The Leaguer of Lathom by W. Harrison Ainsworth

By the help of Paul Moreau, the earl regained his steed, and the cavalcade was once more in motion.

But he could not shake off the impression made upon him by the interview. His head drooped on his breast, and during the whole of the day’s journey, he scarcely looked around, or spoke.

It had been arranged that the noble prisoner should pass his last night at Leigh—a small town, about six miles from Bolton. In Leigh Church had been interred his friend and companion in arms, the valiant Sir Thomas Tyldesley, who was killed at Wigan, and the earl greatly desired to visit the grave, but the request was denied.

However, the refusal troubled him little. He had become indifferent to harsh treatment, and passed the evening in tranquil converse with Baguley.

“Commend me to Archdeacon Rutter,” he said, “and ask him if he remembers how blood fell upon a book I was reading late one night in my closet at Knowsley? Ask him what he now thinks of that strange occurrence? He will answer, I doubt not, that his presentiments have been fully verified. Ask him further, if he remembers I once told him that death in battle would not trouble me, but a blow on the scaffold would greatly startle me. Now I have changed my opinion, and can as easily lay my head on the block as on a pillow.”

After supper, which he declared should be his last meal in this world, the earl threw himself upon a bed without taking off his apparel, and while lying there with his head resting upon his right hand, he compared himself to a monument, adding:

“To-morrow I shall want a monument!”

At an early hour he arose and prayed. Before quitting Leigh he was joined by his son, Lord Strange, who attended him to Bolton.

A sad ride thither, for he was full of uneasiness as to the reception he should experience from the inhabitants.

But his anxiety was speedily relieved.

As they entered the town, which had a singularly dismal look, all the persons he beheld expressed the deepest sorrow.

Far from exulting in his death, they uttered doleful lamentations, and many called out:

“O sad day! O woful day! Shall the good Earl of Derby die here? Many sad losses have we had in the war, but none like unto this—for now the ancient honour of our country must suffer here at Bolton.”

These unlooked-for expressions of sympathy greatly consoled him, though they forced tears to his eyes.

But the scaffold was not yet completed. To inflict additional pain upon the earl, the platform on which he was to die was constructed of timber brought from Lathom House, which had been demolished after the second siege.

Not a carpenter in the town would saw a plank, strike a nail, or lend any aid whatever. Of necessity, therefore, soldiers were employed, and they were behind-hand with their work.

The ancient cross that had hitherto adorned the market-place was pulled down to make way for the hateful structure, so that the appearance of the place was greatly changed.

As the cavalcade halted, the earl exclaimed:

“Venio Domine. I am prepared to fulfil thy will. This scaffold must be my cross. Blessed Saviour, I take it up willingly, and follow thee!”

Conducted by an officer to an adjoining house, looking upon the church, he was informed that he would not be disturbed till three o’clock.

“I do not ask for the delay, sir,” said the earl, “and am quite ready now. Nevertheless, I thank you.”

Lord Strange, Mr. Baguley, Paul Moreau, and all his attendants, entered the house with him and awaited his orders.

The earl’s first request was that they should all join him in prayer. Their devotions were much disturbed by the knocking and hammering of the boards of the scaffold by the soldiers, and by the loud talk of the troopers, but in spite of these noises he prayed long and fervently.

When he arose, he retired into an inner room with his valet, Paul Moreau, and doffing his riding-dress and boots, put on silken hose, a rich velvet doublet, and a falling band edged with lace.