Bedfordshire Folk Tales E-Book

Jen Foley

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 278

Beschreibung

Storyteller and author Jen Foley brings together stories from the dark forests, ruined castles and magical green pastureland of Bedfordshire. In this treasure trove of tales you will meet Anglo-Saxon heroines and lascivious monks, as well as restless ghosts, conniving highwaymen, demons and witches – all as fantastical and powerful as the landscape they inhabit. Retelling each story in her engaging style, and richly illustrated with unique line drawings, these humorous, clever and enchanting folk tales are sure to be enjoyed and shared time and again.

Leseprobe

For my Uncle John,

one of the best and funniest storytellersI’ve ever known, and loving to the last.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you to Liz Pieksma, Keeper of Archaeology and Lydia Saul, Keeper of Social History at The Higgins, Bedford, and to the staff at the Bedfordshire Archive for their patience and attention to detail. Also to Aragon Lace Makers for their skill and hospitality.

Thank you to Tony Hunt, my illustrator, for his skill, expertise and patience. His illustrations have brought the stories to life.

Finally I am grateful to Fibs and Fables storytelling group, who introduced me to the wonderful world of oral storytelling and to everyone who read my stories and kept me going whilst I put the stories down on paper.

CONTENTS

Title

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Introduction

1    The Flaming Gibbet of Galley Hill

2    The Three Highwaymen

3    The Mai Dun

4    Brotherhood

5    A True Tale

6    Young Susan

7    The Little Blue Man

8    Till I See You Again

9    The Matchmaker

10    The Dunstable Swan Jewel

11    A Witch in a Bottle

12    Sir Rowland Alston’s Soul

13    Saint Cyneburga

14    Lace

15    The Devil’s Favourite Game

16    Finding the Source

17    Witches

18    Saint Christina

19    Leather Breeches

20    The Giant of the Five Knolls

21    Murder in Flitwick Woods

22    Dorothy Osborne

23    The Courtship of Edith

24    Gossip

25    The Roll of Honour

26    The Merry Monk

27    The Silent Sentinels

Bibliography

About the Author and Illustrator

Copyright

INTRODUCTION

These stories are those of ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances throughout the centuries. These are not just the stories of lords and ladies, but of invaders, travellers, yeomen, highwaymen and saints.

The county of Bedfordshire has been described as unassuming and modest but that is deceptive. The chalk downs, the clay vales, and the ridges provide a rich setting for Bedfordshire’s folklore past. Many of its treasures are found at the end of an obscure path or by opening a gate to enter seemingly unassuming church grounds.

Tales have been told to explain ghostly presences, the scenery, and the history of Bedfordshire. Whether it be snippets of talk in town or round-the-fire sessions at the farm, the people of Bedfordshire have always enjoyed a good yarn, embellishing and entertaining. The emerging folk tales reflect the ingenuity and the creativity of its people.

Jen Foley, 2015

1

THE FLAMING GIBBETOF GALLEY HILL

John rubbed his forehead anxiously, taking off his glasses and staring at the figures dancing in front of his dazed eyes. The door behind him was closed and beyond that he could hear the sound of his children’s muffled giggling as they slid down the banisters. He smiled to himself, thinking about the onrush of children since his marriage, which was why he was here, looking at figures written on crisp white paper. They were not giving a pretty picture. Maybe he should think about the proposition that had been made to him, but that was risky and illegal. With a sigh, he shut the book and closed the study door behind him, going to join the rest of his family. There was a squeal of delight from Jack and Maisie as he pretended to be shocked and chased them down the stairs.

John was a Luton merchant. When he had fallen in love, he had fallen quick and fast, and promised himself that he would let his wife have whatever she wanted. Adjusting his cuffs, he strode towards his warehouse, but he couldn’t stop mulling over the effect that the other merchants’ wives were having on his debts. His wife expected him to buy whatever they had and he had done nothing to stop that expectation. While she was happy, deliriously so, he knew that they faced bankruptcy and that all their fine things – their private possessions, their beds and their clothes – would then be sold publicly in the market place. Their lives on show.

When he reached his warehouse he pulled open the gates to the tang of street smells masked by the fresh scent of straw. He barely registered the smells, however, he was so deeply lost in thought. Talking with his foreman later in the morning, an idea started to crystallise. He was used to organising the arrival and despatch of goods but, because of taxes, the profit was thin. Why not put his experience to good use? The problem with that had always been storage. His wife might not be worldly but even she would start to ask questions if their cellar was full of barrels of whiskey and boxes of tea. A constant chameleon, she described herself as a realist, a pragmatist, hard-headed or sensitive, it really depended on the company she was with at the time. Yet he nevertheless felt a tug of protectiveness. He would shield her from the threat of bankruptcy. With a bit of subterfuge and smart-talking, he had found the perfect way of keeping smuggled goods. It was so deliciously ironic; he would fool Luton’s townspeople with their own superstition. He hadn’t been to church for years but he thought of praying now and thanking God. But then he didn’t know what was to come.

In September, the talk began. For years there had been stories of a duke who had failed to support his ally in the Cousins’ War and paid for it with his life in the grounds of Someries Castle. Now there were signs that his ghost had been reawakened. There were rumours aplenty of sightings of dragons, dead animals found in the grounds of the castle and strange noises in the middle of the night. Soon local people started to avoid the area, especially at night.

It was one of John’s great joys in life to ask locals about the strange drumming heard from Someries, knowing that his men would simultaneously be moving barrels of whiskey from wagons and drumming in the ruins to keep away locals. The castle was abandoned a couple of decades ago and partially demolished. The crumbling pockmarked walls offered little protection against the elements but some rooms remained complete. Together with the warren of underground tunnels and basements, John had plenty of space to store the whiskey, tea and silk that the townspeople of Luton craved. There were even arrow-slits, originally built for dramatic effect, which his men used to survey the surroundings.

Over the next couple of months, magistrates started to notice that tea and silk had become much more available in the town. In one part of town, a rather bulky woman knocked politely on the door of the local drapers. With the minimum of noise, the draper’s wife let her in. Both women proceeded upstairs to a storeroom where the bulky woman took off her outer dress and then lifted up her arms. This was the signal for the shopkeeper to grasp the end of the length of material that had been coiled around the other woman. As she spun, the shopkeeper released the silk and scooped it up into the air. Like butterflies suddenly taking flight, the air was now ablaze with colour and movement, and both women were quite giddy with the sight of all this luxury floating around them. In another part of town, a lady in wide skirts visited the grocer. She was ushered into one of the back rooms and quickly took off her skirt, revealing petticoats with pockets sewn into them. Quickly the pair moved the tea from the pockets into one of the wooden drawers. As the lady left the grocer’s wife rubbed her hands together with glee. The ladies in elegant drawing rooms, sipping tea from fragile bone-china cups, would pay a pretty price for this tea.

Thus began the halcyon days, when the living was easy. No one was hurt, the shopkeepers had whiskey, tea, silk and tobacco at a reasonable price and everyone in the smuggling chain benefited. John’s family got whatever they hinted they wanted and his wife never needed to worry about keeping up with her set of friends. The method of distribution seemed unassailable because of its inventiveness. The customs men were just as superstitious as the townspeople and so would never explore the castle, and they were looking for barrels and boxes in the distribution rather than women. Everything was going well until a new man joined them.

The slight man seemed harmless at first. He looked as if he would collapse at the slightest weight, and indeed he was never given the job of carrying a barrel on his back, but he was quick. His feet were quick and his mind was quick as well. John would reel off instructions with barely a pause and the man would be able to repeat them back to another word for word. John found himself able to enjoy life more, as the new man gradually oiled the wheels of the operation. He had more time to unwind with his family because of the man’s sheer efficiency. The man gained the nickname ‘Numbers’ because of his ease with figures. Soon he was at the heart of the operation, so John was surprised when he received an anonymous note saying that Numbers was a customs man.

John toyed with the idea of taking Numbers to France and abandoning him. But with Numbers’ fierce intelligence he knew that he would understand the lie of the land quickly. He would only find a way to earn a living and come back to England to denounce him. For weeks he thought of other ways to get rid of Numbers and, at the same time, he feared Numbers would uncover the whole operation. The price and penalty for smuggling was death, the same as murder. Inevitably his mind was drawn down the logical path that if by smuggling he was considered akin to a murderer, then he might as well be a murderer. Once he had had that thought then it could not be undone. He bought his wife a new dinner set, hid it with a tablecloth and revealed the gift with a flourish. As she thanked him with a kiss that promised something more, he thought that ridding himself of Numbers would give her and his family security. Overlooking a delivery of whiskey, he thought that this could all soon be lost unless he did indeed rid himself of Numbers.

Soon Numbers became his right-hand man and John spread the word that he would be going into semi-retirement, leaving Numbers as the de facto head. Numbers now knew that either the game was up and he needed to gather as much information as he could and leave discreetly or John had indeed given him the chance to infiltrate the whole smuggling network. This could be the chance to make his mark within the service, the story that would be his calling card and his fortune. It could be the end of his career or even his life.

John, in his semi-retirement, gave Numbers a set of books for customs and another set of books with cryptic references. Numbers gradually deciphered the references to show the runs from the coast, who they came from and the goods expected. He let it be known to the coastal men that by adding some extra ingredients, he could increase the profits for all. The stage was set for a sacking.

Late one night both men were summoned to the castle by men higher up the smuggling chain. John looked around in the half-light. He saw the shadowy figures ahead of him, with Numbers standing next to the coastal men chatting easily. The figure that was clearly the leader started to ask John questions, he found that his palms were sweating, his voice was higher as he started to justify himself and how he had set up the operation. Now he feared that Numbers was not a customs man but a competitor or a customs man who had been tempted. Then he heard a crack as a hand reached back and pistol-whipped Numbers around the head. They rolled him over and, with a man hooking an arm under each shoulder, he was dragged away. Numbers stared at John, more shocked than reproachful, and after a short silence, laughter resounded. John heard the sound of the man screaming as he was tortured for information but the sound was dulled by the beating of his heart. He waited until it had gone quiet, staggered home, and drank himself into a stupor, falling asleep on the floor.

When he woke up the next morning, as soon as he opened his eyes the memories of the day before began whispering, clamouring and murmuring in his head. He took a hip flask with him into the depot and when these memories started to surface, he took a quick nip from the flask. When a runner came up to him asking for Numbers, the fear he felt was overpowering. He struggled to answer calmly. For the first time in his life he needed a drink to keep his agitation under control. A small voice in his head told him that this would be brought to an end with arrest as a smuggler.

Each following day, he needed just a little more drink to stop the clamouring voices getting ever louder inside his head. His wife started to notice when he forgot to buy a birthday present for their son. She shrugged it off and made excuses to the boy, placating him with assurances of treats to come. Increasingly she found his behaviour erratic – either needy and wanting her company, or sulky and rejecting her. The problem for John was that the world was full of reminders. Passing a message to the man who replaced Numbers was a reminder, someone of the same build was a reminder, the fact that he still had his beautiful house was a reminder.

When he found himself stumbling out of a squalid gamblers den, drunk and barely able to find his way home, he knew he needed to make a drastic change and save his family. Eventually he set up a meeting with the coastal smugglers and explained that he wanted to get out, he would do whatever they wanted to move away and be free of his past. He had expected anger but the man laughed in his face and that was when he was told that Numbers had not died quickly. John had left the depot when Numbers had lost consciousness. Later they had tortured him further and he had revealed names, addresses and places where the men were to be found. John did not have the death of one man on his conscience but eleven.

When John woke up the next morning, the murmuring and clamouring voices had become a din that he could no longer control. John could not rid himself of thoughts about the eleven men who had died and he feared that somehow the family of one of those men would learn about him. In a back street, he bought the most vicious-looking dog that he could find for his protection. His wife looked browbeaten when he showed her the animal. He couldn’t bear the thought that she felt so intimidated but it was the only way he could walk down the street without showing his fear. When he bought the dog into the bedroom, she took her final exit from the marital bed, saying their son was poorly. The dog now slept by the foot of his bed.

In the days that followed, his control of the whole operation became tenuous. He saw ghosts and customs men behind every corner. Everywhere he went, John took the black dog with him because he constantly feared reprisals. The dog looked fierce but was also incredibly loyal to him and offered him constant and unquestioning companionship.

He did not contain his fear and aggressiveness at the depot. A small boy was cheeky to him and he lost control, shouting in the boy’s face and then pushing him to the ground. The boy cowered on the ground and John rushed at him, kicking and screaming until he was pulled away by two men who looked at him with revulsion. The men left the depot, never to be seen again. With the death of eleven men to bear, he thought little of ordering an eviction or the roughing up of a tavern landlord. Where he had been respected, he was now hated.

It was inevitable that he would make enough mistakes to be reported to customs. Before long he was found guilty and taken to the gallows (which stood next to the main road that is now the A6 and called Galley Hill, between the north of the town and Streatley), and here he was hanged.

As an executed criminal, his body was soaked in tar for three days before being bound in chains and hoisted on to the gibbet. That night, black storms clouds gathered and there was a tumultuous storm, wreaking havoc on crops and smashing farm machinery. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning hit the gibbet and the shape of a huge black dog emerged, prancing around in the flames for hours until the fire died down. The terrifying apparition then howled piercingly, leapt on to the ashes and vanished.

Some say that the black dog still found some good within John’s soul and prowled for hours to guard against the Devil’s approach. Others say that the man was lost and that the dog stayed near him to introduce him to the Devil on his approach. But from then onwards, travellers would find themselves confronted by the most enormous black hound at this spot, which was said to have glowing red eyes and a sinister growl.

2

THE THREE HIGHWAYMEN

The young woman waiting at the bar of the Flying Horse in Clophill did not take much notice of the three men who arrived at the inn late one night. It had been quiet for most of the evening and she sighed as she smoothed down her apron and tucked her hair back into its ribbon. Such gestures made it clear that, although she was not the tavern owner’s wife, she was still respectable. This was not the kind of tavern in which customers could make enquiries of the tavern-owner and expect her company for the night. Sarah was well known in the village for her wit and her ability to say a cheeky remark and then duck as the clip round the earhole from the tavern-owner missed her by a feather’s breadth. However, she had been working for hours now and her good humour had evaporated. She slipped her feet out of her simple shoes and ran her toes along her calf muscles to try and bring them back to life. She was looking forward to the walk back to her mother and father’s cottage, crowded though it was.

The new moon, on the cusp of its journey back to fullness, was a flicker of light in the darkness. The men arrived well-mounted, just as the day was turning into bible-black night. The youngest, quietest man, who introduced himself as Jack, followed the stable-lad out into the yard. ‘Be sure to put some oats in their feed,’ he said, and was answered with a nod and an invitation to check the feed. Jack held the grains in his hands; the kernels were plump and heavy, and gave off a reassuringly clean smell. ‘They are warm after riding all day. If they cool down too quickly they may catch a chill,’ he added, which provoked a quick spark of irritation stifled by a laugh.

‘Don’t you worry yourself sir, we look after many horses here and know many have had a long journey.’

At that Jack unwound, and with a friendly pat on the shoulder of the stable-lad, returned to his fellow travellers, who were in fact his brothers.

The three shabbily dressed men told Sarah that they were dealers in horses when she poured ale for them, the bitter-sweet hoppy smell bringing smiles to their faces. As she brought out bread and meat for them, she overheard a bit of their conversation, ‘… poor sister living with that bastard, will she ever forgive us for making her live with that evil man?’ The tallest, brashest brother ordered malt whiskey and she thought of him as ‘Boss’. Boss and his ginger-haired stocky brother, who she simply named ‘Ginger’, brayed about the outrageous behaviour of highwaymen.

‘We’re afraid to go from fair to fair for fear of them,’ they said. ‘Hanging is too good for them.’

Jack, meanwhile, cast furtive looks around the tavern and appeared relieved when they ordered in hot punch and headed to bed. The reckoning for themselves and horses was about twelve shillings.

About six o’clock the next morning, they set out with the noise of the horses’ hooves clattering on the road and the sound of occasional neighing. It didn’t take them long to travel the three miles to Ampthill. They wandered around the fair, nonchalantly and without purpose. They made great show of being buyers, and spent a good amount of time examining horses’ hooves and scrutinising their teeth. They stayed some few hours there without buying anything, and then, at about eleven o’clock, they wandered into a butcher’s tavern at Houghton Conquest and had cold roast beef for breakfast. When they asked what they could have for dinner, the landlady told them that there was a sheep hanging up in the shop. However, she said, grimacing, her husband was at the fair and she could not cut it. The tallest man of the trio, Boss, then slipped the knife from the butcher’s board and, with great skill, he took off the shoulder.

By five o’clock they were waiting on the road. Their dissolute air had now dissipated as they took up positions on the thoroughfare between Ampthill and Bedford in the parish of Houghton Conquest, waiting for travellers to pass. An unwary traveller ambled slowly towards them. The moment swelled and built in anticipation, and they could feel the blood pounding in their ears. The two younger brothers stood blocking the road and Boss held a blunderbuss in open view about twenty yards away from them, his coat billowing in the wind. All was quiet except for bursts of birdsong.

In the distance they saw the small figure getting closer. As he drew nearer to them, they could see that he was well dressed. The man, a tenant of Lord Ashburnham, slowed to a halt with a look of consternation as he realised what lay ahead of him. He gulped and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he asked the men how he could help them. With that the tension of the trio dissolved. The younger two emptied the man’s pockets as Boss held the blunderbuss aimed at his head. Then Boss offered to give him a pound back from the seventeen that they had stolen from him. The brothers lightly tossed the coin between each other and like ‘piggy in the middle’ the man hurtled from one to another, trying to intercept the coin as they jeered at him. After they had let him go, they robbed three other people as they came along the road: a dealer in hogs, who lived at Elstow, was relieved of about fifteen pounds; a man from Cardington of about five pounds; and a tradesman from Bedford of about fourteen shillings and his watch. They returned the small coins to their owners, having, as they described it, a little jest each time. Eventually it grew dark, with cloud scuttling across the sky. The highwaymen travelled along the road until they spied the light from a small settlement; there they robbed two farmers of about thirty pounds and a joiner of a few shillings and his watch.

At about nine o’clock they called at an alehouse in Maulden and each drank a glass of gin. From there they continued to the George pub at Silsoe, where they sat on horseback at the door and drank three pints of wine and ate a crust of bread. No words of anger were heard between them, but Jack seemed quiet, sullen and resentful whilst his brothers were full of bonhomie. There was also no sign of any weapons.

The highwaymen’s victims, meanwhile, walked to Bedford to raise the hue and cry. The unfortunate men appeared before Mr Edwards, the local magistrate, before leading a search for the men, but by the time the alarm reached Silsoe the next morning, much had changed.

The brother had finished their drinks and intended to ride away from Bedfordshire completely. As the two eldest brothers became more ecstatic, however, the mood of Jack became blacker and sourer. After travelling just a quarter of a mile from the George, he started to mumble angrily to himself until finally, with a vicious look at his eldest brother, he sneered that the eldest was still unable to look after their sister. His brother swerved his horse, pulling the reins high and clenching his fists. Riding with their horses next to one another, the eldest and the youngest brothers edged closer, their faces inches apart and rigid with tension. Staring into his brother’s eyes, the eldest challenged the younger, crying, ‘Say that again!’

The words burst from Jack’s lips explosively, ‘The two of you, you told her she was a burden, just another mouth to feed.’ He seemed to find his confidence as he said slowly, ‘She would never have left without you pushing her. If she dies at his hands, it’ll be your fault.’

Boss laughed and his eyes had a coruscating twinkle. He was enjoying himself. That was when little Jack lost control. Later the young man would tell his sister that he had no memory of the scene. How he had punched his brother on the nose so hard that he could feel bone and cartilage crumble like a biscuit. The eldest brother lurched to the ground and Jack pulled out the blunderbuss that his brothers had given him to look after. Truth be told, his brothers only expected him to look after the horses and not to do the man’s work of threatening innocent people. Nevertheless, he knew how to use the gun. He took aim and he could feel the rage coursing through his body. He pulled the trigger and shot his eldest brother in the back. His brother, who had begun to push himself up on all fours, slumped on the ground. Jack jumped off his horse and kicked the body over with one foot. It was lifeless and the eyes seemed to be looking into the distance. Within a short time the blood from the body had stained the ground and, along with a shocked and fearful Ginger, Jack dragged the body through a gate into a close just by the roadside, and for reasons he never fully understood, shot him again with a pistol through the head. Local residents at the George pub heard the blunderbuss. Dazed, the brothers rode into the distance, not talking to one another.

A farmer at Barton rode by in the time between the firing of the blunderbuss and the pistol. Unable to see the body and the men in the close, he still smelt the powder and with difficulty got his horse past. Later he said that he thought somebody was shooting wood pigeons. The tollgate man said the farmer had not passed two minutes before the highwaymen came hurtling towards him with a spare horse tied on to the lead horse. They seemed much in haste, but stayed to take their change. They left the saddle upon the downs and the horse at Luton. In the next few hours the horse was claimed and the owner said that the man who had stolen his horse had formerly been a servant of his and was able to give a description of the three brothers.

There were reports of Ginger and the Jack travelling together in the next week and then these dwindled out. Convinced that one or both of the brothers had murdered their elder sibling, a reward was set for both men. Illogically, Jack thought that, as he had spent so much of his life barely noticed, he would miss the attention of any bounty hunters. In no time at all he was captured and the news spread swiftly across Bedfordshire. Ginger was in hiding when he heard of Jack’s detainment. He knew that he would be adrift after Jack’s death; that he would have nobody left in the world. Boss was already under the ground and his sister Lizzie had told him that he was dead to her. He started to wonder why he should continue. It was at this point that he made the decision that would shape his final days.

Months later, Ginger stood beside the hangman at the gallows. The rope dangled next to him. He turned and, with a remorseful air, begged the hangman to wait a while.

‘I am waiting to see my brother and sister,’ he said. He had offered himself in place of Jack. By saving his brother, he had given both Jack and his sister Lizzie something to live for. By dying he would give both of them a place of belonging, a family.

Two figures walked slowly towards him. The crowds parted as they explained that they were related to Ginger and several people gave them interested looks. Now they were close enough to look him in the eye.

‘Have they come to save you?’ asked the hangman. ‘No they have not come to bring you silver or any gold. They have come to see me swinging from the gallows.’ And at that, the hangman decided he could wait no longer and moved the horse and cart on, leaving the man swinging from the noose.

The rope tightened and pulled on his neck immediately but it was not a merciful death as it failed to break his windpipe. In his dying moments Ginger watched his brother and sister for any sign. His brother looked at him meaningfully and then knelt down to pray. Jack had always felt sympathy for all, the high and low, the powerful and the powerless, man and woman. But when he stared at his sister, Ginger could sense nothing. The terrible pain started to fade as gossamer-like threads dulled his vision and he began to feel a lightness, as if he was about to drift way. He strained for one look of forgiveness from his sister. She had always worn her hair over her face out of shyness but now he feared it was to hide the bruises. As she softly pushed her hair behind her ear, he could see the gentle curve of her mouth and, as the blackness started to fall, he thought he saw a shadow of a wry smile. His sister, it seemed, had damned him to hell while his brother Jack sought divine forgiveness.

3

THE MAI DUN

Bedfordshire is generally a fruitful county, prosperous and fertile. Yet there was a time when it was a bleak place to live. The Roman garrisons – who had just begun to think of the Britons as their neighbours, even if they were not countrymen – had been recalled to Rome. The Britons – who had been lulled into a sense of invulnerability by the Roman Empire – now found themselves defenceless as tribes throughout Europe looked at their lush and green land with interest.

And from this chaos arose one warlord who had the ambition to become King of the Britons. In his inexorable rise, he broke promises, spoke gentle yet empty words of peace, and placed the rise of his family above all else. In the battle for the soul of Britain, Vortigern was formidable.

Vortigern travelled through Bedfordshire, having sent messengers ahead to tell the queen of a local tribe of his arrival. Her husband had died in the previous year, and she had kept to the old ways in claiming his land as hers. Vortigern expected a woman who would jump at the sight of a sheep.

He was surprised, therefore, by the woman that he encountered upon his arrival. Her skin was dark and lined, her hair long, and the fluid way she moved spoke of a person who knew how to draw attention and how to use it to her own advantage. Instead of a mute coward, she was tall, self-possessed, her dark hair falling down in waves. Cynically, Vortigern wondered how much time she had spent mourning her husband. The Druids and warriors looked to her for guidance when he pointedly spoke to them instead of her and they seemed willing to accept her leadership.

Vortigern decided that it was time to be blunt. ‘I expect you to submit all of your lands,’ he said calmly.