Sir Ro, Of Staley Hall

There was 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.

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 a warmth as of living fire about him.
All the cell seemed a-flame. Then his full senses came, and he leaped
and cried aloud for joy.

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."

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,
and dropped 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.

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.