One of his tales, The Legend of Almans Death is reproduced here.
"When the Roman general, Julius Agricola completed the subjugation of the Britons, he began to prepare for a permanent occupation of the country by erecting a series of strong military stations or forts throughout the entire kingdom. A number of these fortresses were built in Cheshire, Lancashire, and Derbyshire, and among the rest was Melandra Castle, erected on the banks of the river Etherow, in what is now known as the township of Gamesley. This fort was established about the end of the first century of the Christian era; it was well built and was of considerable size; moreover its importance was increased because it commanded the hill country north and east of Longdendale. It proved an admirable means of driving back the raids which the scattered hill-tribes were fond of making on the rich lands of the valley. The Romans originally called the fort “Zedrotalia,” but, on account of its standing in a district where oak trees were plentiful, it came to be known by its present name. Melandra is said to be a Roman name derived from the Greek Melandryon, which signifies “The heart of oak,” or “The heart in the oak,” and is supposed to have reference to the fact that the forests of Longdendale were noted for their splendid oaks at the time when the Romans built their station.
The site of the Castle has been excavated during the years 1899-1905, and the result of this has been the securing of ample proof that Melandra was a station of great strength and importance. The foundations of walls of considerable thickness, with the masonry still solid and straight as on the day when it was laid, have been unearthed. Pieces of pottery, broken weapons, and coins have been found. There is also an inscribed stone containing the inscription—“Cohortis Primæ Frisianorum Centurio Valerius Vitalis.” Dr. Watson, the eminent antiquary, translates this into “The Cohort of the First Frisians, Centurion Valerius Vitalis.” The Frisians were troops attached to the renowned Twentieth Legion—the “Valiant and Victorious”—and Valerius Vitalis is the only one of the Roman commanders whose name has been handed down.
Across the valley, some distance from Melandra, is a hill called Mouselow. This hill is supposed to have been a stronghold of the Ancient Britons. It forms a position of great natural strength, and was well adapted for military occupation in the days anterior to gunpowder and artillery. Several pre-historic weapons have been discovered near.
For a considerable time after the erection of Melandra Castle, the Roman garrison was much harassed by the activity of a chieftain who was encamped on Mouselow. This chief watched his opportunity, and rallying to his side the few fighting men of the Britons who were left, darted down on detached bands of the Roman soldiery, and left not one alive to tell the tale. Thus from the earliest days, it seemed fated that there was to be strife and enmity between the two strongholds. Even when the Romans had finally driven out the Britons, and razed the original building of Mouselow to the ground, the struggle did not cease; for after a time the legions were forced to leave the country, and no sooner had they turned their backs than the native chiefs were quarrelling over the spoils. One chief took possession of Melandra and became prince of that place, and a rival chief rebuilt the fort on Mouselow and took the title of Prince of Mouselow.
After a time came the Saxon invasion—bands of freebooters from the continent landed on these shores, and pillaged where they listed, some returning to their own land with the spoil they had won, others settling on the lands of the chiefs they had defeated and slain. Among the latter class was a Saxon chief named Alman—a brave, though ruthless warrior, who, after some fierce fighting put to death the Prince of Mouselow, and established himself in that mountain stronghold. Thereafter the country of Longdendale was never free from the depredations of this chief; his robber bands harassed the valleys, and no man’s property was safe if it happened to attract the attention of the new Prince of Mouselow. He terrorised the native chiefs, who were nearly all reduced to a state of vassalage by him; indeed, of all those chiefs, the Prince of Melandra alone maintained his former state of independence, and this principally because he was fortunate enough to hold a castle built by the Romans, which, as may be readily supposed, was the strongest fortress in that part of the country. Affairs were in this state when there occurred those incidents which form the substance of this legend.
Now Alman had set his heart upon winning the daughter of a neighbouring chief for his bride. She was named Ineld, and her father was the Lord of Woley—which at that time was a fair-sized town. He was a brave old man, but his forces had been defeated, and his territory ravaged by Alman’s soldiers, so he was somewhat afraid of the Prince of Mouselow, and more than half inclined to bestow his daughter’s hand upon Alman without ever consulting the girl’s wishes at all.
But it chanced that Ineld had views of her own upon the subject, and Alman and his robber ways were not to her liking. She had heard things of Alman and his doings which made the blood run cold.
One day there had come to her father’s gate an old woman, who craved an audience of the chief.
“Why are thine eyes so heavy with mourning?” asked the Lord of Woley. And the old dame made answer:
“O Chief, I am a widow, and the only stay and comfort of my old age
was my son—an only child. He kept me from beggary and want. He loved
a maiden, and hoped shortly to make her his wife, and even to-day they
talked together by the roadside. But it chanced that the Prince of
Mouselow rode by with his retinue, and, happening to catch sight of
the maid, he ordered his guards to seize her and carry her to the
castle. My son interfered, and in an instant the Prince of Mouselow
slew him with his own hand. And now, O chief, I cry aloud to thee for
justice.”And another day one of her father’s serfs had come in weeping.
These things had Ineld heard, and they in no way predisposed her in favour of Alman, nor did the appearance of the chief when he came a-wooing, alter her first opinions of him. He was a rough, boisterous man, who drank deep, and swore loud oaths—fine and handsome of outward appearance, but a man lacking that refinement which most women prefer to see in men.
Having disclosed his intention to the Lord of Woley, Alman made his way to the fair Ineld’s side, but so used was he to wooing by force that he could not even now altogether rid himself of his blunt, repulsive manner.
“Ah, my May,” cried he, stealing behind the maid, and flinging his arm roughly about her waist, “one kiss from those rosy lipe of thine, and then we will talk of love.”
He laughed as the startled Ineld struggled to free herself from his grasp, but a scowl of anger swept over his face as, with her little hand, she struck him heavily upon the coarse lips which he had thrust near her face.
Then he laughed again, and even swore.
“By Woden,” said he, “but you are a fit wife for any chief. Little spitfire—but I like such play. Trust me, I love thee none the less for that blow. Some day I will tame thee, and then, by the gods, we shall make a mighty pair.”
“Never,” cried Ineld fiercely.
And, breaking away, she ran to the mansion, and hid herself in the women’s quarters, where even Alman dared not follow.
That day the Prince of Mouselow rode away immensely pleased with himself; he loved to see a maid full of fight, so he said, and he promised himself that Ineld should love him by and by. But the days went past, and do what he would, he could never persuade the maiden to grant him an interview alone.
His spirit chafed at the prolonged delay, and at length he determined upon bolder measures. He lay in wait in the woodland near the home of Ineld, and in due course his patient waiting was rewarded. The fair maiden appeared, and, first looking timidly around, as though to make sure she was unobserved, made her way through the glade to a spot near a fern-covered spring.
Alman chuckled to himself with glee, and silently he kept pace with the maiden, although remaining concealed the while.
When Ineld stopped, and showed unmistakable signs of going no further, the Prince of Mouselow emerged from the undergrowth behind which he had been hidden, and, with a laugh of triumph, stood before her.
“Now, my little vixen,” said he, “I have won you at last. Maids so coy as you must be wooed in rough fashion. And, once inside my mountain fortress, I doubt not your consent to wed Alman will soon be forthcoming.”
So saying, he made to carry her to the spot where his steed was tethered, for he would win his bride by force, even as he had won his wealth and lands.
Ineld screamed shrilly in terror, and the Prince clapped his rough hand upon her lips to stifle the cries.
“Cease such idle wailing,” said he. “The wood is deserted, no one can hear, nor would it greatly matter if they could. I hold thee now, and no man in all the land shall rob me of my prize.”
“Be not so sure of that,” said a voice at his shoulder, so suddenly and unexpectedly that Alman dropped the girl, who immediately, with a joyful cry, sprang to the side of the new comer.
“Lewin—sweetheart,” cried she—then could say no more by reason of the caress which her deliverer bestowed upon her.
“Ah,” cried Alman—a light breaking on him, as he recognised the youthful Lewin, Prince of Melandra. “So ’tis a lover’s tryst I have marred by my presence. Well, let us see who is the better man—Lewin or Alman, and the winner takes the maid.”
He loosened the short axe at his side, and, without pause, rushed on Lewin, waving the weapon aloft. Scarce had the youth time to thrust the maid behind him and draw his blade when the axe fell; but the sword of Lewin was swift to parry, and at the same instant he sprang aside. The axe missed him by a hairsbreadth, but the sword was shattered by the stroke, and the Prince of Melandra stood weaponless—at the mercy of Alman.
“I could slay thee easily,” said he, “but I soil not my fame so. Thou art a brave man, and above all the chiefs about, hast hitherto opposed me with credit to thyself. I give thee thy life—the maiden goes with me. But this chance I give thee. Rally thy men and meet me now in battle array—Melandra against Mouselow, and we will fight for a noble prize—the lordship of all the land of Longdendale, and the fair Ineld for a queen. Thou may’st trust me. The maid stays in my keeping, but I touch her not until the battle has been fought and won.”
Lewin advanced and took the hand of Alman.
“I trust thee, Prince,” said he. “’Tis a noble act. Get thee to thy stronghold with the maiden, for soon the axe of Lewin will be knocking at thy door.”
Then, turning to the trembling girl, he whispered:
“Fear not, Ineld, I come quickly. Ere another hour is passed the war-song of Lewin will echo through the hills.”
Then he was gone.
An hour later Alman stood on the rampart of Mouselow, and gazed in the direction of Melandra. The warrior by his side pointed to a dancing light which played upon the distant fields and seemed to move on Mouselow. It was the sunlight reflected from a host of shields and spears.
“This Lewin keeps his word. The fight will be such as a soldier loves. Now get to your arms.”
The Prince of Mouselow watched the approach of the foe with gladness. Rude and tyrannous though he might be, he was yet a brave man, and asked for nothing better than a worthy foe and a fair field. It mattered little to him if death came in the conflict. His fathers had all died fighting, and he, too, longed to die in the thick of the fray. He loved fighting for fighting’s sake, and in the lust for the conflict he even forgot the fair Ineld—the prize for which he fought. Placing himself at the head of his men, he led them out of the fort, and soon the two forces were in touch with each other. The Prince of Melandra was at the head of his own troops, and as the two armies closed he gave forth his war shout and called upon his men to charge. The warriors clashed their axes and shields together, and cried aloud:
“Lewin we will follow thee to death. Lead on!”
And thus the great fight begun.
The battle lasted through the day, and it seemed almost certain that the superior force of the Prince of Mouselow would win. But the men of Melandra fought like heroes; they stubbornly maintained their ground, and, as the day passed, the battle was still undecided.
Throughout the combat Lewin seemed to bear a charmed life. He was ever in the thick of battle, and where his axe descended there death reigned in the foemen’s ranks. But towards the evening he realised that his rapidly thinning ranks were in danger of being enveloped by the greater number of the foe, and that if the battle was to be saved, it would require a superhuman effort.
Then, knowing that where he led his men would surely follow, he raised his war shout, and, with a mighty rush, charged single-handed on the foe. He was surrounded in an instant, and a score of blows were showered at his head. The peril of their chief so incensed the men of Melandra that they became like madmen, and swept onwards with a charge that nothing could withstand. This was exactly what Lewin had looked for, and, hoping to render the effect of the charge doubly sure, he still pushed on, making for the standard where Alman fought.
The Prince of Mouselow rallied his men about him, and, shoulder to shoulder, they stood to repel the onslaught. But the rush of Lewin was too fierce, the men of Mouselow were scattered like chaff, and Alman himself fell pierced by a score of blades.
“They run,” said he—“the dogs. And yet—they fought bravely. Well, let them run. Ho. Lewin, the day is thine. Ineld is thine, and I—I die. Tell her I died as a brave man should—face to the foe. Valhalla calls me. Lewin, farewell.”
So he died.
The old chronicle tells us that he died as the sun set, and his spirit passed away with the dying beams to the eternal land of rest. It is said that so keen was the conflict, and so great was the bloodshed, that one part of the battlefield was afterwards termed Redgate in perpetual commemoration of the day. The spot whereon Alman died was called Almansdeath, a name it still retains."
No comments:
Post a Comment