Kent Folk Tales - Tony Cooper - E-Book

Kent Folk Tales E-Book

Tony Cooper

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Beschreibung

These traditional stories and local legends have been handed down by storytellers for centuries. As folk tales reveal a lot about the people who invented them, this book provides a link to the ethics and way of life of generations of Kentish people. Herein you will find the intriguing tales of Brave Mary of Mill Hill, King Herla, the Pickpockets of Sturry, the Wantsum Wyrm and the Battle of Sandwich, to name but a few. These captivating stories, brought to life with a collection of unique illustrations, will be enjoyed by readers time and again. Tony Cooper has been a full-time storyteller for the past twenty-five years. He attends regular storytelling events, with a particular favourite being the Winter Tales Festival, 'a dark evening of storytelling and object theatre for adults' held in his hometown of Sandwich.

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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

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All illustrations by Jan Cooper, to whom I dedicate this work

First published in 2011

The History Press

The Mill, Brimscombe Port

Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

This ebook edition first published in 2011

All rights reserved

© Tony Cooper, 2011

The right of Tony Cooper, to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

EPUB ISBN 978 0 7524 7037 5

MOBI ISBN 978 0 7524 7038 2

Original typesetting by The History Press

CONTENTS

 IntroductionOneThe MirrorTwoKing HerlaThreeThe Celtic HeroFourPrincess RushycoatFiveDeath is StrongestSixWhat Can You See?SevenGrey DolphinEightGenerousNineThe Princess and the FoolTenThe Battle of SandwichElevenThe Hand of GloryTwelvePulling GameThirteenNell Cook and the Dark PassageFourteenThe Three FeathersFifteenThe Wantsum WyrmSixteenThat’s Enough to be Going on WithSeventeenRed JacketEighteenThe Biter BitNineteenThe PickpocketsTwentyMrs Veal VisitsTwenty-oneThe Man Who Could Understand AnimalsTwenty-twoThe Apple-Tree ManTwenty-threeBrave Mary of Mill HillTwenty-fourGrey Lady WoodsTwenty-fiveA Kingsdown RomanceTwenty-sixThe Seaside and the Londoners: LilTwenty-sevenThe Seaside and the Londoners: Proper FishingTwenty-eightA Rationed ChristmasTwenty-nineThe Sweeper’s TaleThirtyThe Vanishing TractorThirty-oneThe Wise Old Fool Notes Bibliography

INTRODUCTION

I am a storyteller, not really a writer. I would usually recount these tales in front of a live audience with all the advantages that this can offer: responses from the audience; freedom to choose the appropriate story, a word or phrase to suit the mood; the odd facial expression or hand gesture; even a snatch of song or a joke inserted where suitable. The story can be compressed or extended, moulded to a specific audience.

But writing this I can’t tell who you are. One of the cunning psychological tricks that all orators must learn is to look every member of the audience in the eye as you speak. Not all at once, obviously, but glancing around in a seemingly random way. The effect is that each member of the audience will be spoken to directly for a moment and be subconsciously convinced that they are the one person in the crowd who really understands and appreciates the story. This works whether the audience know of this ancient trick or not. But it won’t work on you, because I can’t see you, hear you or even smell you. There again, except for my photograph, you can’t see me either.

Without a living listener I am reduced to the vision of a screen of words and the occasional message to the effect: ‘This sentence does not appear to have a verb’ or ‘Have you considered rewriting this paragraph?’ Damned rude I call it! No way to behave at all. I have tried gluing a paper smile to the bottom of the screen but it turns sarcastic or sardonic after a while.

As a place to collect local folk tales Kent poses some interesting problems. We have a blurred identity; we rarely boast of being Kentish; we are a mishmash of Celts, Romans, Jutes and Lowlanders and always have been. Great swathes of workers came from Wales and the north when the coal mines opened, adding to the rich mix. Other parts of the British Isles are more distinctive. A Leeds or York local will proudly advertise themselves as a Yorkshire man or woman; the Cornish people likewise as ‘Cornish’. Their traditional stories were unchanged until printing and reading became popular a couple of hundred years ago. Then they were often, as happened to the Brothers Grimm, cleaned up and sanitised for the nursery; or worse, subjected to the Disney mistreatment.

Pshaw. The best way for you to enjoy these stories is to find one you like and then someone who you like to tell it to. Don’t read it aloud, that is too much like multitasking. You would be reading one sentence whilst reciting the last one and working out accent, pacing, facial expression and half a dozen other things all at the same time. You would have one eye on the text and the other on the audience; Chameleons we are not. Ok, teachers and librarians do it but is it the best they could do?

No, tell it from memory. You will automatically adjust the story for the audience in front of you; for age, background, mood and a host of other things that you don’t even have to be aware of. You could make it more local or even make it more contemporary, there are no rules. For instance, ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ could be male, the granny maybe living in a block of flats and the wolf a precious protected species. As for the woodcutter, what an ecological disaster he could be. Don’t worry about forgetting details or plot; you can always fall back on the traditional teacher’s trick of saying, ‘Now, what do you think happened next?’ Most of the stories in here will be new to the listeners anyway; they won’t spot anything but the most obvious error.

So enjoy the stories. If I am appearing live near you, do come and join in. If not, find another live storytelling performance and try that. Always remember, the words on the page are only that; they are no more real than Margitte’s pipe. The true story is an experience shared by the storyteller and their audience.

Tony Cooper, 2011

One

THE MIRROR

Many, many, moons ago there was a Celtic man walking across a stretch of marshy north-Kent land (probably near Oare). In the late afternoon, he saw a bright light shining from below a bush, as brilliant as the setting sun. It dazzled him for a moment, giving him spots before the eyes. He moved his head to look closer and the shining light faded. As his eyes adapted to the dark beneath the leaves he saw something that surprised him so much that he fell back and sat down with a thump.

There was a face looking straight back at him; a face that he well recognised. His father’s face, exactly as he remembered him when his father was a young man and he was just a young boy. The image showed the freckled skin that had given both he and his father the name of Brekin; a pair of piercing blue eyes and a red moustache under a nose like a hawk’s beak. How extraordinary, he thought, to find a picture of my long-dead father here. His father had died many years ago bravely defending his hamlet against raiders from the north.

He reached forward and unhooked the frame’s metal chain that was wrapped around a twig. His hand felt the cold metal of the picture as he brought it closer. Yes, there was his father, so real that he could have been alive. ‘Wait until my wife sees this,’ he thought, ‘she never did meet my father. Now she will see what a fine man he was, how bold, how noble.’ He slipped the picture into the leather bag that he wore at his waist and walked the muddy path back to his home.

Home was one of a group of rough stone huts half-sunk into the earth with low woven willow roofs covered in turf. A hole in the centre of the oval let out some of the smoke from the fire; the rest of the smoke killed off some of the pests that lived in their bedding and clothes and helped to preserve the meat and fish that hung from the roofs. As Brekin approached he could dimly see his wife at the smoky cook pot. He thought of the picture and was suddenly uncertain. It was a very unlikely find. His father had never trodden these lands; as far as he knew he had lived on the island just north of there. ‘I wouldn’t want to appear a fool; did I really see my father’s face?’ he mused. He took the picture from his pouch and made sure it was still the same. Yes, there was his Dad. He smiled and waved his fingers at the picture: ‘Hello Dad,’ he mouthed.

Nara was almost blinded by the smoke but she could see Brekin outside as a shape against the red evening sky. He took something from his leather bag and held it to his face. She heard him speak and saw him wave his fingers at whatever was in his hand and then put it back in his pouch. She turned back to the pot as he came into the hut. ‘Hello, my dear,’ he cried cheerfully.

Nara turned and looked at Brekin. Mud spattered his leggings, dirt smeared his face and he smelled of the rotten fish that he used for manure; he looked and smelled as he always did. However on this occasion Nara scolded him: ‘Whoa, you stink. I can smell you even through the cooking smoke. And look at you – caked in filth. You can have some food when you have stripped and washed. Give me those clothes and out with you to the stream.’

Brekin obediently dropped his jerkin, leggings and the pouch to the floor and stomped out to the stream in fairly bad humour. While he washed Nara quickly reached into the pouch to see what Brekin had found. She could feel something hard and cold, flat like a slate. She pulled it out and looked at it. There was a heavy oval of grey metal, beaten to a dimpled flatness that showed some skilled metal-working. A finely wrought metal chain looped through a hole in one end. Nara turned it over.

The face that looked back at hers was a complete shock to her. It showed long dark hair matted with oil surrounding a pale face and deep dark eyes. A pair of full pink lips was pursed in annoyance. The woman in the picture was a beautiful sight and raised such jealous feelings in Nara that she almost threw the thing to the floor. ‘He has another woman,’ she thought angrily, ‘right, we will see about that!’ With trembling fingers she carefully and quickly put the object back into the pouch and turned back to the cooking.

Brekin lowered his head as he came back into the hut. ‘All clean, where is my dinner then?’ he joked.

‘Get your own dinner – or perhaps your fancy girlfriend will get it for you.’ Nara’s voice was bitter and angry.

‘What girlfriend? Who are you talking about? Has the smoke gone to your head, woman?’

‘I looked in your pouch,’ she sobbed, ‘I saw her face in the picture. You have taken up with another woman.’

‘Oh, the picture,’ soothed Brekin, ‘that is no woman, but a picture of my father as a young man. Same nose, same eyes, same moustache. The smoke must be in your eyes to mistake him for a woman.’

He drew the object from his pouch and looked at it. Yes, the same familiar Brekin face gazed back. ‘Look, my darling, clear your eyes and see what I can see.’

He turned the frame towards Nara; she blinked and looked again. The beautiful woman was still there; deep dark eyes set in a milky skin. No man had ever looked like that. What was her Brekin thinking of? But what could she do if he denied that a woman was there? She needed help, advice from a wise woman. Outside she could hear a broken tuneless humming as an old woman ground seeds outside the neighbouring hut.

‘Right,’ she spat, ‘wait ‘til your mother hears about this!’

She snatched the picture from Brekin's hand and marched into the late evening air. There was a woman a few yards away bent double over two milling stones; it was Brekin’s mother. She and Nara had argued bitterly in the past but this situation went beyond petty squabbles about how to share the food and her not producing any grandchildren yet. This was a problem – unfaithfulness – , about which all women should support each other. Men, Nara decided, are the one problem all women share. She took a deep breath and approached her mother-in-law.

‘Greetings, Eoghania, mother of my husband.’

‘Greetings to you, Nara, wife of my son. How goes the day for you? You look most pale, do you quicken with child?’ She grinned a lascivious smile.

‘Not this moon. I have more pressing problems.’

‘Whatever could be more pressing than being without a child?’

‘Being without a good man. Listen. Your son, my husband, has found – another woman.’ Her voice spluttered into unwilling sobs; this was no way to address an elder but she could not help it.

Eoghania was enraged. ‘What?! And what proofs have you of this? My boy would never do such a thing. He is a good man, always has been. Have you seen this woman? Who is she?’

‘I don’t know who she is. I found her picture in his pouch when he returned just now.’

‘A picture, ay? A picture is not a woman. Does the picture show her as beautiful or plain?’

Nara looked at the picture and sobbed. ‘She has pale skin and dark hair but her eyes are deep and lively. She is beautiful but I would kill her if she should come close to Brekin, I would scratch out those eyes.’

‘Show me the picture,’ Eoghania ordered.

Nara passed the frame to her mother-in-law. Eoghania turned it over in her dusty hand then held it close to her failing eyes. Back and forth she moved it until the image was clear. She scrutinised the picture then squinted with her left eye and looked again.

‘Ghaaa, she’s no more than an ugly old hag. Get rid of her.’

As she said it, she lifted the grinding querns and tipped the course flour into her bag. Then she put the mirror onto the bottom stone and slammed the two together again before grinding it to pieces. The sound of the stones reducing the metal and glass to powder lasted until the moon rose.

Mirrors did not become part of daily life until over 500 years later when the Romans came.

Two

KING HERLA

In the days when you could ride from Dover to Dartford without leaving the great forest there was a young King of Kent, Herla, who lived for hunting. He would ride with his men from dawn to dusk and then set-up camp to feast on their quarry. Indeed, if the animal was strong, cunning and quick he would admire its strength and skill; if the moon was full he would hunt through the whole night.

One spring there had been one wonderful chase after another, night after day. As the sun stayed up longer, so did King Herla. His older huntsmen grew tired and some returned to the castle. Eventually even Herla, young, strong and handsome as he was, was forced to rest. One cloudy afternoon, he stretched out on a mossy bank in an ancient grove and closed his eyes.

Suddenly he opened his eyes. He could hear an animal moving through the forest; he couldn’t see it but he could hear it and more than that, he could smell it. Herla drew his sword and sniffed. Not a deer nor a horse, not a boar nor a badger. A goat, that’s what it was. No mistaking that pungent perfume. The undergrowth parted and out trotted the most beautiful goat that King Herla had ever seen. The coat was fawn and white with a long silken beard and tresses; the eyes were slits of black in bronze; the horns and hooves were sumptuously gilded and on its back rode a tiny man.

He was no larger than a four-year-old child but he had a strong chest covered with a dappled fawn skin and a huge red beard down to his hairy belly; at the end of his short legs were cloven feet. An intricate bronze crown sat on his copper locks. In a deep resonant voice he introduced himself.

‘Hail, King Herla,’ he boomed, ‘you hunt well, as well as me. We are both kings, for I am Sut, the King of the Dwarves. There is earthly news that you are to be married to the daughter of the King of France when the leaves fall. I, too, shall be married soon but not until the leaves spring forth anew.’

‘Hail, King Sut of the Dwarves,’ said King Herla with a faint smile, ‘we are both kings and are both to be wed. We have this much in common.’

‘We do indeed and more. I, with my fellow dwarves, very much enjoy hunting and celebrations as much as you do. We drink and dance, we eat and play just as we have seen you do in your fine castle.’

‘That must be a fine sight,’ smiled Herla.

‘Finer than you can possibly imagine, King Herla.’ The dwarf grinned showing his diamond teeth. ‘But you must see for yourself next spring. I propose that we invite each other to our weddings; yours as the days grow shorter, mine when the nights become shorter. What do you say?’

‘Between two kings what could be finer? I accept your generous offer with all my heart.’

The Dwarf King drew a finely fashioned bronze horn from his cloak. ‘Then let us drink deep from my cup to seal our words.’

Herla took the horn, drank half the heady brew and dizzily passed it back to the Dwarf King. The dwarf drank, gave a nod and then he and the goat suddenly disappeared.

Two seasons later King Herla and his fair French bride were in the middle of getting married. All the guests were crowded into the castle’s great feasting hall when there was a heavy knock on the thick wooden door. When the door was opened, standing there was Sut, the King of the Dwarves and his vast band of dwarfish creatures. There were so many that they overfilled the castle keep and some pavilions had to be put outside in the courtyard to accommodate them. They carried gifts of exquisite golden horns and intricately carved chairs. They also brought endless amounts of roasted fowl and fine meats; the flagons of wine never seemed to empty. So much food was there that King Herla’s feast was not touched. After three days of eating and dancing, stories and song King Sut gathered his tiny horde to leave. The dwarf reminded King Herla of his promise to attend his wedding as he left.

Two seasons later there was a summons from the world below. Herla and his bravest men would be the wedding guests of the Dwarf King and his tiny bride. Directions were given. They took many fine presents and rode long through wild unknown forests and twisting valleys through deepest Kent, until a great sandstone cliff blocked their way. From the cliff protruded an ancient withered yew; from a branch hung a small silver bell. No one touched the bell, yet a deep echoing chime rang through the Spring-leaved forest.

A copper-studded wooden door was suddenly there in the cliff before them. The door was swung open by unseen agencies revealing a cave. Beyond was a tunnel lit by torches leading down deep below the earth. As Herla and his men cautiously descended they heard a thousand dwarfish voices in riotous laughter and song. Down and down they went coming to a great cavern lit by a thousand lamps. A huge oak table stood in the centre where tiny men caroused in revelry. The Dwarf King welcomed them and Herla and his men joined the dancing, picking up dwarf princesses, putting them on their shoulders and whirling them around. The throng cheered.

The feasting and music lasted for three days. Wine and ale were flowing, songs were sung and jokes were told but at last it was time for King Herla and his men to leave. The Dwarf King begged Herla not to go and gave him many wonderful gifts: hawks, spears and bows and a miniature bloodhound.

‘King Herla, you are like a brother to me now. I beg you to stay. The world above is dangerous to you as since your visit much has changed; on pain of death do not dismount until this bloodhound that you carry jumps down from the horse.’

King Herla hugged him close and declared that he loved him like a brother but that he was a king and that he must return to rule his land. He and his men rode up the tunnel and eventually out into the open air. They were astonished to find fields where there had once been forest and villages when they left. Their familiar lands had changed and new roads led to unknown destinations. Herla saw an old man with a flock of sheep. He stopped by him and asked, ‘Old fellow, which way to the castle of King Herla?’

The shepherd stared long at the King with his mouth hanging open. Eventually in broken tongue he said, ‘You speak the language of a Briton. No man has spoken as you do for many generations. Legends of King Herla say that he vanished one day and that his young wife pined away and died of a broken heart. But all this happened over 300 years ago, before the Saxons came.’

Some men cried ‘Liar!’ and drew their swords and dismounted but on touching the earth they crumbled to dust. It is said that King Herla and his men still ride to this day, waiting for the dwarfish bloodhound to jump down.

One evening, in 1983, my own wife was working late, helping with the harvest in Staple, when the earth shook with unseen passing hooves and the jingle of harness and armour. There was nothing to be seen. So perhaps, just maybe, the bloodhound still rides on the hunting horse of ancient King Herla.

Three

THE CELTIC HERO

We storytellers measure time in a different way from archaeologists, historians or scientists. We don’t need to know when or where a story started. We are more interested in how often a tale has been told, so we measure in ‘Grandfathers’ or ‘Grandmothers’. Either will do, for it is simply the time it takes for you to be old enough to sit a grandchild on your knee and tell a story that you heard on your Grandparent’s knee. So a ‘Grandparent’ is around forty years.

Only about fifty ‘Grandparents’ ago, or around 2,000 years ago, there was alarm and consternation along the Kent coast. Boats were being rowed across the Channel from the land of Belgica, which would later become France. Sunlight flashed on the armour that the soldiers wore; drums beat out the rhythms of the oars. A few biremes like these had landed fifty years earlier. However, they had only beached, explored a little and returned to their boats.

This new invasion landed between the sea and the sand dunes of what is now Sandwich Bay. The boats disgorged batches of soldiers each eighty to a hundred strong. They were strong, well-trained young men who could fight like killing machines; slash, stab, slice and stamp. Yes, even their sharpened metal boots were weapons. They had fought and won all the way from Spain to Mesopotamia, they had beaten and subdued Egyptians and Huns. They were the mighty Romans.

The people who lived behind the beach were the Cantii; a tribe of Celts. They were much more likely to show extreme bravery by fighting with a feather in their hand rather than a weapon. After all; anyone can be fierce with a sharp sword or a heavy club, protected by a layer of strong metal. The Celts wore paint on their bodies and faces, not strong bronze armour and helmets. Celt-to-Celt fighting was done with bravado. ‘Look,’ a warrior seemed to be saying, ‘I am not afraid of you. I wear nothing but a bit of fur, some paint and a fierce face. My weapon is a small feather. Think of the shame if you were to attack me with a sword. How foolish you would seem.’

This worked well amongst the Celts for hundreds of years. However, the Romans didn’t seem to understand how it was supposed to work. The Celt would wave his little feather in the Romans’ face in what seemed a reasonably challenging way and the rude Roman would strike him down without hesitation. Many Celts died like this.

The Romans disembarked and lined themselves up neatly on the beach; sinister, dexter, sinister, dexter. Their commander marched up and down the lines inspecting their weapons and haircuts. One young soldier, Plutus, had a strange, eager look on his face. He was staring over the commanders’ shoulder.

‘Look, sir, up on the sand dune. It’s a man with a blue face; a Celt. Let me get him, sir?’

‘Now, lad, let’s not be hasty. You’ve just inished a dangerous sea crossing from Belgica and you still look a bit green around the gills. We will get him, all right. Flavius, come here.’

An older soldier with a face like a mouldy cabbage came forward.

‘Now, Flavius, this young soldier is keen to capture that Celt up there. Go with him and try not to damage the prisoner too much. He may be useful. He may know things. Off you go.’

The two stomped up the dune clattering their swords against their armour and growling; a technique long used by the legions to terrify the enemy. The Celt disappeared as they approached. There was a silence on the sandy beach. The Roman pair also vanished over the top of the dune. The silence was broken by a short grunt and a scream. The commander smiled to himself.

A severed head rolled down the dune to the commander's feet. The commander's smile faded. He had told them to be careful, not to damage the prisoner. This head wasn’t going to be talking to anyone. And why was it wearing a Roman helmet? He looked closer. Flavius! Another grunt, more screams and a second head rolled down. No helmet on this one but it was recognisable as Plutus, despite the frozen look of terror that his face showed.

The lone Celt appeared at the top of the dune. His expression could not be made out against the bright sky but the commander had the sensation that he was smiling. Right, he thought. We will see what he can do against ten trained men. He chose the most experienced, the fittest and the most vicious fighters from the hundreds on the beach and sent them up the sandy pile.

As twenty metal boots clambered up the slope, the Celt faded away over the brow. Ten sharp Roman swords and ten bronze helmets followed close behind. They disappeared from the commander’s view but then a helmet flew into the air. There were screams and gurgles, hacking and slicing. There was a pause. Ten heads, some with helmets but all with surprised expressions on their dead faces, rolled down the dune.

‘That Celt is tougher than he looks,’ thought the commander admiringly. ‘But we have numbers. Two hundred men to a boat and fifty boats make it, er, 10,000 highly trained soldiers. Surely that is more than enough for one scrawny Celt.’

He chose several rough crews, scarred and tough. One hundred armed Romans should be plenty he thought. The blue face appeared to taunt the commander from the top of the dune. On his order the hundred swarmed towards it.

Over the next fifteen minutes the air was filled with the sound of thuds, screams and gurgles. The air above the dune turned red. Through a mist of blood, body parts could be seen flying through the air. Ninety-nine heads tumbled down the slope, most looking alarmed and upset. But one Roman figure, grievously wounded but just alive, slid down to the commander's feet. He was just able, before he died, to mutter a last word or two.

‘Sir,’ he gasped, ‘send no more men. It’s a trap; a Celtic trick. He has his wife with him. There are,’ he choked on his blood, ‘there are two of them.’

Four

PRINCESS RUSHYCOAT

The Phird King of Phannit was at feast with his queen and his three daughters. Only the youngest was actually his daughter, the other two had come with his new queen and were his stepdaughters. The King gazed drunkenly at the three lovely young princesses and wondered how they felt about him.

‘Eldest daughter, how much do you love me?’

Not much, as it happened, she thought him a drunken lout but her wits gave her an answer.

‘Father, I love you more than, um,’ she looked about hopefully and noticed the moonlight coming though the window, ‘more than the whole world.’

This pleased King Phannit and he smiled and turned to the next princess.

‘And middle daughter, how mush do you love me?’

Again, not much, he was always pinching her bottom, but she thought for a moment and noticing the remains of her favourite pet piglet on the table said, ‘Father, I love you, er, more than life itself.’

This pleased King Phannit too and his smile grew wider. Now the King looked fondly at his youngest princess.

‘Now, my precious little one, do you love me more than the world or more than life itself?

Now she was his own daughter and she really did love him but she had to think how best to say it. Her eye wandered across the laden table and at last she said, ‘Father, I love you more than meat loves salt.’

‘What?’ cried her father, ‘am I the meat or am I the salt? I am the King! I have never been so insulted in my life. Out! Out, amongst the peasants where you belong.’

He seized her by the neck and bustled her to the castle door where he threw her out into the rainy night. Her silk dress was useless against the foul weather; her lovely dancing shoes fell apart immediately. Weeping, wet and cold she stumbled away from the castle through the fields of cabbages all the way down to the Wantsum Channel. There she found rushes growing along the banks and pulled up a bunch of them. She used a vine to tie them into a bundle and pushed her head through it.

The rain still fell on her head and dripped from her nose so she made a smaller bundle into a conical hat that completely covered her head and face. It made her look like a mobile haystack. She struggled along the bank until she came to the Wantsum Ferry. A silver ring from her finger paid the ferryman well for her trip to Grove. From there she wandered from hedge to barn across the chalk hills of Kent, eating nuts and berries and drinking ditchwater.

Weak with hunger and dizzy with fear she had little idea of where to go. Away from Phannit and her angry father was the only direction she knew. Across meadows and through dark forests, down shadowy valleys and over bright streams; for three days and nights she wandered. At last she came to a tall stone wall. In the wall was a wooden door. She knocked on the door with her slender fist. No one came. She picked up a flint and hammered it against the wood. The door flew open and there before her was a very fat woman dressed in a dirty white apron.

‘What do you want? I’m busy,’ screeched the cook.

A timid voice came from beneath the rush hat. ‘Please, I beg you for shelter from the weather and somewhere to sleep.’

‘Shelter? Somewhere to sleep? This is not the poorhouse; this is the palace kitchens of the King of Canterbury. Why should we help a haystack like you?’

‘Perhaps you have work that I could do?’

‘Well, nobody has washed the pans or plates since the last girl died three weeks ago. We are all much too busy. There is the pile, get to it. You can eat the leftovers if you like.’

‘Thank you very much, I will do that,’ said the Princess.

Afraid that word of where she was would get back to her father, the Princess kept on her rush hat and coat; the cooks all called her Rushycoat. Washing the pots and pans was horrible; the Princess was always scraping and scrubbing with her arms deep in greasy water. She slept in the huge fireplace amongst the warm cinders and ate what scraps were left on the plates. Despite all this, as the months turned into years she turned from a girl into a woman under her rushes.

One warm spring there was suddenly much to do in the kitchens. The King of Canterbury was impatient for his son, the prince, to be married to a suitable bride. Now, the Prince did all the princely things; gambled, rode and hunted, fought with sword and shield, but he never showed any interest in women at all. The King invited princesses from far and wide to Canterbury Castle for banquets and dances.

Plucked peacocks, boiled boars and fruit fancies filled the kitchens while the dirty pots and pans kept coming. The corridors above shimmered with silks and sapphires, emeralds and embroidery. The prince went to the dances and feasts and was polite to his guests but that was all; no royal female ever caught the prince’s eye. Eventually, in desperation, the King threw open the invitation to all females of marriageable age.