V.Sir Ro of Staley Hall.

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 space—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.

THEREwas a noble 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 noble 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 passed.

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 noble 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 multitudes of heathen bit the dust.

“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 God, 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 awarmth 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.

There in front of him was the fairest scene in all the world.

Gone was the cold damp cell, gone the poisonous atmosphere of the dungeon, gone were the iron fetters, his strength had returned to him, and lo!—before him, shining fair in the summer sunlight, rich in the fulsome melody of singing birds, was a fair English landscape, and beyond it his own ancestral hall of Staley.

God had heard his prayer. By His own Almighty working he had bridged time and space, and Sir Ro was safe again at his old English home.

“A miracle, a miracle!” exclaimed the knight. And, like a good Christian, he fell upon his knees, and gave thanks to God.

When he arose Sir Ro passed along the soft and level sward of green until he came to the hall door. There he knocked long and loud. The warder who answered the knocking, failed to recognise the knight.

“Who knocks so long and loudly?” asked the warder, peering curiously at the palmer. “For a holy man, friend, methinks thou hast a mighty powerful stroke.”

This greeting reminded Sir Ro that he was no longer dressed as a knight, but in the garb of a palmer, and that he had best put off knightly ways unless he wished to be discovered, so, in a feigned voice, he answered:

“I am a humble palmer, hungry and footsore, and I crave a meal and leave to rest awhile. All of which I pray ye grant for Christ Jesu’s sake.”

“Well, well,” said the warder, somewhat mollified by the penitent tone of his visitor, “of a truth thou lookest woe-begone and travel-stained. Come thou within and eat and drink, and then, perchance, thou wilt have a tale to tell, which will help the hours to pass merrily. Hast thou any tidings? Is there any fresh news from the Holy Land?”

“Little of importance,” replied the supposed palmer. “But before I tell my story, perhaps thou wilt answer me a few inquiries, for I confess I am mightily curious about this same hall of thine. I had thought this was the hall of Staley.”

“And so it is, Sir Palmer. What belike should make thee doubt it?”

“Well, friend, I have travelled in the Holy Land myself, and thy master’s escutcheon is not unknown to me. He was a stout soldier of King Richard against the Paynim. And that banner which floats from the high tower bears not the same devise as that which Sir Ro of Staley bravely upheld against the Saracens.”

“In truth, thou art right there, Sir Palmer. ’Tis not the same banner, and, though I eat my salt beneath the new devise, I do not mind confessing that I would sooner see the old one flying overhead. ’Tis a sad story, friend. Hast thou not heard in thy wanderings that the brave knight of Staley was slain in the Holy Land?”

“That is news to me,” answered the other, starting. “But even so, what of his lady? Is she not alive?”

The warder looked uneasily about him, as though he had no wish to talk upon such a subject.

“The women can tell thee more of my lady,” said he. “And thou art still hungry. Eat first, and talk afterwards.”

DOORWAY TO STALEY CHAPEL, MOTTRAM CHURCH.

Saying which he ushered Sir Ro to an apartment, and left him for a while to the attention of the waiting maids. As the warder, even so the maids—none recognised their lord, Sir Ro, in the palmer’s garb which he was wearing. In accordance with the old laws of English hospitality, they brought to him a cup of methyglin, and manchets of bread to eat. As he supped, Sir Ro fell into conversation with the maids; he asked after the health of the Lady of Staley, and whether he might have an audience with her. To which the maids made answer that the Lady of Staley was sore troubled, and even then was weeping in her chamber, and would see no man. Then they related to him the circumstances of their lady’s trouble. The knight of Staley, they said, had gone away to fight in the great crusade. News had come that he was dead—having been captured and put to death by the enemy—and now the kinsmen of the lady were forcing her to wed again, although her heart was still with her dead lord, and she could bear the sight of no other man.

“That,” said the spokeswoman, “is why Staley Hall is so much changed, and why another banner floats above the turrets.”

“But if your lady does not love the newcomer, why then does she submit to a marriage which must be distasteful? Did not her lord will his estates to her in case he should fall in the Crusade?”

“That we know not, good sir palmer. But ’tis said that this new knight has made her understand that he hath a grant of her late husband’s lands from the king, and that he will dispossess both her and her relations unless she consents to marry him. Folk do think it is more for the sake of her kinsfolk that she brings her mind to the wedding.”

“And when is the wedding to be?”

“To-morrow.”

Sir Ro pondered awhile, then turning to the chief serving-maid, asked:

“Would’st do thy lady a service?”

Being answered in the affirmative, he took his empty drinking-cup, anddropped into it the half of his wife’s broken wedding ring, which he had retained, and bade the maid carry it to her mistress. This the maid did. On seeing it, the Lady of Staley gave a great cry, and, saying that the palmer surely brought some news of her dead husband’s last hours, and perchance carried his dying message, she commanded him to be brought into her presence.

Sir Ro now beheld the face of his loved one, whom he had never thought to see again. At first the lady failed to recognise in the guise of the palmer, the husband whom she had never ceased to love, and Sir Ro, being anxious to learn whether she was still true to him, forebore to make himself known. The lady, with tears in her eyes, looked at the half of the wedding ring which the palmer had brought, and placing her hand in her bosom drew forth the companion half which she wore ever near her heart. Then, with many sobs, she protested that the image of her dead lord had never left her, and that she only consented to mate with another in order that her kinsfolk should not be reduced to beggary.

EFFIGY OF SIR RO AND HIS LADY, IN STALEY CHAPEL, MOTTRAM CHURCH.

Bit by bit the knight drew from her all the story: how her new suitor had been the one to bring tidings of her lord’s death, and how he, having secured the Staley estates, now offered her the choice of a union with him or beggary for herself and her people.

Then Sir Ro, unable to restrain himself any longer, uttered her name in his own voice, and instantly she recognised him, and, with a great cry, fell into his arms.

Now the joyful cry uttered by the Lady of Staley rang throughout the hall, and, full of wonder and fear, the retainers rushed to the chamber, feeling that they had been indiscreet to leave her alone with an unknown palmer. The treacherous knight, who, by his lying tale, sought to entrap her into marriage, also appeared upon the scene, and, in a voice of anger, demanded of the palmer what he wanted, and by what right he was there.

“By the best right in the world,” answered Sir Ro—“the right of master.”

“Insolent,” cried the traitor-knight in a fury, drawing his sword as he spake. “Thou shalt pay dearly for thy folly.”

But Sir Ro, with a sharp action, cast from his shoulders the palmer’s disguise, and, standing forth in the full glory of his warlike figure, snatched a mace from the wall, and advanced to meet his enemy.

“A Staley, a Staley!” he cried, giving forth the rallying cry of his house in a voice which the retainers knew of old.

Instantly he was recognised, and with shouts of joy the men-at-arms and servitors sprang to his side, whilst some of them disarmed the traitor, and without waiting for the order from their lord, hurried him to the deepest dungeon, there to await justice when the joyful celebrations anent Sir Ro’s return had come to an end.

Needless to say the imposter met with the punishment he deserved; he was stripped of his knightly rank, and was never afterwards seen or heard of in Longdendale. The bells of Mottram Church rang out a merry peal in honour of the homecoming of the Knight of Staley. Sir Ro and his lady lived a long and happy life together. At their death they were buried in Mottram Church, where an effigy was placed to their memory above their grave. This effigy, which represents a knight in full armour, and his lady lying side by side, may still be seen in the Staley Chapel of the old Church at Mottram, and it serves to keep green the story of Sir Ro’s adventures.

Author’s Note.

In Mottram Church is an ancient monumental effigy, which is said to represent the figures of Sir Ro or Ralph de Stavelegh of Staley Hall and his wife—the hero and heroine of the foregoing legend. “Roe Cross,” the name of a well-known spot in Mottram, is also attributed to the connection of the place with this popular local crusader.

ROBIN HOOD, the greatest bowman that old England ever knew, frequently visited Longdendale. Probably the “thick woods of Longden,” with their wealth of wild red deer, induced him to lead his band from the haunts of merrie Sherwood to the no less merrie land of Longdendale. Old traditions tell of a “mighty forest in Longdendale, whose trees were so thick that the squirrels could leap from branch to branch from Mottram to Woodhead.” Such a country might well attract a lover of the free forest life like bold Robin Hood; moreover, there ran a road over a good portion of Longdendale, along which the fat old Abbots of Basingwerke were wont to convey their treasures from their township of Glossop, to their fine abbey seat in Wales. Doubtless the Abbot dreaded a meeting with the mighty outlaw, for Robin dearly loved to pluck a fat-bellied churchman that he might place the golden nobles in the pouches of the poor.

This story, however, has nothing to do with the robbing of the Abbots or Monks of Basingwerke. It is a story of skill and fabulous strength. Indeed, there are many who doubt that the incidents related ever occurred—simply because such things seem impossible. But then those incidents are recorded in the traditions of the people of Longdendale, and, consequently, they are worthy of serious consideration. He must be either an amazingly bold or an exceedingly ignorant man, who would cast a doubt on the veracity of a Longdendale tradition.

However, the reader must judge for himself.

The story has it that bold Robin Hood and his forest band (including the redoubtable Little John, Friar Tuck, Will Scarlet, and Much, the miller’s son, and a hundred other sturdy yeomen, all clad in Lincoln green, and having great long bows of English yew and good cloth-yard shafts) appeared one day in the Longdendale country. Weary of hunting the stag through the woodland glades, they were longing for some chance of adventure to present itself, when they became aware of a loud and dismal moaning hard by. The sound came from a handsome youth who, cast full length upon the sward, was bitterly bemoaning his cruel fate. It appeared that he was betrothed to a beautiful maiden, but her guardian (who was a grim old bachelor) had forbidden their union, and finally, to prevent all intercourse between them, had shut her up in his castle.

On hearing the story the foresters were loud in their denunciations of such heartless conduct. They vowed it was the greatest sin that man could possibly commit—to interfere with lover’s meetings. Little John was for attacking the castle, battering down the gates, and sending anarrow through the mid-rib of the guardian, which process, he thought, was calculated to end the matter at once. But Robin, though anxious enough for a fight, was of opinion that his henchman’s plan might endanger the maiden, who was completely at the mercy of the tyrant. He suggested an interview, and, accordingly, the stout Friar Tuck was sent as ambassador or emissary to make terms with the maiden’s guardian.

SCENE NEAR BOTTOM’S HALL; “PART OF THE ANCIENT FOREST OF LONGDENDALE.”

At first the Friar was met with an angry outburst on the part of the guardian—a bold bad baron—who loudly declaimed that he would permit no outside interference with his affairs.

“Out on thee, thou fat-bellied churchman,” shouted the Baron. “What hast thou to do with lovers, particularly maidens. Methinks thy vows should bid thee leave maids and love severely alone.”

Now this sort of talk did not at all suit Friar Tuck, who, churchman though he might be, and shaven and shorn to boot, yet loved to kiss a pretty maid on the sly as well as the best layman who ever walked. But he loved not to be twitted about it in this fashion.

“Fat-bellied churchman, indeed,” quoth he. “And what about thine own fat paunch. As for love and pretty maids, I warrant thou would’st have a long way to travel fore thou comest across a maiden who would fall in love with thee. Such a foul-visaged reptile I never set eyes on. As for beauty—well, as far as thou art concerned—the least said on that head the better.”

The Baron stared at this rejoinder, as well he might. Such language had never been hurled at him before, and for a moment he could scarcely speak, so great was his surprise. When he recovered speech, he ordered his attendants who were in the room to seize the Friar and cast him into the dungeon. But Tuck lifted the quarter-staff which he carried, and brought it down so heavily upon their crowns that the men dropped like poled oxen. At this the Baron began to swear and rave, vowing all manner of punishments for the Friar,—all of which, however, only made Tuck fall a-laughing.

“Come,” said he, “thou art short of wind enough, friend Baron. And if thou goest on like that thou art like to choke thyself. Moreover, if thou only so much as raises a finger to summon thy vassals to thy side with intent to lay me by the heels, I shall een clout thee on the sconce as I have served thy catiffs. So thou hadst best listen to reason.”

Now sorely discomfited as he was, a bright idea suddenly struck the Baron, and turning blandly to the Friar, he readily consented to set free the maiden, and to permit her marriage with her handsome lover, providing the foresters (of whose shooting prowess he had heard so much) could shoot their arrows from the tumulii now called “The Butts” to the upright Druid stones, now known by the name of “Robin Hood’s Picking Rods.” By setting them this (apparently impossible) task, he thought to rid himself of interference from the band; and he chuckled merrily to himself, when Tuck (who knew nothing of the distance to be covered by the archers) coolly accepted the terms.

The time for the shooting display having arrived, the Baron led a gay company to the scene, that he and all his friends might witness the discomfiture of the renowned archers of Sherwood. As for the handsome youth on whose behalf Robin had interfered, he was quite dismayed, and even the assurance of the outlaw could not comfort him, for he thought the feat impossible.

The archers stood at the butts, and away in the distance rose the stone target of “The Picking Rods.” Robin Hood took the first shot, and he laughed inwardly as he drew the string tight and true. For he knew the secret of the “Long Bow”—(as, indeed, do the chroniclers who tell this story). The arrow left the bow with a shrill whistle of the goose-wing tip, and, greatly to the surprise of the Baron, it fell plump on the target with such force as to cut a notch in the hard stone,—a notch so deep that it may be seen to this day. Little John, Will Scarlet, and the rest of the forest band, all tried their skill, and but few failed to hit the mark, though none were quite so near the centre as their leader Robin Hood.

When the shooting was finished the Baron was in a great rage, and he sought for some means of evading the fulfilment of his promise. Turning to Robin Hood he made an offer—that if the outlaw, with his own hands, cast down the great stone which stood upon Werneth Low, then the Baron would not only bestow the maiden upon her lover, but would give her a good dowry into the bargain. On the other hand, if Robin failed to accomplish the task, the whole matter must rest where it was, and the maiden remain a captive.

Greatly to the surprise of all, Robin agreed to the proposal.

“I will humour thee this once,” said he to the Baron. “But if thou attemptest to get behind thy word when the feat is done, my good foresters shall fall upon thee and knock sparks out of thy baronial hide.”

“If thou doest the feat,” quoth the Baron, “rest assured I shall keep my promise.”

For the task he had set bold Robin was, as the Baron well knew, a thousand times more difficult than that of shooting at the Picking Rods.

Robin Hood conversed awhile with Friar Tuck, and then the whole company moved off to the summit of Werneth Low. The stone, or rock, as it should more properly be called, was a huge mass almost the height of a man. It had occupied its position on the summit of Werneth since the world was created. A round half-dozen of the Baron’s retainers failed to lift it. But Robin Hood, casting aside his jerkin, and baring his brawny arm, raised the great stone slowly aloft, and then, with one mighty throw, cast it out westward towards the sunset, and, amid a wild shout of triumph, it disappeared in the distance.

They afterwards found the stone in the bed of the River Tame, near the woods of Arden, and, under thename of “Robin Hood’s Stone” it remains in that same spot to this day.

“THE ROBIN HOOD STONE.”

Now there are some who profess to believe that no mortal power could cast that stone so great a distance, and they explain the event by supposing that Robin was in league with the good fairies, who gave him strength to lift the stone, and then, (invisible to men) flew away with it, and dropped it in the Tame. And perhaps these people may be right.

Be that as it may, there is no record to show that the bold bad Baron disbelieved in Robin’s powers, and we may take it for granted that the lovely maiden was duly released, that she married the lad of her choice, and that they lived happy ever afterwards, as they certainly deserved to do.

It is asserted by some that there was a much smaller stone near the great Robin Hood Stone on Werneth Low, and that Little John afterwards threw this stone in the direction of the one thrown by Robin. The second stone, being lighter, travelled a few yards further than the first, but the throw being not so skilful the stone was broken in several pieces by the fall. It lies to this day near the Robin Hood Stone in the waters of the River Tame, and it still retains the name of that giant forester Little John.

Author’s Note.

The “Robin Hood relics,” referred to in the foregoing legend, are objects of great local interest and curiosity. The “Robin Hood’s Picking Rods” are situated on Ludworth Moor, and consist of portions of two upright stone pillars rising from a massive stone base. They are thought by many to be relics of the Druidical period, and are referred to in the “Legend of Coombs Rocks”—the first legend of the present series. It is said that they received their present name because Robin Hood and his outlaws used them as a target for their arrows, and the dents in the pillars are said to have been caused by the arrow points.

The “Robin Hood Stone” is a huge rock which lies in the bed of the River Tame near the Denton Cemetery at Hulme’s Wood, almost opposite the Arden Paper Mill.

As stated in the legend, there are fragments of Little John’s stone near it, and old traditions state that both stones were thrown to their present positions from the top of Werneth Low by the two foresters whose names they bear. Certain indentations in the larger stone are said to be the imprints of the fingers of Robin Hood, whose grip was so strong that he left the impression in the solid stone.

Or THE WEHR-WOLF OF LONGDENDALE.

GLOSSOP, which in the Doomsday survey was reckoned as part of Longdendale, was granted by William the Conqueror to his natural son, William Peveril—Peveril of the Peak,—whose descendant was disinherited by Henry II. for procuring the death of the Earl of Chester by poison, when the township reverted to the Crown. King Henry, however, being on a military expedition to North Wales, became acquainted with the monks of Basingwerke, and in return for their friendship and attention he bestowed the township upon Basingwerke Abbey.

A road which crosses a portion of Longdendale is known as The Monk’s Road, and is so called because the Monks of Basingwerke are said to have made and used it. On the wildest part of this road stands a large stone, hollowed out in the shape of a rude seat, which is said to have been the seat of the Abbot of Basingwerke, who periodically held open-air court on that spot. The stone is known as “The Abbot’s Chair.”

On a certain day in the reign of good King Henry, the Abbot of Basingwerke sat in state upon the stone seat of “The Abbot’s Chair.” He was holding a court for the receipt of all his rents and tithes, for the dispensation of justice in that part of his possessions, and for the purpose of hearing any petitions which the people might wish to make. To him came an old dame, full of woe and misery, and almost blind with the falling of bitter tears. Her tale was enough to melt the stoutest heart. She had an enemy, and the enemy was a woman who dabbled in witchcraft. Through the agency of evil spirits, this witch had brought death upon the old dame’s husband and on all her children, so that now she was all alone in the world, and knew not where to look for shelter or for bread. It was said, also, that the witch possessed the power of changing her shape, appearing now as a woman, now as a man, now as ananimal or bird, so that it was almost impossible to catch her and bring her for punishment.

The Abbot of Basingwerke, on hearing the story, was very angry. He first relieved the distress of the poor woman, and then pronounced an awful curse upon the wicked witch.

“May the hand of Heaven fall upon this wicked mortal,” cried the Abbot, “and in whatever shape she be at the present moment, may that shape cling to her until justice has been done.”

“THE ABBOT’S CHAIR.”

Then he prophesied that ere long the righteous wrath of heaven would fall upon the witch, and that a bitter death would assuredly be her portion. And the old dame went away satisfied.

Now it chanced that that very morning the witch had changed herself into a wehr-wolf, and was even then prowling about the forest in search of victims. And by further good luck it happened that good King Henry II., who was on a visit to the Baron of Ashton-under-Lyne, was out hunting in company with his son, Prince Henry, the Lord of Longdendale, the Baron of Ashton, and other noblemen and knights of the district, The Royal party hunted chiefly in the forests of Longdendale, which were noted for wild boars, deer, and game of every description. And inasmuch as it was customary at a Royal hunt for every portion of the forest to be explored, and all the game therein, great and small, driven forth before the hunters, there was—providing there was any efficacy in the Abbot’s curse—every prospect of the wicked old witch being immediately laid by the heels. On former occasions when she had assumed the form of an animal, it had always been easy for her, if pursued, to fly into the nearest thicket, and there resume her human shape, or else to suddenly disappear altogether. But if the Abbot’s curse took effect and compelled her to remain in the garb of a wehr-wolf, then it was almostcertain that she would meet her doom before the sun set.

The hunt proceeded, and the huntsmen met with good sport, but the chief success of the day fell to the lot of the Lord of Longdendale, who slew “several horrible British tigers,” and after a tough struggle succeeded in killing the largest wild boar which was ever seen in Cheshire.

Prince Henry, who was a valiant youth, was desirous of imitating the exploits of the Lord of Longdendale, and accordingly he repaired to a gloomy part of the forest in search of some worthy adventure. Here, to his great surprise, he was suddenly set upon by a fierce old wehr-wolf, which, taking him unawares, seemed likely to put him to death.

BASE OF CROSS ON THE MONKS’ ROAD.

At the first assault the Prince’s steed, by swerving as the wehr-wolf sprang, luckily saved the rider, and Prince Henry was enabled to bring his hunting spear to bear upon the beast. He drove at it, and although he succeeded in piercing its side, so that it cried out horribly—more like a human cry than a beast’s, said the Prince, when he afterwards came to recount the story of the combat—yet it seized the spear handle in its forepaws, and with a snap of its great jaws broke the spear clean in two, so that the Royal huntsman was left almost defenceless. He drew out his long hunting-knife and buried it to the hilt as the beast sprang at him, but though he fought bravely and long, the terrible thing succeeded in pulling him from his horse to the ground. Here the Prince gripped the beast by the throat, but his strength was much spent, and it seemed almost certain that he must succumb. Fortunately, however, he had been followed at a distance by the Baron of Ashton, who arrived upon the spot just in time to turn the fight, and to engage and finally slay the wehr-wolf.

Great honour was, of course, bestowed upon the Baron of Ashton, and the carcase of the wolf was taken in triumph to the Castle at Ashton-under-Lyne. Upon the beast being opened, its stomach was found to contain the heads of three babes which it had devoured that morning.

Much talk then ensued as to the unusual fierceness shown by the wehr-wolf, and the Prince again and again asserted that at times the cries of the beast were most human in sound. A forester, also, on hearing of the exploit, came forward and gave some strange testimony.

“May it please your highness,” said he, “I was to-day lying in a doze beneath the greenwood, whither I had crawled to hide, the better to enable me to watch and ambush certain forest marauders who interfere with the deer, when I was suddenly startled by a strange noise, and, on looking through the copse, beheld a wehr-wolf tearing at its own skin as though it desired to cast it off, even as a man discards his clothes. And the thing screamedand moaned piteously, and it seemed to me that a woman’s cracked voice, muttering wild incantations, emerged from the beast’s throat. Upon hearing which I was sore afraid, thinking I was bewitched by the evil one, and I fled.”

Divers others had also strange tales to tell of the wehr-wolf’s actions, and that same evening, on the Abbot of Basingwerke coming to dine with the Royal hunting party at the hall of Ashton-under-Lyne, it was proved beyond doubt that the wehr-wolf was none other than the wicked witch.

Thus was the curse of the Abbot speedily fulfilled and justice meted out. Needless to say that witch was never seen again.

THEtraveller through the valley of the Etherow is invariably impressed with the wild grandeur of the scenery, and in nine cases out of ten his attention is especially claimed by the bold rock escarpment known as “The Devil’s Elbow,” which frowns high over the course of the stream. The situation of the rock is certainly romantic: the wild moorlands of bog and heather stretch away on either side, in fact the rock stands on the verge of some of the wildest mountain scenery of Great Britain. The very name of the place is suggestive of legend, and one is not surprised to learn that there are some queer stories related concerning the neighbourhood; one of these explains how the rock came to receive its name.

The date of the story is uncertain—that fact, however, should not trouble the reader. At the time when the events now to be related actually occurred, there was a castle standing on one of the heights above the Etherow; it was a strong castle, fit home for a proud old feudal lord; and its owner, De Morland, was one of the most haughty of those barons who claimed descent from the great Norman lords who landed with William the Conqueror. Little is known of him beyond the fact that he was immensely proud of his long ancestry, that he was very fierce, that he was rich, and looked with scorn upon most of the gentry of the neighbourhood. These things certainly do not speak much for his good sense, for why a man should imagine that the possession of a few more pieces of gold or silver makes him a better man than his neighbour, is a mystery. For instance, a thief may by successful robbery become wealthier than an honest poor man, but surely the mere possession of greater wealth does not make him better than the poor man. The principle of this holds good with regard to wealth, no matter how it may have been secured. So, after all, the Baron de Morland had no sound base on which to build up his pride.

The baron had a daughter named Geraldine, who was born on May day, and was as sweet as the month in which she was born. Her teeth were like pearls, her hair gleamed like gold, her skin was the fairest, and her figure the most beautiful ever known in Longdendale. Altogether she was a maid to set the hearts of men aflame with love.

Now it should be stated at the outset that the maiden had been wooed by more than one noble suitor, but she had an eye to none save a brave young knight who came from Mottram. His name was Sir Mottram de Mossland, and he was lord of a castle—something similar in appearance to that of the Baron de Morland, but not quite so grand—which stood on a bold ridge near Mottram town. This knight hadlong been in love with the lady Geraldine, and on several occasions had managed to get interviews with his lady-love. We may be sure he lost no time in making known to her the state of his heart, and in ascertaining the exact condition of her own. They kissed, and swore fidelity to each other, and generally behaved like all young lovers do. But bye and bye the Baron de Morland got to hear of this lover’s business, and he swore a terrible oath concerning it.

“THE LADY GERALDINE.”

“By my halidome,” swore he, in the hearing of his daughter; “Who is this upstart de Mossland? Are his lands to be compared with mine? Is his name to be linked with that of de Morland? Shall one of his hated blood mate with my own superior stock. Out upon the thought. I will slay him sooner. Yea, by my halidome, and all the saints whom I adore, I swear most solemnly that if I know him to speak another word with my daughter, it shall be the last word he shall ever speak. For I will have his blood.”

The Lady Geraldine heard this terrible oath, and knowing the character of her furious parent well, was quite certain that he would carry out his threat. So, fearing for the safety of her lover, she had a message conveyed to him, begging him, if he really cared for her, to cease his stolen visits for a time. The lover, though sorely troubled, obeyed her requests, and the days passed by in fruitless sighing and longing.

Of course, it goes without saying, that, although he might refrain from speaking to the maid, a handsome and brave gallant like Sir Mottram de Mossland would yet be on the alert to secure a glimpse of his lady-love, and would worship her with his eyes even if his lips were doomed to be closed. And so it came to pass that, day by day, often in disguise, he followed her path, and gazed longingly at her from a distance. Now, one day when she was out riding on her milk-white palfrey, her steed took fright, and ran away, and would certainly have leaped down a dreadful precipice—carrying the lady to death,—if the gallant Sir Mottram had not sprung at its head, andpulled it, by main force, to a place of safety.

Now, in spite of his lady-love’s message, he could no longer refrain from speaking, and, folding her in his arms, he kissed her, and asked for some token of love in return. The maid kissed him gladly, and promised to marry him in spite of her stern and cruel father. Then, full of joy, Sir Mottram went on his way singing gaily, for his heart was lifted up by the promise of his lady-love.

Unfortunately, however, the Baron de Morland was riding that way, and when he beheld the transports of Sir Mottram he immediately guessed what had been toward, and he at once began to swear again. No oath was too strong for him to use concerning the family of Sir Mottram de Mossland. It should be stated in explanation, that years before, the Baron had been in love with Sir Mottram’s mother—then a pretty maiden in her teens—and had been rejected by her in favour of Sir Mottram’s father. Hence the Baron de Morland could never bear the sight or mention of a de Mossland, and hence his hatred of a union between Sir Mottram and his daughter Geraldine.

Full of anger the Baron rode home to his castle, and there at once sent for his daughter.

“You minx,” cried he, “is’t true that you have promised yourself to that foul de Mossland?”

“It is true, my father,” said Geraldine, in a low yet clear voice. “What else could I do since I love him? Moreover, he is not a foul knight, but is brave and true.”

Now the Baron swore again.

“You witch,” he cried, “know this, rather than you should wed de Mossland—yea, by all the saints I swear it!—I will send you to the devil.”

“Oh, my father!” shrieked Geraldine, “have mercy!”

And her shrieks rang through the castle, till the serving maids and the men-at-arms came running in to see what was the matter.

But the Baron took up his sword, and with the flat of it struck right and left, and drove them forth. Then, turning once more to her, he shouted:

“Mark well what I say. If you speak to de Mossland again I will summon the devil’s aid, and you shall be sorely punished.”

Then he left the room, and the lady fainted.

Now, the Lady Geraldine was bold enough, as became a daughter born of a race of fighting men, and, having pledged her word to her lover, she had no intention of going from it. So, on the day appointed, she proceeded to a certain spot, where her lover met her, all prepared for flight. The lovers kissed, and then the knight began:

“Dear Geraldine,” said he.—But before he could proceed further, an awful thing happened. A dark form rose up between them, and, on looking at it they knew it was the Devil. He was in his own shape, with horns, hoofs, and tail complete. With a mocking laugh he bent his elbow, and made as though to seize the maid, but Sir Mottram, throwinghis arms about her, turned and fled, hoping to be able to cross a running stream before the devil could touch them, and then, by the laws of sorcery, they would be free from satanic molestation.

The devil, however, gained on them rapidly, and it appeared certain that he would catch them, when, just as he put out his hand to touch the maid, a strange light appeared in the sky, and a voice called out the one word—“Hold.”

The Devil staggered as though he had been shot, and when he recovered the light had vanished, and with it the maiden and her lover.

They were never seen again, but the legends say that they were made perfectly happy by the fairies, and that they still haunt the banks of the Etherow at certain seasons of the year in the forms of two white swans.

As for the devil, he received a shock. At the moment the light appeared, his right arm had been bent at the elbow for the purpose of seizing hold of his prey, but lo! when his victims had disappeared, he found that the powers which had delivered them from him had turned his right arm into stone. Not a muscle of it could he move, it would not bend, it was worse than useless, it was an encumbrance.

So Satan, being a philosopher in his way, determined to make the best of a bad job. He tore the arm out by the roots, and left it there—the elbow showing prominently over Longdendale. And that is how the great rock known as the Devil’s Elbow came to be perched high up above the Etherow valley.

Author’s Note.

The Devil’s Elbow is the name given to a picturesque rock which stands on the brow of a high and steep hill above the valley of the Etherow. This rock is one of the landmarks of the Longdendale country.

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