Lancashire Folk Tales E-Book

Jennie Ruth Bailey

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

Seitenzahl: 260

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

These lively and entertaining folk tales from one of Britain's most diverse counties are vividly retold by writer, storyteller and poet Jennie Bailey and storyteller, writer, psychotherapist and shamanic guide David England. Take a fantasy journey around Lancashire, the Phantom Voice at Southport, the Leprechauns of Liverpool and the famous hanging of Pendle Witches at Lancaster, to the infamous Miss Whiplash at Clitheroe. Enjoy a rich feast of local tales, a vibrant and unique mythology, where pesky boggarts, devouring dragons, villainous knights, venomous beasts and even the Devil himself stalk the land. Beautifully illustrated by local artists Jo Lowes and Adelina Pintea, these tales bring to life the landscape of the county's narrow valleys, medieval forests and treacherous sands.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Title

About the Authors and Artists

Acknowledgements

1 Welcome!

2 The Phantom Voice, Southport

3 Sir Lancelot and Sir Tarquin, Martin Mere

4 The Eagle and Child, Parbold, Ormskirk

5 The Devil’s Wall, Aughton, Ormskirk

6 Liverpool Legends

7 Tales of Bewsey Hall, Warrington

8 The Song of Warrikin Fair, Warrington

9 Manchester Battles

10 Sir Elias Gigas, The Giant of Worsley

11 The Skull House, Wardley Hall, Salford

12 Hannah Beswick, the Manchester Mummy

13 Tales from Middleton

14 Tales from the Borough of Rochdale

15 Fair Ellen of Radcliffe

16 The Devil in the Fireplace, Bury Grammar School

17 The Unsworth Dragon, Bury

18 The Lancashire Boggarts

19 The Bloody Footprint, Smithills Hall

20 Mab’s Cross Tales, Wigan

21 The de Hoghtons of Hoghton Tower

22 John Dee, Walton-le-Dale, Preston

23 The Preston Guild Merchant

24 The Battle of Preston

25 Traditions and Superstitions from the Fylde

26 Witchcraft and Persecution, Lancaster

27 The Perils of a Journey ‘Oversands’

28 The Dun Cow of Parlick, Bleasdale

29 The Dule Upo’ Dun, Waddington

30 Spooky Tales from Clitheroe

31 Lady Sybil and the Milk White Doe, Sabden

Notes on the Tales

Bibliography

Copyright

ABOUTTHE AUTHORSAND ARTISTS

AUTHORS

Jennie Bailey

Jennie is a prize-winning writer and self-confessed ‘word nerd’. She writes fiction, plays, articles and poetry. Her writing is inspired by nature – walking, being in nature, and the changes of the seasons. Although she lives in Greater Manchester, she is constantly dazzled by pockets of wildlife that appear in the most urban places.

Jennie believes that anyone can tell stories, and she supports children and adults in exploring and developing writing skills.

She has poetry published in various anthologies and has written and directed plays with the Didsbury Players, a Manchester drama group. Lancashire Folk Tales is her first collaborative book.

Her website is www.jenbee.me.uk.

David England

David is a man of many parts: writer, storyteller, psychotherapist and shamanic guide – not separate parts so much as different aspects which interconnect and interact together.

David says, ‘I love telling stories which make me laugh. Stories which I know can captivate an audience. Stories which touch the soul.’ He loves writing stories just the same way. For him, storytelling is a dialogue with the audience, and as a writer he seeks dialogue with a wider audience. His book Berkshire Folk Tales, with researcher-supreme and co-author Tina Bilbé, was published by The History Press in 2013.

His storytelling website is davidengland.co.uk.

ARTISTS

Jo Lowes

Jo is a freelance photographer / graphic artist and teacher at Salford College, Greater Manchester. Her inspiration comes from travelling, two pesky cats, doodling and making sure her camera never leaves her side. More work can be seen at sheshouldbequiet.wordpress.com. For more info contact [email protected].

Adelina Pintea

Having worked in interior design, Adelina has always been an addict of the Rotring art pen and the uncanny watercolour washes that give it life. Originally from Transylvania, she is now Manchester-based with a portfolio that features urban sketches, the nonspeaking world of animals and scripted stories.

Her website is www.adelinapintea.co.uk.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The authors should like to thank The History Press commissioning editors Nicola Guy and Declan Flynn, as well as Helen Bradbury and Ross Britton from marketing, and especially Chris Ogle for his helpful and responsive approach to his editorial work.

A thank you to all the writers and storytellers of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries for collecting and recording such a wealth of folk tales, especially Frank Hird, John Harland & T.T. Wilkinson, Revd Thomas Cruddas Porteus and John Roby.

David should like to thank his family and friends for their patient support, especially his son Ed for his editing work, and his friends for listening to his stories, in particular Sylvia Friend, Jane Morrell and Simon Smith. Thanks also to Slough Writers for the invaluable contact with other professional writers, and especially to chairman Terry Adlam for his consistent support. His local librarian, Derek Beaven, a brilliant writer of literary fiction, for his support and encouragement, and to all who have helped along the way: Sir Bernard de Hoghton of Hoghton Tower; Revd Ray Hutchinson, rector of the parish church of All Saints, Wigan; the church cleaning team at St Elphin’s church, Warrington; and to the security guard who showed us the dungeon in Lancaster Castle where the Pendle witches had been incarcerated.

Jennie should like to thank her family and friends; Bury Heritage Library; Rebecca Daker; Tom Goodale; Richard Goulding; Dr Simon Heywood; Sarah Hau; Rob Hawley (and Jonas!); Dr Graham Kemp; Lancashire County Council; Lancaster Castle; Manchester Metropolitan University; Middleton Library; the People’s History Museum; the Portico Library; Dr John Sears; Touchstones Local Studies Centre (especially for showing her their ‘Weird and Wonderful’ files) and James Young.

1

WELCOME!

Welcome to Lancashire Folk Tales! My name is Lily Battersby and this is my friend and fellow storyteller, Dr Fred Hibbert. This evening we shall take you on a magical, mystery tour of old Lancashire, telling folk tales as we go.

We’ll be poking around haunted houses, bumping into boggarts, seeing how many clever Lancashire folk trick the Devil. There will be witches, a giant, a dragon and we will try to avoid the wicked Jinny Greenteeth!

As time is malleable, we will be travelling by various miraculous means – many of which can no longer be travelled on. From the transporter bridge and swing aqueduct to horse and carriage over Morecambe’s sands, we’ll take you on a journey around the wonderful County Palatine of Lancashire.

Let’s tarry no longer – mount up and let’s be off!

2

THE PHANTOM VOICE, SOUTHPORT

LILY: This story could be from anywhere along the golden coast of the north-west, however, it was retold in Southport by John Roby, and it is to Southport where we all arrive on horseback, from the south, the north, the east, or mysteriously cantering over the sands from the west.

We leave our horses to graze a grassy patch on Marine Drive then take the smart Southport Pier Tramway car the 1,216-yard trip over the sands to the end of the pier. Here Fred will tell us this chilling tale from these rose gold sands, the Phantom Voice.

The expansive coastline of Southport stretches for miles before you see the waves of the Irish Sea. The town itself, once a great resort, still has impressive natural surroundings. There’s the sharp tang of fish and chips in the air, and grand, brick houses are wrought with fancy ironwork.

But long ago, before Southport was a bustling holiday destination, there lived Bridget, who was the venerable, if eccentric, landlady of a local ale house. This pub was a moribund establishment, the only warmth and comfort coming from its blazing fires. The men came in to drink and contemplate the hardness of life. Around the well-lit bar area were twenty-one buxom brass mermaids. Fashioned to look the same, the aquatic sisters were sculpted, lounging back with one hand forever playing with long bronzed hair. These metallic sirens were supposed to represent several unfortunate souls who had lost their lives in a tragic sea accident. Bridget was known locally as a seer: one who could look into the future.

Who knew what she said about the fantastical goings on in her pub the night a young man came in with fear in his eyes, shivering and shaking like a thistle in the wind. The majority of the drinkers remembered that night for years, and the story passed into legend; the events of that evening engraved on their very souls. Many drank to try to forget it. Many drank to blot out the memories of the perils wrought along the barren tract of golden sand.

The current of the Irish Sea hits the water from the mouths of two mighty rivers, the Ribble and, further south, the Mersey. Shipwrecks were frequent in the area; nearly one hundred vessels had been wrecked within the last few decades, and especially at night when the sea mist was at its zenith.

It had been an unusually bright October day, the sort of warm autumnal weather that leads to a bone cold evening. The stars shone like polished pieces of bone. This was when a young man burst into the pub with wild eyes and an icy sweat on his brow. Bridget’s usual clientèle beheld him with silence, suspicion, and narrowed eyes. Even the usually smiling Bridget, her hankerings aside, momentarily ceased polishing the tankards.

The young man had been travelling on horseback along the sand dunes of the perilous coastal track of the oversands. His journey had led him from the north, over Morecambe Bay. Bridget, feeling slightly sorry for the lad, gave him a pint of beer and entreated him to repeat his tale to the now curious crowd …

I’ve travelled in on horseback, and I’ve not seen my steed for hours. Not since I found the horror on the shore. The night seems to fall faster in the north and I was soon lost in what seemed like a labyrinth of fern and sand. My route seemed circular and there appeared to be no discerning beacon nor object to direct me. My horse had slowed to a ramble and slowly picked his way through the succession of monotonous rising and falling dunes.

From the valley of sand I could barely see the stars and had a feeling that the low moan of the sea was portentous. I feared that my horse and I may be lost by a quick shift in the tide and my journey south would end in this unknown town.

This dread overtook my steed, and he stopped and stood stock-still. There was no sound save for the rush, the push of the sea. I dismounted and swear that the shifting sands made demonic patterns. I thought I heard a rustle and held my hand up to my ear to amplify the sound. But there was nothing; all I felt was my wet fringe, salted to my head. I tried to pull the horse along but he was having none of it. I feared he was an animal possessed; there was no moving him with sharp tugs on his bridle. I dismounted him and tried to lead him along.

Now, beyond the sea’s boom, I distinctly heard a sound. Maybe a fisherman out late, or perhaps another man with a need to be out at this hour? But there was terror in that voice that affected my senses too.

At intervals I made out a low, rasping voice, a voice which sounded like it bubbled in blood: ‘Murder! Murder!’ was the only thing this voice uttered, but in such agony that I had never heard before – like a voice from beyond the grave.

I clung to my horse, taking small relief in the heat from the blood of the animal. But the voice was getting louder, closer, more urgent. I thought that it was the end; that Death himself had come to claim me, or worse, some other diabolical fiend, the Devil himself. For I have heard tales of the Devil’s many dealings in Lancashire.

‘Murder! Murder!’ the voice repeated. I steeled myself; if I was to deal with Satan then I would do so with bravery and spirit in my heart.

Then, all of a sudden, I smelled and felt the rotten, clammy breath of one whom was no longer of this earth. I cried out, ‘What in the name of…?!’ Then there was a crash as if a body had fallen in front of me.

Although it shames me now, I have to admit that I closed my eyes and fell to my knees. I felt my horse bolt, the bridle slipping from my fingers. I crouched down, with eyes still firmly shut, and felt around me. I stretched out my hand and my fingers brushed something. I felt further forward and my hand rested on the cold face of a corpse. Where his eyes had been I felt a slimy trail.

I screamed – I entreat you that any other grown man would do the same – felt the blood rush to my head and heart. It was here that I fainted beside this abomination.

I have no idea how long I was out cold for. I woke in the hope that it was a dream, and that I was safe in the boarding house near Silverdale. But no, I was on chilled sand with the dead man. Once roused, I made out the features of the man – bloodstains silvered by the sliver of a quarter moon – and I ran up the first track I found.

I followed this track at speed and it brought me here. Seeing the friendly fire and hearing this pub’s merriment I felt that I would be safe to retell my tale.

The men and Bridget listened entranced, horrified by this macabre story. Some men laughed; they did not believe him. The young man then stared wildly around the room, ‘If anyone is man enough to come with me, I will show you where this poor wretch lies.’

Every eye was on the lad, some suspicious, some afraid. There was the unspoken agreement that if there was a body out there then the least it deserved was a proper burial, not to be left to the sport of foxes and marauding gulls.

Some of the men goaded each other, the scared looks palpable in some eyes. Some spoke loudly that the young man had probably encountered a boggart, or that perhaps he had partaken in flights of fancy so popular in pulp fiction.

There was a clanging noise. It was Kate, the teenage daughter of Bridget, who was taking down a lantern.

‘Yer nowt but a big bunch of cowards, shame on thee. I be gang down there, with this ’ere young lad, follow me if yer dare.’

With her cloak and slightly dilapidated lantern, Kate had shamed the assorted audience into action. Kate’s sweetheart, a sailor, manfully took his woman by her arm. She shook him off, she was nobody’s prize. Thus the crowd grew into a sizeable search party.

At the front of this strange, slightly inebriated party was the young man, Kate and her beau. Other men lurked behind, each trying to bolster the courage of his neighbour. They made their way in near silence, the young man narrowed his eyes in order to get used to the weak light from Kate’s lantern.

A dark movement elicited a sudden heart-stopping scream from the back of the crowd. Fortunately, it was nothing but a fine, chestnut horse: the young man’s mount. The young man was so pleased at being reacquainted with his friend that he stumbled over the moss of a dune and nearly trod on the torso of the crowd’s gory quarry: the body of the dead man.

Kate’s paramour was violently sick when he beheld the twisted features of the man, his eyes removed as if by the force of a blunt object. His final moments must have been of such agony, of such degradation. The young man threw his cloak over the body, and shivering, entreated the others to assist with moving the body back to Bridget’s tavern. Kate led the way back and this time, the strange procession was fully silent. It seemed that not even the tide would disrespect the quiet.

Upon returning to the pub, the body was laid upon a pallet in the outhouse. The young man was put to bed by Bridget and made as if to sleep. By now it was past midnight, and the young man could not sleep, his mind was troubled by the outcome of that violent crime. Although he had not witnessed how the poor man had been murdered, he felt moved to discover more.

As Bridget was closing up for the night, a violent storm raged. It was as if the weather wanted to have closure on this crime. The young man heard the meagre outhouse creak and groan, expecting that any second it would collapse on its poor inhabitant. The young man roused himself from his bed, the night making his quarters blacker than the soul of Old Nick himself. The sonorous sound of the rising tempest seemed to shake the pub, threatening to reduce the building back to its foundations.

Making his way back into the main body of the pub, the young man found Bridget and her daughter Kate clutched together, terrified. The fire in the hearth was dwindling, and Bridget was staring into it, lost in her mad ministries. Bridget gibbered and rocked as her daughter sat still and silently besides her. Kate said, ‘Me mother is a seer; she’s seen omens from the sea. She listens to the music of the dark, she ’eard the dead man sing a song of murder.’

As if in agreement, Bridget moaned as the waves crashed something weighty upon the shore.

‘It’s there, again, again! Poor wretch aboard, drop into the water with your death yell.’ Bridget cried.

Both the young man and Kate made to the window and beheld a small vessel bobbing violently on the surface of the swell. It was now that the storm died down, and both the maid and the young man, in unspoken agreement, made to prepare out to see if they could save a life, even though one had already been lost that night. Kate grabbed the horn lamp once more and they left the quivering Bridget to her under-breath mutterings.

They ran back towards the beach, stumbling, slipping and sinking in the wet sand, back down the track near where the body was discovered. They heard a crowd by the shore, and by the dim light of the horn made out that some of the voices came from the denizens of the pub now sobered and ready for action. The clouds knotted above them like a furrowed brow, and there between the light of the moon and Kate’s horn lamp, the outline of a small wrecked ship was discernible. A pencil sketch on slate.

The forms of the crowd were men and women, fishermen, the pub drinkers, all from the local community perhaps showing spirit in rescuing the boat’s single inhabitant. Or perhaps there for plundering from under the protesting, last gasps of its owner.

And there he was, gasping like a fish in air. He looked as if he belonged to the sea and the crowd had stolen him from it. He looked exhausted, his eyes bloodshot and wild. He was half-carried, half-dragged by the young man and a couple of assembled crowd members. The crowd went to rip the boat apart grabbing what they could from it, like carrion to an old kill.

The lucky sailor was taken to the pub where Bridget warily gave him a pint of strong spirits to revive him. The man groaned deeply as he retold his tale, ‘I’m nearly done in, all me crew are gone to Davy Jones. As I saw the crew go down I tied mesel’ to a jib. But I’m knackered as now, and need me rest. I’ll tell thee more in t’morn.’

The only space in the small pub where the guest could comfortably sleep was next to the corpse in the outhouse. Feeling that the sea captain would not mind so quiet a companion, Kate lead on to his berth.

The captain was not best pleased at the concept of passing the night with a corpse; it seemed like the least unpleasant alternative (that being in the smelly stables with the horses). He was assisted to his chamber where they would help move the corpse from the pallet to change occupants so he may pass the night in a more comfortable manner.

He was helped up to his rude bed. Then he let out a piercing and terrible shriek. The captain sat bolt upright next to the corpse, his eyeballs protruding where the corpse’s did not, his face set in mortal dread. While expecting the bravest of men to be fearful of the dead man, this was something altogether different. The captain’s eyes were fixed on the dead man as if in cold recognition.

‘I know that man. Aye! Indeed I do; yesterday he were at t’helm of boat. Long has he bin insubordinate and long have I born him a grudge. I plotted revenge I did. Late last afternoon we were alone on deck and ’e lunged. I aimed a blow. Knocked ’im clean out. I plunged a nearby boat hook into his hateful eyes and pushed him o’erboard. As I did, I heard a moan, it struck me deeply like tolling of a dull bell, that word: MURDER! I swear I heard it now! Jus’ as I lifted ’is shroud!’

With this confession, there was nothing else for it; he himself admitted he had little left to live for. In the morning, justice came for the captain and he was put to death for the crime that he took brief, bitter-sweet pleasure in committing.

LILY: Still trembling from the story, we return to our horses and canter through the flat, fertile horticultural landscape to the magnificent Wetland Centre at Martin Mere. We spread a tarpaulin by the banks of Martin Mere, at the time of our next story the largest body of fresh water in England, and sit to hear a tale of Sir Lancelot du Lac.

3

SIR LANCELOTAND SIR TARQUIN, MARTIN MERE

FRED: Sir Lancelot, you may be surprised to hear, has a close association with the county. ‘Lanc’ is the Celtic term for a spear, and ‘lot’ refers to the people of the land, hence ‘Lancelot’s shire’ or as it is known today ‘Lancashire’. Lily will tell his tale …

In the turbulent times following the Roman withdrawal, marauding bands laid waste the land and its people, until King Arthur emerged as a commanding leader to fill the power vacuum and subdue the marauders.

In the north, the remnant of British knights invited the Saxons to help repulse the violent incursions of Picts and Scots, but the perfidious Saxons appropriated the land for themselves and turned the British knights out of their castles.

The greatest, cruellest and most treacherous of the Saxon knights was Sir Tarquin, who dwelt in a castle of great strength, which he had gained by treachery from a British knight. The castle was surrounded by vast ramparts, flanked by high and stately towers. Sir Tarquin was a knight of brutal aspect, gigantic stature and prodigious strength. It is so fabled that each day for his morning repast he devoured an infant child, its little legs still thrashing as they slid between his pitiless lips.

To contend with the marauding bands, and later the usurping Saxons, King Arthur commissioned a force of brave knights, spearheaded by his Knights of the Round Table, foremost of whom was named Sir Lancelot du Lac.

As an infant, Lancelot had been overlooked by his mother Queen Helen while she cradled her dying husband King Ban of Benoit in her arms. King Ban lay dying of grief to see his besieged, beloved castle in flames.

With the far-sightedness given by living his life backwards, Merlin the Magician knew there was a time of terror and turmoil to come. He conjured deep and powerful magic to prepare the land for this time, aided by his mistress, the nymph Viviane.

With Queen Helen despairing and distracted, Viviane spirited the infant Lancelot away and bore him over the seas to the deep, wide waters of Martin Mere, and down into its fabulous subterraneous caverns, where she held her court. There she raised him, tutoring him to be the finest, bravest knight in all the land, against the chaotic and tumultuous times to come. At the age of eighteen she raised him from the waters of the lake and presented him at the court of King Arthur.

The young warrior quickly proved his mettle and was invested with the badge of knighthood. His person, prowess, and unparalleled gallantry won the heart of many a fair damsel in this splendid abode of chivalry and romance. He was acknowledged as the finest, bravest knight in all the land, and fulfilled his prophetic name Lancelot du Lac, ruler of Lancelot’s shire, the one who had emerged from the lake of Martin Mere, to face this time of trial.

In the bloody war between King Arthur’s knights and the Saxons, the country was ravaged by fire and sword, and many puissant knights were slain or incarcerated. Sir Tarquin boasted of no mean success – he had threescore and four British knights held in thrall, chained to the walls of his deepest, darkest dungeon.

Sir Lancelot du Lac was at Shrewsbury’s fair town, in mortal combat with Sir Carados, a ferocious giant of a Saxon knight and brother to Sir Tarquin. After seven hours of battle, Lancelot hewed Carados down like a blasted elm. Lancelot, casting himself upon the ground exhausted, was carried from thence by enchantment, and on waking found himself in an unknown forest, where he sojourned a while.

At the forest edge was a vast trackless wilderness, devoid of birdsong or habitation, where he saw a damsel of such inexpressible and ravishing beauty that none might behold her without the most heart-stirring delight and admiration. To this maiden did Sir Lancelot address himself, but she hid her face and fell a-weeping. He then enquired the cause of her dolour, when she bade him flee, for his life was in great jeopardy.

‘Oh, Sir Knight!’ uncovering her face as she spoke, ‘The giant Tarquin, who liveth hereabout, like the dragon of yore entailed a desert round his dwelling. So fierce and rapacious is he that no man durst live beside him, save that he hold his life and property of too mean account, and too worthless for the taking. Thou wert as good as dead should he espy thee so near his castle. Flee! Flee!’

Lancelot had heard of how this Sir Tarquin was playing the eagle in its eyrie amongst his companions and brethren of the Round Table: gaining from the powerful and the wealthy, and watching and biding his time before an attack.

‘What!’ said the knight, ‘and shall Sir Lancelot du Lac flee before this false and cruel tyrant? To this purpose am I come, that I may slay and make an end of him at once, and deliver the captive knights from his dungeon.’

‘Art thou, indeed, Sir Lancelot?’ said the damsel, joy suddenly starting through her tears, ‘Then is our deliverance nearer than we dared hope. Thy fame is gone before thee into all lands, and thy might and thy prowess none may withstand. This evil one, Sir Tarquin, hath taken captive many a true knight who betook himself to this adventure, and now lieth in chains and foul ignominy, without hope of release, till death break off his fetters.’

‘Beshrew me,’ said Lancelot, ‘but I will deliver them presently, and cut off the foul tyrant’s head, or lose mine own by the attempt.’

He followed the maiden to a river’s brink, near to where, as tradition still reports, Knott Mill now stands. Having mounted her upon his steed, she pointed out a path over the ford, beyond which he soon espied the castle, a vast and stately building of rugged stone, like a huge crown upon the hilltop, presenting a gentle ascent from the stream.

Now did Sir Lancelot alight, as well to assist his companion as to bethink himself what course to pursue. However, the damsel showed him a high tree, about a stone’s throw from the ditch before the castle, whereon hung a goodly array of accoutrements, with many fine and costly shields, on which were displayed a variety of fair and fanciful devices, the property of the knights then held in durance by Sir Tarquin. Below them all hung a copper basin, on which was carved the inscription: ‘Who valueth not his life a whit, Let him this magic basin hit.’

This so enraged Sir Lancelot that he drove at the vessel violently with his spear, piercing it through and through, so vigorous was the assault. The clangour was loud, and anxiously did the knight await some reply to his summons. Yet there was no answer, nor was there any stir about the walls or outworks. It seemed as though Sir Tarquin was his own castellan, skulking there alone, like the cunning spider watching for his prey.

Silence, with her vast, unmoving wings, appeared to brood over the place, and the echo, which gave back their summons from the walls, seemed to labour for utterance through the void by which they were encompassed – a stillness so appalling might needs discourage the hot and fiery purpose of Sir Lancelot. But this knight, unused but to the rude clash of arms and the mêlée of battle, did marvel exceedingly at the forbearance of the enemy.

Yet he still rode round about the fortress, expecting that someone should come forth to inquire his business, and this he did, to and fro, for a long space. As he was just minded to return from so fruitless an adventure, he saw a cloud of dust at some distance, and presently he beheld a knight galloping furiously towards him. Coming nigh, Sir Lancelot was aware that a captive knight lay before him, bound hand and foot, bleeding and sore wounded.

‘Villain!’ cried Sir Lancelot, ‘and unworthy the name of a true and loyal knight, how darest thou do this insult and contumely to an enemy, who, though fallen, is yet thine equal! I will make thee rue this foul despite, and avenge the wrongs of my brethren of the Round Table.’

‘If thou be for so brave a meal,’ said Tarquin, ‘thou shalt have thy fill, and that speedily. I shall first cut off thy head, and then serve up thy carcase to the Round Table, for both that and thee I do utterly defy!’

‘This is over-dainty food for thy sending,’ replied Sir Lancelot hastily, and with that they couched their spears.

The first rush was over, but man and horse had withstood the shock. Again they fell back, measuring the distance with an eager and impetuous glance, and again they rushed on, as if to overwhelm each other by main strength, when, as fortune would have it, their lances shivered, both of them at once, in the rebound. The end of Sir Lancelot’s spear, as it broke, struck his adversary’s steed on the shoulder, and caused him to fall suddenly, as if sore wounded. Sir Tarquin leaped nimbly from off his back, which Sir Lancelot espying, cried out, ‘Now will I show thee proper courtesy, for, by mine honour and the faith of a true knight, I shall not slay thee at this foul advantage.’