angry; when Hasting blew a blast upon his horn, which summoned us all for the start, and Kitel, well versed in woodcraft, gave directions how the woodlands were to be driven. The sleuth-hounds and boar-hounds were held in leash, but the Prior of Newent's fox curs, and various other dogs that were distinguished for their yelping powers, accompanied the woodmen and beaters, who were to drive the thickets and startle the boar from his lair. The nobler dogs were not to be loosed until the boar was at bay, or until he broke through the beaters and made for some distant part of the forest. In the latter case those who had horses would mount them, the boar-hounds would be put on the track, and we might follow as best we could. The hope was that he would stand at bay somewhere on the line of the hills, so that all might be up at the death.

The drivers were sent to the base of Midsummer Hill in the direction of the ravine called the "Gullet Pass," and we had to force our way through thorns, brush wood, and tangled thicket, though here and there the ground was white with the wood wind flower, and the primrose blossomed under every tree. Great hollies grew on the hill side, and I could hear Kitel to my right shouting to the beaters, and singing the old song--

"Holly hath berries as red as any rose. The forester and hunter Keep them for the does."

As we neared the ravine called the Gullet, the yelping of half a score curs told us that game was afoot, but it was impossible to see half-a-dozen yards in advance, and I only knew where Kitel was by the whining of his hound, which he led himself. While struggling through a mass of brambles I was hailed by Kitel begging me to leave the line of beaters to him and ascend the hill, so that I might get a good view, and signal by voice and horn if the boar should go up the dingle or break across the hill. With some difficulty I found my way through thorns and hollies, to the open space which once formed the camp of Britons or Romans on the hill Midsummer, and which furnished a splendid view of the surrounding country.

The outer vallum of this great camp encircles the two spurs known as the Holly Bush and the Midsummer Hills. The highest point and deepest trenches are on the Midsummer Hill, and Gilbert de Clare, the Red Earl of Gloucester, has struck his dyke right through mound and vallum. Near the summit was a large pile of wood laid on fern, and surmounted with faggots ready for a beacon fire which would show a light to the whole country round. To my surprise Rosamond Berew was standing by the beacon looking earnestly on the woodlands below. She started as I addressed her, inquiring what had become of her gallant grey. It seems that Sire Hugh Calverley had expressed his opinion that "some sharp eyes were wanted on both hills," and Rosamond had volunteered for the Midsummer, while we could now see that Besisie Kitel had climbed to the summit of the Ragged Stone. They had left their horses in the muddy trackway between the hills and were enjoying the glorious scenery and the animated spectacle below. The hills were studded with figures on foot or horseback, the sunlight flashing here and there upon the steel caps and corselets of some archers who had run up from Branshill, while the broad trackway below echoed with the neighing of steeds as certain ladies from the castle rode up, hoping to be in time for the finding of the boar. Hot and tired I threw myself down on the hill-top for a few moments by the side of Rosamond, and listening to the shouts of the beaters, the cry of the dogs, and the winding of the foresters' horns, we revelled in the view revealed to us beneath that spring-time sun.

I had often been upon those hill-tops with Hasting in our hunting expeditions, but Rosamond knew the scenes around us as well or better than myself. She had, it appeared, frequently accompanied her grandfather, with whom this was a favourite ride, winding up the pass of the Gullet. So she pointed out the Scyrrid Vawr and Black Mountains among the hills of Wales, and the hills above Grosmont, where Harry of Monmouth won his first battle against the followers of Owen Glendower. We saw, too, the distinct smoke of Hereford with a wooded hill beyond, where Mortimer of Wigmore raised his standard, and Prince Edward galloped on his black charger on his escape from the castle where he and his father Henry III. were confined as prisoners; then nearer was the smoke above Ledbury, which she said was once the home of an ancestor of the Berews, who became a Christian and gave it to the Church.

In the valley at our feet, but sheltered beneath the hills of Eastnor, rose the old baronial castle of Branshill, its four flanking towers glistening in the morning sun. It is but a small fortress, but strongly fortified, and in our troublous times it was an important keep. Sire Hugh Calverley was well known to be a follower of the House of Lancaster, and guarded his castle like a royal stronghold. Branshill is as old as the days of the Norman king, William Rufus, who ordered a chain of forts to be erected along the marches after he was driven out of Wales, and of such are Branshill and Castlemereton. Branshill has been little altered since Norman times, and the moat, the walls, the towers, and the loop-holes for the archers remain the same to the present day. The hall has been rendered more modern and the armoury on its walls tells of many a knight who has defended it; while its barbican, narrow archway, strong gates, and portcullis bespeak security for its inhabitants. It has often been the home of highborn dames and gallant knights, and Sire Hugh Calverley was of goodly family and of distinction.

After gazing at the scene around us, Rosamond directed my attention to the great Herefordshire camp with its fire beacon of wood and faggots, which rose like a great haystack when facing the north, and looking towards the ancient city of Worcester. She pointed to the "Hermit's Cave," a dark hollow in the rocks below the fire beacon. Here, she told me, as the tears glistened in her eyes, was the spot were the bloodhounds of Castlemereton had nearly pulled down the hunted and persecuted Oldcastle, but he was saved with the faithful Thomas Payne, who accompanied him in his flight from Birtsmereton, where they had sheltered for several weeks.

"It was grandfather," she said in a hollow whisper, "who opened a vein in his own arm and let the blood stream out, and so smeared the turf between the Hermit's Cave and the Wind's Point that it threw the sleuth-hounds off the scent, and allowed Sire John and Payne to diverge into the dense copses of the forest at Newer's Wood, and for awhile to escape." "It was to grandfather, Master Hildebrande, that proud knight alluded, as the descendant of a Saxon churl, and it was my grandfather and yours also who sheltered the persecuted for the sake of their religion and their God, and of whom I am more proud than if I were the daughter of a Norman king."

I knew little of this episode, for my mother's family, the Actons, being Catholics, it was seldom mentioned at Birtsmereton, although my own grandfather assisted so much in the escape of the persecuted Lollards not fifty years before we two were standing on the Midsummer Camp waiting for the breaking of the boar.

Just then a horn winding in the trackway made us turn quickly towards the south; Bessie Kitel still held her post on the Ragged Stone and waved her kerchief as a signal that we should join her, by which I judged that her father and the line of beaters were approaching the Ragged Stone slopes. The sun was now sufficiently high to throw his western shadows over the vale of Eastnor; and, giving Rosamond my ungloved hand while using my boar spear as a support, we quickly descended by the Red Earl's dyke to the trackway below. When halfway down the steep slope Rosamond stopped suddenly, and exclaimed in an excited tone, "Good heavens! see, Master Hildebrande, it is the Shadow of the Ragged Stone," and she pointed to what seemed to be a black, dark column resting on the Castle of Branshill, while all the rest of the vale was flooded in sunshine. While we were gazing at this strange scene of brilliant sunlight and local darkness, the tra-la-lirala of half-a-dozen horns on our left gave us due notice that the boar was on foot from his night's lair, and we lost no time in running full tilt to meet the horsemen in the trackway below.

"Mount 'Sir Roland,' Master Hildebrande," said Rosamond, "and let us gallop for the valley of the White-leaved Oak; the boar is safe to go to the Howling Heath." But "Sir Roland" had been sent to the trackway by the great hawthorn thickets, on the way to Broomsbarrow, and besides it was my duty to proceed on foot to the summit of the Ragged Stone and to signal to those below which way the boar was beading.

Mounting Rosamond on her grey, and giving directions that Bessie Kitel's palfrey should be led to the pass of the White-leaved Oak, I ran rapidly up the slopes, when I was accosted by Bessie Kitel:-

"Well, Hildebrande the hunter--though you do not deserve the name for staring in the direction of the Beacon of Hereford when the boar was twice showing himself in the open glades on this side the Dead Oak--you will not be entrusted with the signals again by my father, if you are given to moon-gazing so soon after sun-rise. What have you done with my palfrey, and where is your own 'Sir Roland?'" "Now, there he is again!" and truly again the boar showed himself travelling steadily and without haste in the direction of the Chase-end--the last hill in our . The hunters were nearly a mile behind, so I wound the signal-note on my bugle-horn, and waved a kerchief in the direction the boar had taken, until I heard a reveillé sounded from all the horns below, and the beaters were well on the track of the boar. It was time now to assist Bessie down the deep cleft which gives the name to the Ragged Stone until we came to the "While-leaved Oak," or the pass between the Chase-end and the Ragged Stone. Here we found her palfrey, and here those who were not engaged in the chase were assembled. Roger Calverley, Sire Hugh's son, was amongst them, carrying a huge bear-spear and wearing fine feathers in a very fine hood. His dress was little adapted to the chase, as you might have hidden a fawn in his violet-coloured sleeves. An eagle's feather in a woman's headgear was sadly out of place, and so thought Bessie Kitel, who had challenged him to walk up the Ragged Stone, but he dared not for the tips of his shoes.

A ringing note from one of the boar-hounds told us that the Branshill foresters had let them loose upon the trail, while a whoop and wild halloo from the summit of Chase-end let us know that the boar was well forward in that direction, and heading, as Rosamond expected, toward the Howling Heath. Telling Bessie Kitel to ride straight for the "halloo," I ran at full speed to the trackway below, where I knew "Sir Roland" awaited me. The gallant roan bounded with joy as he heard the sound of the horn, and I galloped for the south end of the Chase-end, and pulled up below the Howling Heath. Here I waited till the hunters were seen crossing the crest of the hill, while Bessie Kitel and the Calverleys rode along the western slope. Again rang out the deep notes of the hounds, when the boar came thundering by and dashed down the glen, avoiding the hill of the Howling Heath. I grasped my spear at the thought that here he must come to bay, but waited patiently for the rest to come up. Kitel, too, had mounted, and, with Rosamond Berew, joined me, when we determined to leave our steeds with the horse-boys and proceed on to the glen. Laying the hounds on the track, we surrounded the thicket in which the boar had taken refuge, and each hunter became anxious for first blood. In the densest part of the thicket the boar turned upon his pursuers, and in a second one of the sleuth-hounds lay ripped up by his tusks. I could now see that he was an enormous animal with tusks that gleamed like white scimitars, and that his charge would need a sturdy arm and an unflinching hold. I now determined to show myself and await the charge, when to my utter astonishment, his sleeves torn to rags, and his feather and hood gone, I saw Roger Calverley, with boar-spear at rest, pushing through the brambles to the wild beast at bay. Struck with his courage, I yet determined not to be forestalled, and again pressed forward. Hecate and Styx had now come up, and Styx pinned the boar by the ear. Turning short he cut her fearfully with his tusks and charged Calverley, who stood like a man. The spear glanced aside, and in one moment he was on his back, prostrate amidst the briars. He, however, drew blood, although it proved to be a mere skin scratch. The men hallooed, the dogs yelled, the horns sounded, and the foresters swore great oaths as the gallant beast charged through them all and broke clear away in the direction of Broomsbarrow. Turning to Calverley, I found he had escaped the animal's tusks, and was now coolly engaged in cutting off the tips of his shoes with his dagger. When out of the thickets and mire, all who had horses mounted and rode away. Calverley without hat or hood, and his vestments in a condition wonderful to behold, mounted the palfrey Sire Hugh rode to the meet, leaving his respected father to find his way back to Branshill as he could. Roger Kitel got a heavy fall, but was soon up again, and Bessie and Rosamond Berew followed at the gallop, Rosamond knowing every forest path and trackway and promising to be guide to her fair companion.

I felt annoyed with myself for halting in the bushes, and that Calverley should have drawn first blood, while I could not but admire the gallantry of one I thought a mere dandy and who now rode ahead of us all; so, shaking the boar-spear I held in my hand, I determined that the boar should serve me as he had done "Styx" before I waited again for the charge. I soon overtook the palfrey that carried Calverley, and the baying of the hounds told us that the boar was well on his way to the copses of Hazeldine, where Hasting and I had trapped many a badger. Turning at Redmarley, the home of the D'Abitots in the days of the Conquest, he made for the forest thickets of Corse and the gorse groves of Hasfield, and it was not until we reached these that we saw him again. I was engaged with Hasting and Kitel in encouraging the hounds, when he was viewed by Bessie Kitel crossing the open glades leading to the Severn. We were, with Calverley and Rosamond Berew, all that were left of the meet at the Hollybush, and the ladies appeared to have had enough of the chase. We determined, however, to endeavour once more to bring the animal to bay, and, cheering on the dogs, we were soon galloping over the open flats below the hill when Calverley exclaimed, "By St. George, he will cross the river," and by the time we reached the Severn, we could see the boar ascending the hill of Wainlode, on the other side the water. Shouting to the ladies to ride by the river bank to the lode at Ashelworth, where the De Clares had established a horse ferry more than a hundred years ago, I leaped "Sir Roland" into the river, followed by Calverley. Kitel and Hasting knew that their steeds were too exhausted for the effort, and joined the fair huntresses as they galloped for the ferry.

The stream was strong and we were carried down a considerable distance before we gained the opposite shore. Calverley had thrown himself clear of the palfrey, and with one hand on the saddle was swimming side by side by his steed. "Wet work this, De Brute," he said, as I assisted him to land, "my poor horse is half drowned."

We now could hear from the baying of the hounds that the boar had turned upon them in the thickets above. Tying our good steeds to some trees, we faced the thickets together, and soon came upon the besiegers and the besieged. The boar was bespattered with blood and bloody foam, and was evidently much exhausted, but no sooner had I emerged from the dense brushwood to the open space where the struggle was taking place, than he at once charged, though Hecate held on like grim death. Throwing myself on one knee and the whole weight of my body forward, I met his charge with the spear at rest, but the treacherous shaft broke short against his tough hide and brisket, when Calverley rushed up, and driving his spear behind the shoulder into the heart, our gallant prey lay dead. We were both still dripping like otter dogs, and Calverley looked a miserable object in the remnants of his dandy garments. Even my stout jerkin was torn, and I had lost my cap with Bessie Kitel's feathers.

We were now across the Severn in the Chase of Gloucester, which was carefully guarded by the foresters of that Chase. A few notes upon the horn would be certain to bring a flayer or a forester upon us, and yet it was necessary to blow the death signal that Kitel and Hasting might assist in securing the head and tusks--trophies we had so hardly earned.

Sounding then two blasts, we set to work with our knives and daggers to cut off the boar's head--no easy task. Before it was accomplished, we heard, as we thought, the gallop of our friends' horses along the Severn bank, and Calverley went to direct them to the open glade, which was completely hidden though so near the Severn stream.

I had allowed the hounds and curs to blood themselves at the carcase, when I heard Calverley calling "De Brute!" in a loud voice. On descending to the Severn an unexpected sight awaited me. Instead of our friends, I found a party of four horsemen, and one of them was assuming a very hostile attitude.

"Who are you, young Springalls, who dare to trespass on the chase of Gloucester, and dare to cross the Severn after one of our boars that has chosen to roam?"

"And who are you," said Calverley, "to talk so glibly to your betters?"

"I am the Master Forester of the Royal Chase of Gloucester," was the reply, "and if you cannot give a good account of yourselves I will very soon lodge you both in Gloucester dungeons; such trespass shall not go unpunished."

"Gently, gently, Master Forester," said a young man of about my own age, "it seems to me we have to deal with gentlemen, and this trespass may not be wanton."

The young nobleman, for such his dress betokened him, who now spoke was of very remarkable appearance--his complexion was fair, with large blue eyes, and long yellow hair with lovelocks in a style almost effeminate. He was tall, more than six feet in height, with a great width of chest and shoulder; his address was most courteous, while at the same time he had the air of one accustomed to command.

"Who are you, my good friends," he asked, "and why here on the chase of Gloucester?"

Calverley bowed profoundly, for he had no cap to doff, and explained who we were, and the circumstances of the long hunt which brought us there. He said also that we were both aware that by the Charter of Edward III. we had trespassed, but that the custom and usage of woodcraft now allowed of the following of stag or boar across the boundary for a short distance.

A tall and portly gentleman now introduced himself as Sire John de Guyse, and, offering his hand to Calverley and then to me, said he knew our fathers right well, and would be answerable for the honour of their sons.

We had thus smoothed matters when the rest of our party came galloping up. They seemed surprised at seeing us thus surrounded, and both Kitel and Hasting looked ready for a fight, when our mediator, transferring the falcon on his wrist to one of his followers, dismounted, and, walking up to Bessie Kitel, begged to be allowed to assist her to descend from the saddle that she might see the boar which he courteously said "had been so gallantly hunted by youth and beauty."

We now observed the manly form of this young nobleman; in his cap of red velvet he wore a heron's plume, and on a jerkin of red velvet braided with gold there was fastened a silver rose. A greater contrast to my dowdy self and the tattered Calverley could hardly be imagined. Turning to Rosamond Berew, he admired her jennet and asked how far she had ridden, and when she pointed to the hills where the chase began, he replied that truly we "seemed all hunters born!"

When Hasting had cut a path with his whinger to the green glade where the boar lay dead and we had gathered round the scene, our friend in need turned to the Master Forester and said, "Good boar, staunch hounds, bold hunters, and fair ladies. Master Forester, we must take no notice of this trespass; and from you, fair damsels, we may not part without some slight token of this day's chase."

He then took his heron's plume and gave it to Rosamond Berew, and clasped the silver rose upon the kirtle of Bessie. Then turning to his followers, he said, "Sire John de Guyse and gentlemen, time flies," so taking off his cap to the ladies, and giving us a slight nod of recognition, he withdrew, and in a few minutes we heard the hoofs of their horses as they galloped down the green turf by the Severn side.

We now prepared for our return homewards. The boar's head was fastened behind the saddle of Hasting, and, tired with our exertions, we rode slowly towards the Ashleworth ferry, and talked of the various incidents of the chase and the meeting with the party of falconers from Gloucester. Kitel said he believed the young noble-man to be Lord Berkeley, while Calverley thought he might be Lord Tracy.

Having crossed the ferry, and being in need of refreshment, we determined to seek for some at the manor of the Pauncefortes of Hasfield. Calverley declared he would rather starve than present himself in his present condition before the lovely daughters of Julian Paunceforte, till a hint from Kitel of the probability of a pasty of goose, a Berkeley cheese, and a tankard of hippocrass, made him prefer to put off starvation, and we all rode up together to the drawbridge of the moat, when Kitel dismounted to beg the hospitality he knew would welcome us.

Hasfield Moat house differed somewhat in its structure from the manor houses which are now arising in many parts of our western counties. The moat was dug only in front of the dwelling house, which was protected on the north and east by a high wall with steps on the inner side to enable archers to shoot through the apertures, while on the top of the wall was a chevaux de frise of strong oaken spikes. The house was mostly built of strong timber, and the only entrance was by the drawbridge; though it might not stand a regular siege, it was right well protected against robbers and raiders.

We had not waited long when Paunceforte appeared to welcome the weary hunters, and entreating us to dismount, led the way to the Moat House, where at the door, ready to receive us with all hospitality, was the fair mistress of the house and her two sweet daughters Dorothy and Miranda, to whose care our damsels were committed.

Dorothy was a fair girl, with a sharp wit, and was so well taught by her parents that she could read Master Wycliffes Bible, and had written verses which might have passed for Master Lydgate's; while Miranda had a voice like a mavis, and played with wondrous skill upon harp and spinnet. The central hall was hung around with skins of wild animals, which Master Paunceforte, who had been a great traveller, had brought from foreign parts, and which excited much admiration among our party, who had never seen such trophies of the chase before.

The table soon was spread with platters of salted beef, and the goose pastie which Kitel said was a dish to dream of, and loaves of wastel bread. Mistress Paunceforte, too, was famous for her green cheeses, and never ceased to recommend the hot collops. Flagons of hippocrass and cider passed around, and nothing was spared which hospitality could provide.

The afternoon was now drawing to a close, so, making a promise to meet our hosts at the miracle plays at Theocsbury or at the gluttony feast at Redmarley, we again mounted out horses and partook of the stirrup cup which was handed to us by the mistress herself. I now observed that she had lost her right hand and bore the cup in her left. The history I afterwards learnt was as follows:-

"In the days of his youth Julian Paunceforte had plighted his troth to the beautiful Dorothy Ashfield, whose home was in Oxfordshire. He was a gallant sailor, and had arrived at some distinction. Their marriage was deferred, for Paunceforte was ordered to take the command of a vessel and sailed to the distant Mediterranean sea. On this voyage he was taken prisoner by pirates and sold as a slave in the East. A lady of rank beholding his degraded and forlorn condition and seeing that he had been gently nurtured and born in better circumstances, took compassion on the broken-down and nearly dying captive, released him from his fetters, and raised him to a situation of a less menial kind.

"By and by love succeeded to pity, and she offered to free him altogether on condition that he should spend the rest of his life with her in the East.

"Then Paunceforte told her how an English girl was weeping over his absence by the broad meadows of the Isis, and anxiously hoping for his return home in love and constancy.

"The Eastern lady laughed in bitter scorn at the idea of woman's constancy, and Paunceforte, little thinking that his words would be taken literally, declared that his betrothed would give her right hand for the return of her lover. 'Then be it so!' exclaimed the indignant princess, and she swore a solemn oath that Paunceforte should be her slave unto death unless the hand of the English girl was sent across the seas as a ransom and pledge of her fidelity.

"Tradition tells how Dorothy had gone to Hasfield to visit the widowed mother of her lover, and the girl and the grey-haired woman mourned together over the fate of him who seemed lost to them for ever; when one day a ransomed captive, a fellow-prisoner of Julian Paunceforte's, appeared and related to them the history of the strange oath which would keep him a captive until the day of his death. This news deepened the shadow of sorrow which was over the old Manor, and two days afterwards Dorothy Ashfield left for the port of Bristol. She in time returned, but bearing her arm in anguish in a sling, for the plighted hand had been cut off at the wrist and gone across the seas as a ransom."

Our horses were too much exhausted for us to ride faster than a walk, and as Calverley seemed anxious to converse with Bessie Kitel, I rode the whole way back with Rosamond Berew.

We had both of us heard much of the religious questions of the times, for the exactions and encroachments of the ecclesiastics were the constant topic of conversation between my father and Master Berew; and we had read Master Wycliffe's "Trialogues," and his belief that Christ taught faith, hope, and charity rather than the persecution and burning of heretics. We had also learned to detest the sight of the "sompnour," described by Master Chaucer, with his "fire-red cherubim's face, so scalded, whelked, and bepimpled that children fled from its presence," and whose vocation was that of an ecclesiastical officer who served citations for trial in the Church courts on the most trivial pretences. Nor were we better inclined towards the "pardoner," for we had learnt from the writings of the great Reformer of Lutterworth that "God only can forgive sin, and that therefore pardons and dispensations were not to be sold like an ox or an ass," that "the Scriptures assure us that Christ is the mediator between God and man." Yet a month rarely passed away that our villages were not pestered with these miserable pedlars who travelled from place to place selling dispensations for sin and exhibiting pretended relics, such as a veil of the Virgin Mary, handkerchiefs with the blood of Christ, fragments of St. Peter's boat, and such like impostures.

Witchcraft, too, was the subject of our conversation, and we agreed that, although there might be cases in which black magic, sorcery, and enchantment deserved to be punished with the strong arm of the law, nevertheless hundreds of innocent persons were tortured and executed for imaginary magic, as in the case of several poor women executed a few years previously.

Indeed, to such a height had the fear of necromancy arisen, that it was unsafe to concoct a potation of herbs, or even to gather plants for medicaments; while the presence of a black cat, or an owl, in a household was absolutely so dangerous that we ever destroyed our black kittens.

Nor were these the only topics of our conversation. It was impossible to ignore the fact that we were living in dangerous times. We were both old enough to remember the excitement caused throughout the country by Cade's rebellion; how the Archbishops of York and Canterbury had to take refuge in the Tower, and the talk of the desperate single combat between Squire Iden and Cade, in which the latter was slain. The great battle of St. Alban's, too, (1454) was hailed as a good omen by our parents, who looked upon the Duke of York as the rightful king, and hoped under him for greater liberty of conscience in religious matters.

At the present moment, it was true, a reconciliation had been patched up, and King Henry was acknowledged as monarch of England by the Yorkists and the great Earls of Salisbury and Warwick, but now, in this year 1459, there were rumours of warlike preparations, and great bodies of troops had been massed at Worcester.

Who could say how soon our quiet homes might not be invaded by armed men and made desolate by a reckless soldiery!

While conversing on such subjects we had arrived as far as the rounded hill of Berthhill on the horse trackway to Gadbury Camp and the church of Eldersfield, when a tall figure crossed our path and entered the dense glades of the forest. I had hardly time to see whether the dress was that of a man or woman, but Rosamond said, "There is Mary of Eldersfield; I expect she has been on Berthhill after nettles to make a capon sit, or spurges for ointments." Mary of Eldersfield was celebrated for her knowledge of herbs and medicaments, but led the life of a strict recluse.