Chapter VIII: Some Northumbrian Streams

“Come, don’t abuse our climate, and revile The crowning county of
England—yes, the best.

Have you and I, then, raced across its moors. Till horse and boy were
well-nigh mad with glee, So often, summer and winter, home from
school, And not found that out? Take the streams away, The country
would be sweeter than the South Anywhere; give the South our streams,
would it Be fit to match our Borders? Flower and crag, Burnside and
boulder, heather and whin,—you don’t Dream you can match them south
of this? And then, If all the unwatered country were as flat As the
Eton playing-fields, give it back our burns, And set them singing
through a sad South world, And try to make them dismal as its fens—
They won’t be! Bright and tawny, full of fun And storm and sunlight,
taking change and chance With laugh on laugh of triumph—why, you know
How they plunge, pause, chafe, chide across the rocks, And chuckle
along the rapids, till they breathe And rest and pant and build some
bright deep bath For happy boys to dive in, and swim up. And match
the water’s laughter.”

Northumberland is fortunate in the number of rivers which, owing to
the position of the Cheviot Hills, flow right across the county
from west to east. These Northumbrian streams have a distinct
character of their own, and are of a different breed from those of
the southern; counties. They are neither mountain torrents nor
placid leisurely rivers, such as are met elsewhere in Britain, but
busy, bright, joyous, and sparkling, never sluggish, never silent,
even when deep and full, as is the Tyne in its lower reaches. With
the Tyne and its tributary streams we have already travelled; but
there are others yet awaiting us, claiming our attention sometimes
for the romantic scenery through which they run their bright
course, sometimes for the historic sites they pass on their way,
sometimes for both reasons. Wansbeck, Coquet, Aln, or Till—each has
its own interest, as has also the Tweed in that score or so of
miles along which it can he spoken of in connection with
Northumberland.

The source of the Wansbeck, the only “beck” the county possesses,
is amongst the “Wild Hills o’ Wannys” (Wanny’s beck) a group of
picturesque sandstone crags which surround Sweethope Lough, a sheet
of water which covers 180 acres. The scenery of this upper course
of the Wansbeck is very striking, from the Lough to
Kirkwhelpington, flowing between bleak moorland and rich pasture,
and on to Littleharle Tower, which stands secluded in deep woods.

Another mansion near at hand, and most picturesquely situated, is
Wallington Hall, lying a short distance away on the north bank of
the Wansbeck. It is one of the most notable country houses in
Northumberland, and especially so on account of its unique
picture-gallery, roofed with dull glass, and containing several
series of pictures connected with Northumbrian history. One of
these is a series of frescoes by William Bell Scott, whose name was
for so many years associated with all that was best in art in
Newcastle, and whose picture of the “Building of the Castle” may be
seen at the head of the staircase in the Lit. and Phil. building.
His pictures at Wallington are:—1. The Building of the Roman Wall.
2. The visit of King Egfrid and Bishop Trumwine to St. Cuthbert on
Fame. 3. A Descent of the Danes. 4. Death of the Venerable Bede. 5.
The Charlton Spur. 6. Bernard Gilpin taking down a challenge glove
in Rothbury Church. 7. Grace Darling and her father on the way to
the wreck. 8. The Nineteenth Century—showing the High Level Bridge,
the Quayside, an Armstrong gun, etc., etc. Another series consists
of medallions and portraits of famous men connected with
Northumbrian events, from Hadrian and Severus down to George
Stephenson and others of modern times; while yet another depicts
all the incidents of “Chevy Chase.”

Some miles further eastward, the Wansbeck receives the Hart
Burn—which, by the way, is larger than the parent stream at this
point—and, a little later, the Font. The lovely little village of
Mitford, once important enough to overshadow the Morpeth of that
day, lies at the junction of Font and Wansbeck. The Mitfords of
Mitford can boast, if ever family could, of being Northumbrian of
the Northumbrians, as they were seated here before the days of the
Conqueror, who made such a general upsetting amongst the Saxon
landowners.

The beauty of the two miles walk along the banks of the Wansbeck
from here to Morpeth is not easy to surpass in all the county,
though several parts of the Coquet valley may justly compete with
it. William Howitt has left on record his admiration for this
lovely region, and said Morpeth was “more like a town in a dream”
than a reality. Especially is this so when looking at the town from
the neighbourhood of the river. Before actually reaching Morpeth
the Wansbeck waters the fair fields that once held Newminster Abbey
in its pride; now, nothing remains but an arch or so and a few
stones, to remind us of the noble abbey which Ralph de Merley built
so long ago. When only half built it was demolished by the Scots
under King David; but willing hands set to work again, and the
abbey and monastery were completed.

In the town of Morpeth, though newer buildings are stretching out
towards the outskirts, many of the ancient buildings and streets
remain, and the general aspect of this part of it is much the same
as when the Jacobites of Northumberland gathered together here, and
the clergyman, Mr. Buxton, proclaimed James III. in its Market
Place. Of Morpeth Castle, built by a De Merley soon after the
Conquest, only the gateway tower remains, but the outlines of the
original boundary walls can be clearly traced. A company of five
hundred Scots, whom Leslie had left as a garrison in 1644, held out
here for three weeks against two thousand Royalists under Montrose.
After the cannonading received during that siege, the walls were
not repaired again, and the castle fell into decay. The inhabitants
of Morpeth have a daily reminder of times yet more remote, for the
Curfew Bell still rings out over the little town every evening at
eight o’clock.

Another walk of three miles along the still beautiful banks of the
Wansbeck brings us to Bothal, another little village of great
beauty, embowered and almost hidden amongst luxuriant woods. Its
curious name is derived from the Anglo-Saxon _bottell_, a place of
abode (as in Walbottle). The name conjures up memories of the
knights of old, their loves and their fortunes, fair or disastrous;
for the best-known version of “The Hermit of Warkworth” tells us
that it was a Bertram of Bothal who was the luckless hero of that
tale, though another version avers that he belonged to the house of
Percy.

Wansbeck’s fellow stream, the Coquet, has its birth amongst some of
the wildest scenery of the Cheviot Hills, where the heights of
Deel’s Hill and Woodbist Law look down on the now silent Watling
Street and the deserted Ad Fines Camp. In its windings along the
bases of the hills it is joined by the Usway Burn, said to be named
after King Oswy, between which and the little river Alwine lies the
famous Lordship of Kidland, once desolate on account of the
thieving and raiding of its neighbours of Bedesdale and Scotland.

Hodgson, in his “Northumberland,” says of this region, “All the
said Kydlande is full of lytle hilles or mountaynes, and between
the saide hilles be dyvers valyes in which discende litle Ryvvelles
or brokes of water, spryngynge out of the said hilles and all
fallynge into a lytle Rever or broke callede Kidlande water, w’ch
fallethe into the rever of cockette nere to the towne of
alwynntonn, w’tin a myll of the castell of harbottell.” The reasons
for the desolation of Kidland are graphically set forth:—“In somer
seasons when good peace ys betwene England and Scotland,
th’inhabitantes of dyv’se townes thereaboutes repayres up with
theyr cattall in som’ynge (summering) as ys aforesaid, and so have
used to do of longe tyme. And for the pasture of theyr cattall, so
long as they would tarye there they payed for a knoweledge two pens
for a household, or a grote at the most, though they had nev’ so
many cattalles. And yet the poore men thoughte their fermes dere
enoughe. There was but fewe yeres that they escaped w’thout a
greatter losse of their goodes and cattalles, by spoyle or thefte
of the Scottes or Ryddesdale men, then would have paide for the
pasture of theyr cattail in a much better grounde. And ov’ (over,
besides) that, the saide valyes or hopes of Kidlande lyeth so
distant and devyded by mounteynes one from an other, that such as
Inhabyte in one of these hoopes, valeys, or graynes, can not heare
the Fraye outcrye, or exclamac’on of such as dwell in an other
hoope or valley upon the other side of the said mountayne, nor come
or assemble to theyr assystance in tyme of necessytie. Wherefore we
can not fynde anye of the neyghbours thereabouts wyllinge
cotynnally to Inhabyte or plenyshe w’thin the saide grounde of
Kydland, and especially in wynter tyme.”

These reasons were given by the people of “Cockdale” in the
neighbouring valley, to account for the desolation of Kidland,
which lay open on the northward to attacks from the Scots, and had
no defence on the south from the rievers of Redesdale. The
inhabitants of Coquetdale seem to have been a right valiant and
hardy fraternity, honest and fearless, well able to give good blows
in defence of their possessions, for it is left on record that “the
people of the said Cock-dayle be best p’pared for defence and most
defensyble people of themselfes, and of the truest and best sorte
of anye that do Inhabyte, endlonge, the frounter or border of the
said mydle m’ches of England.” The traces of these days of raid and
foray are to be found in abundance all over Coquetdale, as indeed
all over Northumberland, in pele-tower and barmkyn, fortified
dwelling and bastle house.

Harbottle Castle would have a good deal to tell, could it only
speak, of siege and assault from the day when, “with the aid of the
whole county of Northumberland and the bishopric of Durham,” it was
built by Henry II., until, after the Union of the Crowns, it shared
the fate of many of the Border strongholds, and fell into gradual
decay, or was used as a quarry from which to draw building material
for new and modern mansions. At Rothbury, a pele-tower has formed
the dwelling of the Vicars of that town from the time that any
mention of Whitton Tower is to be found, it being first noticed as
“Turris de Whitton, iuxta Rothebery.” Rothbury itself occupies
quite the finest situation of any of the Northumbrian towns.
Others, besides it, lie on the banks of a pretty river; others,
too, possess fair meadows and rich pastures; but none other has the
combination of these attractive features with the finer
surroundings of hill, crag, and moorland as picturesquely beautiful
as those of Rothbury. In the old church here Bernard Gilpin, “the
Apostle of the North,” often preached; and even the fierce rival
factions of the Borderland were so influenced by the gentle, yet
fearless preacher, that they consented to forego their usual
pleasure of “drawing” whenever they met one of a rival family, at
least so long as Gilpin dwelt among them, and especially to refrain
from showing their hostility in church.

There are in Coquetdale, as elsewhere, memorials of the ancient
British days in the many camps to be found on the summits of the
hills near the town, on Tosson Hill and the Simonside Hills; and
not camps only, but barrows, cist-vaens, and flint weapons in
considerable numbers. The magnificent view to be obtained, on a
clear day, from Tosson Hill or the Simonsides is one to be
remembered; to the west and north stretch the vales of Coquet and
Alwin, with the rolling heights of the Cheviots bounding them;
northward are the woods surrounding Biddlestone Hall, the
“Osbaldistone Hals” of Scot’s _Rob Roy_, awakening memories of Di
Vernon; far to the eastward a faint blue haze denotes the distant
coastline; while southward, over the dales of Rede and Tyne, the
smoke of industrial Tyneside lies on the horizon, with the spires
and towers of Newcastle showing faintly against the heights of the
Durham side of the Tyne.

One of the chief sights of Rothbury is the beautiful mansion of
Cragside and the wonderful valley of Debdon and Crag Hill, as
transformed by the first Lord Armstrong into a paradise of beauty,
where art and nature are so blended as to make a romantically
artistic whole. Another lovely spot on the banks of Coquet is at
Brinkburn, where the famous Priory stands almost hidden at the foot
of thickly wooded slopes. A very much larger portion of this fine
Priory is still standing than is the case with many other religious
houses of the same age, for it dates from the reign of Henry I. The
story is told of Brinkburn as well as of Blanchland, that a party
of marauding Scots on one of their forays passed by the Priory
without discovering it in its leafy bower; and so overjoyed were
the monks at their escape that they incautiously rang the bells by
way of showing their delight. The Scots, who had passed out of
sight but not out of hearing, immediately returned on their tracks,
and, guided by the joyful peal, reached the Priory, sacked the
buildings, and then set them on fire. It may well be that the
tragedy occurred at both places, on different occasions.

Farther eastward down the Coquet are two places pre-eminently noted
as centres for the sport for which the river is famed above all
other Northumbrian streams, though some of them are worthy rivals.
These two places are Weldon Bridge and Felton; the old Angler’s Inn
at the first-named is a favourite rendezvous of the fraternity of
rod and creel. Fishermen have long known the fascination of these
two places, and I quote from the “Fisherman’s Garland” two stanzas
written by two enthusiastic anglers in praise of them. The writers
are Robert Roxby and Thomas Doubleday.
“But we’ll awa’ to Coquetside, For Coquet bangs them a’; Whose
winding streams sae sweetly glide By Brinkburn’s bonny Ha’!”
_Written in 1821_
“The Coquet for ever, the Coquet for aye! The _Woodhall_ and _Weldon_
and _Felton_ so gay, And _Brinkburn_ and _Linden_, wi’ a’ their sweet
pride, For they add to the beauty of dear Coquetside.”
_Written in 1826_

Felton, a charmingly placed little village, on the banks of the
river where they are overhung by graceful woods, and diversified by
cliff and grassy slope, stands just where the great North Road
crosses the Coquet. By reason of this position it has been the
scene of one or two events of historical interest, notably those
connected with the “Fifteen” and the “Forty-five.” On the former
occasion, the gallant young Earl of Derwentwater, with his
followers, was joined here by a band of seventy gentlemen from the
Borders, and they rode on to Morpeth to proclaim James III. And
thirty years later, the soldiers of George II. passed over the
bridge from the southward, led by the Duke of Cumberland, and
pressed on towards the Scottish moor where they dealt the final
blow to the Stuart cause at Culloden. The interesting old church at
Felton, dating from the thirteenth century, is well worth a visit.
After leaving Felton behind, the Coquet enters on the most marked
windings of all its winding course, until, when it enters the sea
at Warkworth Harbour, just opposite Coquet Island, it has contrived
to lengthen out its journey to a distance of forty miles.

The bright clear stream of the Aln also begins its short journey
across Northumberland from the heights of Cheviot, but in the
narrower northern portion of the county. Alnham, with its
pele-tower Vicarage, ancient church, and memories of a castle,
stands just at the foot of the hills, near the source of the river.
Some three or four miles eastward along its banks, a walk through
leafy woods brings us to Whittingham—the final syllable of which,
by the way, one pronounces as “jam,” as one does that of nearly all
the other place-names ending in “ing-ham” in Northumberland,
contrary though it be to etymological considerations—excepting,
curiously enough, Chillingham, situated in the very midst of all
the others. The “ing” and “ham” are in themselves a historical
guide to the days in which the various villages received their
names, these two syllables being a certain indication of a Saxon
settlement, the “home of the sons, or descendants of” whatever
person the first syllable indicates. Thus, Edlingham, only a few
miles away, is the “home or settlement of the sons of Eadwulf”;
Ellingham, the “home of the sons of Ella,” and so on. How the
“Whitt” syllable was spelled we do not know; most probably Hwitta
or Hwitha—for all our _wh’s_ were _hw_ originally—_hwaet, hwa,
hwaether_ and so forth.

This ancient village is in these days a charming and peaceful
place, lying in the midst of rich meadow lands, and surrounded by
magnificent trees. It had its romances, too, in the course of
years; so long ago as the days of the early Danish invasions a
certain widow in Whittingham, in the reign of King Alfred, had no
less a person than a Danish prince among her slaves; he was
ransomed, however, and made king of the Danes in the North, in
consequence of a vision in which St. Cuthbert had directed the
Abbot of Carlisle to see this done. Young Prince Guthred’s
gratitude showed itself in a substantial grant of land to St.
Cuthbert at Durham. Whittingham Church is supposed to have been
founded by the Saxon king Ceolwulf, whose acquaintance we have
already made at Holy Island, and he bestowed the lands of
Whittingham on the church at Lindisfarne. It still shows some of
the original Saxon work at the base of the tower, and much more was
to be seen before the so-called “restoration” of the church in
1840. The pele-tower on the south side of the river, after its days
of storm and stress are over, still serves as a shelter in time of
need, for it is now used as an almshouse for the poor of the
village, a former Lady Ravensworth having originated the quaint
idea and seen it carried out.

Whittingham Fair, now Whittingham Sports, a well-known rendezvous
of the whole countryside, has lost some of its former splendour,
but is still looked forward to with great enjoyment in the
surrounding district. The old coaching road from Newcastle to
Edinburgh passed through the village, crossing the Aln by the stone
bridge, from whence it went on through Glanton and Wooler to
Cornhill.

In the vale of Whittingham, the little Aln flows placidly along,
its waters murmuring a soothing refrain, a peaceful interlude
between its busy bustling beginning and its ending. Before reaching
Alnwick it flows past the ancient walls of Hulne Abbey, the
monastery of Carmelite friars so romantically founded by the
Northumbrian knight and monk after his visit to the monastery on
Mount Carmel. A considerable portion of the ancient building is
still standing, and few sites chosen by the old monks, who had an
unerring eye for beauty as well as safety and convenience in their
choice of abode, can surpass this one, surrounded by fair meadows,
and standing on the green hill-side, with the rippling Aln flowing
through the levels below. In Hulne Park is also the Brislee Tower,
erected by the first Duke of Northumberland in 1781, on the top of
Brislee Hill.

Alnwick itself, with its quaint, uneven, narrow streets, and grey
stone houses, looks the part of a Border town even in these days;
and the grim old Hotspur tower, bestriding the main street like an
ancient warrior still on guard, helps to give the illusion an air
of reality. The tower, however, was not built by Hotspur, but by
his son. The names of the streets, too, are redolent of the days
when the only safety for the inhabitants of a town worth plundering
lay in the strength of its walls and gateways. Bondgate,
Bailiffgate, and Narrowgate, still speak of the days of siege and
sortie, of fierce attack and stout defence.

The magnificent castle which dominates the town stands majestically
at the top of a green slope above the Aln, its vast array of walls
and towers far along the ridge, fronting the North as though still
looking, albeit with a seemingly languid interest, for the coming
of the Scots who were such inveterate foes of its successive lords.
The principal entrance, however, the Barbican, faces southwards to
the town, and here the massive gateway, with portcullis complete,
and crowned by quaint life-size figures of warriors in various
attitudes of defence, conveys the impression that the huge giant is
still alert and on guard. The history of Alnwick is the history of
the castle and its lords, from the days of Gilbert Tyson, variously
known as Tison, Tisson, and De Tesson, one of the Conqueror’s
standardbearers, upon whom this northern estate was bestowed, until
the present time. After being held by the family of De Vesci (of
which the modern rendering is Vasey—a name found all over
south-east Northumberland) for over two hundred years, it passed
into the hands of the house of Percy. The Percies, who hailed from
the village of Perce in Normandy, had large estates in Yorkshire,
bestowed by the Conqueror on the first of the name to arrive in
England in his train. The family, however, was represented by an
heiress only in the reign of Henry II., whose second wife, a
daughter of the Duke of Brabant, thought this heiress, with her
wide possessions, a suitable match for her own young half-brother
Joceline of Louvain. The marriage took place; and thereafter
followed the long line of Henry Percies (Henry being a favourite
name of the Counts of Louvain) who played such a large part in the
history of both England and Scotland; for, as nearly every Percy
was a Warden of the Marches, Scottish doings concerned them more or
less intimately—indeed, often more so than English affairs.

It was the third Henry Percy who purchased Alnwick in 1309 from
Antony Bec, Bishop of Durham and guardian of the last De Vesci, and
from that time the fortunes of the Percies, though they still held
their Yorkshire estates, were linked permanently with the little
town on the Aln, and the fortress which alike commanded and
defended it. The fourth Henry Percy began to build the castle as we
see it now; but to call him “the fourth” is a little confusing, as
he was the second Henry Percy, Lord of Alnwick. On the whole, it
will be clearer to begin the enumerations of the various Henry
Percies from the time they became Lords of Alnwick. It was, then,
Henry Percy the second, Lord of Alnwick, who began the re-building
of the castle; he also was jointly responsible for the safety of
the realm during the absence of Edward III. in the French wars, and
in this official capacity, no less than in that of a Border baron
whose delight it was to exchange lusty blows with an ever-ready
foe, he helped to win the battle of Neville’s Cross. His son,
Henry, married a sister of John of Gaunt, and their son, the next
Henry Percy, was that friend who stood John Wycliffe in such good
stead, when he was cited to appear before the Bishop of London.
Henry Percy, who had been made Earl Marshal of England, and the
Duke of Lancaster took their places one on each side of Wycliffe,
and accompanied him to St. Paul’s, clearing a way for him through
the crowd. It does not belong to this story to tell how their
private quarrels with the Bishop prevented Wycliffe’s
interrogation, and how he left the Cathedral without having uttered
a word; we are concerned at the moment with his North-country
friend, who, the same year, was created Earl of Northumberland,
which title he was given after the coronation of Richard II. Nor
was this all, for he was that Northumberland whose doings in the
next reign fill so large a part of Shakespeare’s Henry IV., and he
was the father of the most famous Percy of all, the gallant Henry
Percy the fifth, better known as “Harry Hotspur.” Hotspur never
became Earl of Northumberland, being slain at Shrewsbury in the
lifetime of his father, whose estates were forfeited under
attainder on account of the rebellion of himself and his son
against King Henry IV.

King Henry V. restored Hotspur’s son, the second Earl, to his
family honours, and the Percies were staunch Lancastrians during
the Wars of the Roses which followed, the third Earl and three of
his brothers losing their lives in the cause. The fifth Earl was a
gorgeous person whose magnificence equalled, almost, that of
royalty. Henry Percy, the sixth Earl of Northumberland, loved Ann
Boleyn, and was her accepted suitor before King Henry VIII.
unfortunately discovered the lady’s charm, and interfered in a
highhanded “bluff King Has” fashion, and young Percy lost his
prospective bride. He had no son, although married later to the
daughter of the Earl of Shrewsbury, and his nephew, Thomas Percy,
became the seventh Earl.

Thereafter, a succession of plots and counterplots—the Rising of
the North, the plots to liberate Mary Queen of Scots, and the
Gunpowder Plot—each claimed a Percy among their adherents. On this
account the eighth and ninth Earls spent many years in the Tower,
but the tenth Earl, Algernon, fought for King Charles in the Civil
War, the male line of the Percy-Louvain house ending with
Josceline, the eleventh Earl. The heiress to the vast Percy estates
married the Duke of Somerset; and her grand-daughter married a
Yorkshire knight, Sir Hugh Smithson, who in 1766 was created the
first Duke of Northumberland and Earl Percy, and it is their
descendants who now represent the famous old house.

At various points in the town are memorials of the constant wars
between Percies and Scots in which so many Percies spent the
greater part of their lives. At the side of the broad shady road
called Rotten Row, leading from the West Lodge to Bailiffgate, a
tablet of stone marks the spot where William the Lion of Scotland
was captured as we have already seen, in 1174, by Odinel de
Umfraville and his friends; and there are many others of similar
interest.

Within the park, approached by the gate at the foot of Canongate,
is the fine gateway which is all that is left of Alnwick Abbey. No
more peaceful spot could have been found than this, on the level
greensward, surrounded by fine trees which shelter it on all sides
save one, and near the brink of the little Aln, whose banks are
thickly covered with wild flowers, while the steep slope on the
opposite side of the river is overhung with shady woods. The extent
of the parks may be judged from the fact that the enclosing wall is
about five miles long. At the foot of Bailiffgate, on the edge of a
steep ridge above the descent to Canongate and the banks of the
river, the ancient parish church, dedicated to St. Mary and St.
Michael stands in a commanding position. The present building dates
from the fourteenth century, and occupies the site of an earlier
one, whose few remaining stones have been built into the present
structure. Two other reminders of long-past days are to be found in
Alnwick; one is the large stone in the Market Place to which the
bull ring used to be fixed in the days when bull-baiting and
bear-baiting took place; and the other, a relic of days still
further back in the distant years, is the sounding of the Curfew
Bell, which is still rung here every evening at eight o’clock.
Altogether there is the quaintest and most unexpected mingling of
the ancient and modern in the little feudal town.

Between Alnwick and the sea, the Aln winds its way past Alnmouth
Station, formerly known as Bilton Junction, and past Lesbury, a
pretty little tree-shaded village, to the sandy flats by Alnmouth
where it ends its journey in the North Sea.

The Till, by whose side we shall next wander, flows in the opposite
direction, for that historic stream is a tributary of “Tweed’s fair
river, broad and deep,” and curves from the Cheviots round to the
North-west, where it enters the larger stream at Tillmouth. It
begins life as the Breamish, tumbling down the slopes of Cushat Law
within sight of all the giants of the Cheviot range. The Linhope
Burn, a fellow traveller down these steep hillsides, forms in its
course the Linhope Spout, one of the largest waterfalls to be found
amongst the Cheviots, before it joins the Breamish, which then
flows through a country of green slopes and grassy levels to
Ingram. This village possesses an old church with massive square
tower and windows which suggest the fortress rather than the
church. The heights which stretch eastward from the Cheviots and
bound the valley of the Till add not a little to the beauty and
variety of the scenery in this district.

The little stream, which turns northward near Glanton railway
station, moves on in loops and windings past Beanley, which Earl
Gospatric held in former days by virtue of the curious office of
being a kind of official mediator between the monarchs of England
and Scotland when they came to blows; and past Bewick, with its
little Norman church buried from sight amongst leafy trees. The
effigy of a lady in the chancel of this church is said to be that
of Matilda, wife of Henry I. This is the more likely in that the
lands of Bewick formed part of her dowry, and were given by her to
the monks of Tynemouth Priory. At Bewick Bridge the little stream
ceases to be the Breamish, and becomes the Till; as an old rhyme
has it—
“The foot of Breamish, and head of Till, Meet together at Bewick
Mils”

Some miles to the northward, the Till reaches the little village of
Chatton, having, on the way, passed a little to the westward of
Chillingham Castle and Park, where is the famous herd of wild
cattle. Roscastle, a craggy height covered with heather, stands at
the edge of the chase, and looks over a wild and romantic scene of
moorland and pastureland, deep glens and heathery hills. The
Vicarage at Chatton is another of those north-country vicarages in
which an old pele-tower forms part of the modern residence. On the
top of Chatton Law is an ancient British encampment, with inscribed
circles similar to those on Bewick Hill.

From Chatton, the loops and windings of the Till grow more
insistent, and the little stream adds miles to its length by reason
of its frequent doubling on its tracks; this, however, but gives an
added charm to the landscape, as the silvery gleams of the winding
river come unexpectedly into view again and again. It flows on
through Glendale, with which attractive region we have already made
acquaintance; and on its banks are the two prettiest villages in
Northumberland—Ford and Etal.

Ford Castle, as seen at the present day, is chiefly modern, but the
northwest tower is part of the old fortress of Odenel de Forde,
which experienced so many vicissitudes in its time. One of the most
famous owners of Ford Castle was Sir William Heron, who married
Odenel’s daughter, and who held the responsible and troublesome
office of High Sheriff of Northumberland for eleven years, besides
being Captain of Bamburgh and Warden of the northern forests. The
castle was burnt down by James IV. of Scotland just before the
battle of Flodden, which was not by any means the only time in its
career that it was demolished, entirely or in part, and restored
again.

In the village of Ford, the walls of the schoolroom are decorated
by a series of pictures of the children of Scripture story, for
whose portrayal it is said the Marchioness of Waterford, the
artist, took the village children as models. The late Vicar of
Ford, the Rev. Hastings Neville, has laid all who are interested in
the rural life of Northumberland, and the quaint and traditional
manners and customs of the North-country which are so fast
disappearing, under the greatest obligation to him for his
interesting and entirely delightful little book, “A Corner in the
North.” Historical records, and matters of business, ownerships,
etc., connected with any special area can always be turned up for
reference when required; but the manner of speech, the customs of
daily life, the quaint survivals of former usages and
half-forgotten lore, being entirely dependent on individual memory
and oral tradition, only too often disappear before any adequate
record can be made. Hence it is a matter for congratulation that
such a book should have been written.

Etal, Ford’s pretty neighbour, also boasts a castle, built only two
years after that of Ford and by the same masons. A considerable
portion of the ruins remains, but, unlike Ford Castle, it was never
restored after James the Fourth’s drastic handling of it, but was
left to decay. Opposite Ford and Etal, on the left bank of the
Till, is Pallinsburn House, referred to in another chapter, and the
village of Crookham; and beyond the woods of Pallinsburn, Flodden
ridge, with its memories of the disastrous field on which James was
slain.

The mansion house of Tillmouth Park, owned by Sir Francis Blake, is
built of stones from the ruins of Twizell Castle, on the northern
bank of the Till; the castle was begun by a former Sir Francis
Blake but never finished. Between the two buildings the Berwick
Road crosses the Till by Twizell Bridge, over which Surrey marched
his men southward on the morning of Flodden. Not far from this
bridge, to the westward, is St. Helen’s Well, alluded to by Scott
in his account of the battle, in “Marmion”—
“Many a chief of birth and rank, St. Helen, at thy fountain drank.”

Sibyl’s well, from which Lady Clare brought water to moisten the
lips of the dying Marmion, is beside the little church at Branxton.
Tillmouth, however, has older memories still; for it was to the
little chapel there that St. Cuthbert’s body floated in its stone
coffin from Melrose, dating the course of its seven years’
wandering, ere it found a final rest at Durham.
“From sea to sea, from shore to shore, Seven years Saint Cuthbert’s
corpse they bore They rested them in fair Melrose, But though alive
he loved it well Not there his relics might repose, For, wondrous
tale to tell, In his stone coffin forth he glides, A ponderous bark
for river tides, Yet light as gossamer it glides Downward to
Tillmouth cell.

Chester-le-Street and Ripon saw His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw Hailed
it with joy and fear; Till, after many wanderings past, He chose his
lordly seat at last Where his cathedral, huge and vast, Looks down
upon the Wear.”
_Sir W. Scott_—MARMION.

The “stone coffin” was boat-shaped, “ten feet long, three feet and
a half in diameter, and only four inches thick, so that, with very
little assistance, it might certainly have swum; it still lies, or
at least did so a few years ago, in two pieces, beside the ruined
chapel at Tilmouth.”—_Sir W. Scott’s Notes to “Marmion.”_

Three or four miles from Tillmouth, south-westward up the valley of
the Tweed, and just beyond Cornhill, lies the village of Wark, near
which the remains of the famous Border castle are still standing.
The castle was built on a stony ridge of detritus called the
_Kaim_, which stretches from Wark village towards Carham. In the
reign of Henry I. all those who owned land in the North were
seemingly animated simultaneously by a lively desire to secure
their Borders; Bishop Flambard began to build Norham Castle,
Eustace Fitz-John, husband of Beatrice de Vesci, built the greater
part of Alnwick Castle, and Walter Espic raised the mighty
fortress, the great “Wark” or work (A.S. _were_ or _weare_) on the
steep ridge above Tweed, in “his honour (seignieury) of Carham.”

From that time the castle of Wark went through a greater succession
of sieges, assaults, burnings, surrenders, demolitions, and
restorations than any other place in England, except, perhaps,
Norham Castle or Berwick-upon-Tweed. In an age and situation where
hard blows given and returned, desperate adventures and equal
chances of life or death were the common-places of everyday
existence, Wark was probably the place where these excitements were
to be had oftener than anywhere else.

The romantic episode which gave rise to the establishment of the
Order of the Garter is generally allowed to have taken place at
Wark Castle. The young king of Scotland, David Bruce, had “ridden a
raid” into England, and ravaged and plundered on his way as far as
Auckland, after having burnt the town of Alnwick, amongst others,
but having been repulsed before the castle. King Edward III. was at
Stamford when he heard of the invasion; but hurrying northward he
reached Newcastle in four days. The Scots, retreating before him,
passed Wark Castle, which was held by the Countess of Salisbury and
her nephew, in the absence of her husband. The young man was loth
to let so much English booty be carried off under his very eyes, so
he fell upon the rearguard, and succeeded in bringing a number of
packhorses to the castle. On this the whole Scottish array turned
back, and a siege of the castle began; but the Countess spiritedly
held out, and Edward meanwhile drew nearer. Some of the Scotsmen
were captured, and from them the Countess’s nephew heard that
Edward had reached Alnwick. He stole out of the castle before
dawning in heavy rain, to let the King know where his help was
urgently needed; and by noon of the same day Edward was at Wark,
only to find his quarry flown, the Scots having retreated a few
hours earlier. The King was joyfully received and thanked by the
grateful Countess; and he in his turn was much struck by the beauty
and grace of the high-spirited lady, and showed his admiration
plainly. In the evening, according to tradition, a ball was held,
at which the incident occurred, so often related, of the accidental
losing of her garter by the fair chatelaine, and the restoration of
it by the King, with the remark, as a rebuke to the smiling
bystanders,—“_Honi soit qui mal y pense._” This he afterwards
adopted as the motto of the Order he established in honour of the
beautiful Countess.

The Garter is the most exclusive of Orders, and consists of the
reigning Sovereign and twenty-five Companions, of whom the Prince
of Wales is always one; and it takes precedence of all other
titles, ranking next to royalty. It is a matter of great pride to
all Northumbrians that perhaps the only instance of its having been
bestowed on any except a peer of the realm or a foreign Sovereign,
has occurred recently in the bestowal of the coveted decoration on
Sir Edward Grey, a member of the ancient and important Northumbrian
house of that name.

Every King of England from Henry I. to Henry IV., seems to have
been at Wark at some time during his reign, with the exception of
Richard Coeur-de-Lion and Richard II. After the Union of the
Crowns, Wark, like most other fortresses in the north that were not
in use as the dwellings of their owners, was allowed to fall into
decay. From Wark to Carham is a walk of only two miles along the
road which follows the course of the river, and ultimately leads to
Kelso. Carham has the remains of an ancient monastery; and here the
Danes, after having plundered Lindisfarne, fought a battle in which
the Saxons, led by several Bishops, were defeated with great
slaughter. From Carham, having reached the last point of interest
on the Tweed within the Northumbrian border, we must retrace our
steps to Tillmouth, and follow the Tweed through pasture land and
level haughs, until we come in sight of the steep cliffs and
overhanging woods by Norham Castle.

Naturally here, the words of the opening canto of “Marmion” are
recalled to our memory—
“Day set on Norham’s castled steep, On Tweed’s fair river, broad and
deep, And Cheviot’s mountains lone The battled towers, the donjon
keep, The loophole grates, where captives weep, The flanking walls
that round it sweep, In yellow lustre shone.”

The “castled steep” is still crowned by a massive fragment of the
old fortress that has braved, in its time, so many days of storm
and stress. A good deal of the curtain wall, too, is standing, and
the natural defences of the castle are admirable, for a deep ravine
on the east and the river with its steep banks on the south made it
practically unassailable at these points. It was built in 1121, as
we have seen, by Bishop Flambard of Durham, as a defence for the
northern portions of his diocese. The necessity for its presence
there was soon made apparent, for it was attacked by the Scots
again and again; and by the time thirty years had passed. Bishop
Pudsey found it necessary to strengthen it greatly. When Edward I.
was called to arbitrate between the claimants to the Scottish
throne, he came to Norham and met the rival nobles, who, with their
followers, were quartered at Ladykirk, on the opposite side of the
Tweed. It was known as Upsettlington then, however; the name of
Ladykirk was bestowed upon it long afterwards, when James IV. built
the little chapel there, in gratitude for an escape from drowning
in the Tweed. Edward held his interview with the Scottish nobles in
Norham church, and announced that he had come there in the
character of lord paramount, and as such was prepared to make
choice of one among them. Edward did not by any means make up his
mind quickly, and the various places in which the successive acts
in the affair took place are widely scattered, for he met the
nobles at Norham, some time afterwards delivered his decision at
Berwick, and finally received the homage of John Balliol at
Newcastle.

Norham, like Wark, has also its romantic episode—or rather, an
episode more conspicuously so in a series of them to which the name
might with justice be applied. It occurred during the time that Sir
Thomas Gray was holding the castle against a determined blockade of
it by the Scots in 1318. A certain fair lady of Lincolnshire sent
one of her maidens to a knight whom she loved, Sir William Marmion
(whose name probably suggested to Sir Walter Scott the name for the
hero of his tale of Norham and Flodden). Sir William was at a
banquet when the maiden came before him bearing a helmet with a
golden crest, together with a letter from his lady bidding him go
“into the daungerust place in England, and there to let the heaulme
be seene and knowen as famose.” Evidently it was well known where
“the daungerust place in England” was to be found, for the story
laconically says “So he went to Norham.” He had not been there more
than a day or two when a band of nearly two hundred Scots, bold and
expert horsemen, led by Philip de Mowbray, made an attack on the
castle, rousing Sir Thomas and his garrison from their dinner. They
quickly mounted, and were about to sally forth when Sir Thomas
caught sight of Marmion, in rich armour, and on his head the helmet
with the golden crest; and halting his men, he cried out, “Sir
knight, ye be come hither as a knight-errant to fame your helm; and
since deeds of chivalry should rather be done on horseback than on
foot, mount up on your horse, and spur him like a valiant knight
into the midst of your enemies here at hand, and I forsake God if I
rescue not thy body dead or alive, or I myself will die for it.” At
this Marmion mounted and spurred towards the Scots, by whom he was
instantly set upon, wounded, and dragged from the saddle. But
before they had time to give him the final blow they were scattered
by the rapid charge of Sir Thomas and his men, who quickly rescued
Marmion and set him on his horse again; and using their lances
against the horses of the Scots, caused many of them to throw their
riders, while the rest galloped away. The women of the castle
caught fifty of the riderless horses, on which more of the garrison
mounted and joined in the pursuit of the flying Scots, whom they
chased nearly to Berwick.

The tables were sometimes turned, however; and on one of these
occasions the valiant Sir Thomas Gray and his son were enticed out
of the castle into an ambush laid for them by their foes, and both
captured.

In 1513, just before the battle of Flodden, its walls were at
length laid low by James IV., but not until the famous cannon “Mons
Meg”—still, I believe, to be seen at Edinburgh Castle—had been
brought against it. One of the cannon-balls fired from “Mons Meg”
was found, and is still kept with others at the Castle. It is said
that the Scots were told of the weakest spot in the fortifications
by a treacherous inmate of the castle, who doubtless expected a
rich reward for his information. Indeed, the ballad of “Flodden”
says he came for it; but the valiant and chivalrous king would give
him no reward but that which he said every traitor deserved—a rope.

Afterwards the castle was restored once more, but its more stirring
days were over; and, to-day, it stands a shattered but dignified
ruin, overlooking the tranquil river and peaceful woodlands which
once echoed so continuously to the clash of arms and the shouts of
besiegers and besieged.

The village of Norham was in Saxon days known as Ubbanford—the
Upper Ford of two that were available in those days on the Tweed.
There was a church here, too, in Saxon times, for Bishop Ecfrid
built one about the year 830, and in it was buried the Saxon king
Ceolwulf who became a monk: the present church has a good deal
remaining of the one built on the same site by Bishop Flambard,
about the same time as the castle. Earl Gospatric, whom William the
Conqueror made Earl of Northumberland in return for a considerable
sum of money—doubtless thinking that to give a Northumbrian the
Earldom would reconcile the North to his rule—is buried in the
church porch. Gospatric joined in the resistance of the North to
William, but returned to his allegiance later. The Market Cross of
Norham stands on the original base.

From Norham to Tweedmouth the river sweeps forward between
picturesque ever-widening banks, and often hidden by a leafy
screen, past the village of Horncliffe, beneath the Union
Suspension Bridge, one of the first erected of its kind, until at
length its bright waters lave the historic walls of
Berwick-upon-Tweed, and in the quiet harbour there meet the
inrushing tide from the North Sea.