Leicestershire and Rutland Folk Tales E-Book

Leicestershire Guild of Storytelling

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

Seitenzahl: 246

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

These lively and entertaining folk tales from one of Britain's most ancient counties are vividly retold by Leicestershire Guild of Storytelling. Their origins lost in the oral tradition, these thirty stories from Leicestershire and Rutland reflect the wisdom (and eccentricities) of the counties and its people. Leicestershire and Rutland have a rich and diverse collection of tales, from stories of epic battles and heroic deeds to legends of mythical creatures and ghostly goings-on. These stories, illustrated with twenty-five line drawings, bring alive the landscape of the counties' rolling hills and fertile plains. Leicestershire Guild of Storytelling is a group of professional storytellers who have been collecting and telling traditional stories for fifteen years. They regularly organise festivals and storytelling events.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Title

Map

Introduction

1

GOSSIP

The Monk of Leicester (LW)

The Tailor of Leicester (LW)

Nicodemus (KC)

Beeby Tub (MC)

St Wistan (JJ)

The Griffin of Griffydam (TJ)

Simon De Montfort (LW)

2

MORE GOSSIP

Parson Pike (KC)

The Leicester Chambermaid (KC)

The Ram Jam Inn (JJ)

Swift Nick Nevison (JJ)

High Cockalorum (JJ)

The Ballad of the Oakham Poachers (MC)

3

THE UNEXPLAINED

Four Eggs a Penny (JJ)

Richard Smith – Saddler (TJ)

The Witches of Belvoir (KC)

Harry’s Bus (MC)

The Haymarket Affair (JJ)

The Ghost of Brooksby Hall (JJ)

4

WITCHES, GIANTSAND BOGEYMEN

Black Annis (LW)

The Shag Dog (TJ)

The Witch of Edmondthorpe Hall (TJ)

Rats Castle (JJ)

Bel The Giant (TJ)

5

GUILDHALL ENTERTAINERS

King Leir (JJ)

The King’s Bed (TJ)

6

UNFORTUNATE MAIDENS

The Silver Slippers (LW)

Red Comyn (KC)

The Red Wolf of Charnwood (KC)

Lady Jane Grey (KC)

The Trap (TJ)

The Mistletoe Bough (KC)

Branwen, Daughter of Llyr (LW)

7

LEGENDARY LOCALS

George Davenport (JJ)

The Elephant Man (MC)

The Horseshoes at Oakham Castle (MC)

Jeffrey Hudson (LW)

Daniel Lambert (MC)

Laurence Shirley, Earl Ferrers (KC)

An Ordinary Woman (LW)

Bibliography

Copyright

Rutland, the country’s smallest county, has, throughout history, been closely connected with Leicestershire. As recently as 1974 until 1997, Rutland was part of Leicestershire. However, after a well-fought campaign it is now a proudly independent county. It seemed appropriate, therefore, to include tales from Rutland with those from Leicestershire.

INTRODUCTION

Some twenty years ago, having already spent a few years telling stories in schools, I realised that there was an upsurge of many different storytelling events – storytelling for everyone that is, not just for youngsters – happening in Leicester. We had already established a regular pub meeting, ‘Lies and Legends’, at the Rainbow & Dove; NATE storytellers at the School of Education were active; Earthtales, the first environmental storytelling events, were about to take place; and Leicester’s fledgling Comedy Festival had included some storytelling evenings in their programme. But, above all, the Phoenix Arts Centre had booked the Company of Storytellers – Ben Haggarty, Sally Pomme Clayton and Hugh Lupton – to present ‘The Three Snake Leaves’, after which Ben would be leading two workshops. From the December of 1994 and the end of February 1995 there would be nineteen storytelling performances, workshops or discussions around the theme of the told story in Leicester.

At about this time I happened to be showing a friend the sights in Leicester. I took her into the Guildhall and found that there was a fire set in the great fireplace, all ready for an evening meeting. Looking around at the space, and imagining the fire lit, I knew that this would be the most wonderful place in which to hear stories told. Leicester already had stories in pubs – informal, and with lots of room for contributions from the floor – tales could be heard in woods and outdoors (Earthtales), and children and teachers were well catered for by NATE. There was one thing missing – a regular series of performance storytelling events: a programme of storytellers from around the world, telling the traditional tales of the past and the great myths of the beginnings of time. There could be no better place to host such a programme than the Guildhall.

We owe much to Nick Ladlaw, the Guildhall manager at that time, and to all the staff, for, without exception, they were highly enthusiastic and unbelievably helpful in their response to my suggestion that we might present an evening of stories in front of the fire in the Great Hall. So it was that in the winter of 1995 I carried a four-branched lighted candleholder down the stairs leading from the Old Town Library, into the packed Great Hall, to tell a selection of stories entitled ‘Magical Women’: the first event in the programme of storytelling at the Guildhall.

With so much happening in the city and around, it seemed important to bring together the information concerning these different events, so I put together an initial leaflet (very amateur) and with Nick’s help, and encouragement from Oliver Savage of Environ and Judy Hughes of the Phoenix Theatre, organised a meeting at which the Guild of Storytelling was formed. Our aim, as stated on the first professionally produced leaflet, is ‘to promote storytelling both as an art form and in its educational uses through coordination of publicity and joint promotion of events’. And storytelling in Leicester was set to flourish. In the nature of things, some events came to an end; but for the next twelve years a programme of performance storytelling at the Guildhall became a well-attended and much appreciated feature of the arts scene in the city. We have heard performers from India, New Zealand, France and the USA. We have also heard Aboriginal tellers, Gipsy tellers and many others. And, of course, storytellers from the four corners of the British Isles, telling traditional tales, comic stories, ancient Greek myths, stories with music and stories with food. To all we owe a heartfelt thanks, but special thanks must go to the Company of Storytellers – Ben, Pomme and Hugh – who have entertained and delighted us so many times over the years and have taught both audiences and other storytellers just how powerful the told story can be.

The Guild of Storytelling itself has grown smaller over time and has concentrated on the programme at the Guildhall. A small group of us have devised programmes, filled in funding applications, organised publicity and raised funds to support the programme by group performances. So it seemed right that when we were approached to put together folk tales of Leicestershire and Rutland that this too should be a group effort. In reading these stories you will hear five different voices; these voices belong to Kath Chalk, Mike Chalk, Jill Jobson, Terry Jobson and Liza Watts. We hope that you enjoy them.

Thanks must also go to the many storytellers who have travelled to the Guildhall in Leicester, and to the people who, over the years, have been part of the Guild, but have since moved away or moved on to better things.

Liza Watts

1

GOSSIP

Close by the cathedral church of St Martin stands an ancient building with steeply pitched roofs – Leicester’s Guildhall, one of the best-preserved timber-framed halls in the country. An historic building of importance nationally, it is still in constant use.

The oldest part of the building, the eastern bay of the Great Hall, dates back to around 1390 and was built by the newly formed Guild of Corpus Christi. The Guild was a lay religious body of men who worshipped together in their chapel in the church of St Martin’s, supported each other in times of bereavement or need, and feasted together in celebration of religious festival days. An important group of men, the Guild of Corpus Christi was to become a powerful force in the life of medieval Leicester. Extended over the centuries, Corpus Christi Hall remained the meeting place of the Guild until the Dissolution of the Monasteries in the reign of King Henry VIII. The building then became the town hall and remained the centre of the town’s governance until a new town hall was built on Horse Fair in 1876. The old town hall is known today simply as the Guildhall.

Standing in the Great Hall, with the cold of the flagstoned floor underfoot and the dark timbers of the roof trusses above, the noise of our twenty-first-century city is muffled. The stairs leading from the hall to the Old Town Library creak, though no one treads them, and there is a powerful sense of long-gone times.

There are two fireplaces in the hall; the later one has a stone overmantel and is still used on occasion. The building originally had an earth floor, probably rush-strewn, and was heated by an open hearth in the centre of the hall. Smoke from this fire would have drifted upwards, finding its way out through the roof. Lift the removable flagstone, and a glass covering now sits atop the pit of this ancient hearth. The jawbone of a boar can be seen in the hearth – the discarded remains of a feast, bones thrown aside by our medieval forebears as they gathered about their fire, coughing, spitting, chewing at pieces of meat, and gossiping.

Gossip. The lifeblood of the told story. And the subject of that gossip? All too often the Church, the priest, or the monks of the abbey, and the curious stories and strange beliefs which cling to the lives of the devout, the saintly.

THE MONKOF LEICESTER

There was once, in old Leicester, a monk of the abbey that lay in that town. Of middling years, he was of more than middling height and of goodly weight and bore before him a fine round belly. His face it too was round, with coloured cheeks. His hands they were small, white and plump with well-trimmed nails, for he was a scribe and spent long hours with quill and colour, labouring at the manuscripts of the abbey.

Now, as he sat penning his fffs and his ttts, he would pause and gaze at his plump white hand, and then the Devil tempted him with visions; visions of that hand laid not upon the parchment, but rather upon a soft white thigh, a full round breast. For our monk, by name Dan Hugh, was a lusty and lascivious monk, much given to ogling the young maidens and to waylaying the wives and widows of the town.

He had, at the time of my tale, caught glimpses of a certain young woman newly arrived in Leicester. Small and slender, with a delicate upturned nose and eyes that seemed to laugh at the world around her, she was the bride of a wealthy and somewhat elderly tailor of the town. Dan Hugh was much taken with her; there was none so fair, so exciting, in all of Leicester. He was determined; he would have some dalliance with the plump and comely young woman. He would accost the tailor’s wife, come what may.

As he went about the town he watched for her, and one day found her in the marketplace, buying fish for her husband’s table. He stood close, too close, peered down at her, breathed into her face and began to sing:

A monk there was in Leicester as I’ve heard many tell

He saw a handsome witty wife, and loved her full well.

Knowing the song, and not liking to hear it so misquoted, she blushed and tried to push past him. He blocked her way.

‘Come my beauty, walk with me.’

‘Hush sir, let me pass. Let me be, I beg you.’

Walking as fast as she could – he still at her heels, urging his suit and proclaiming his love so loud that all around could hear – she tried to escape him. Embarrassed and harassed, angry yet tearful, she turned to face him just as Dan Hugh managed to reach out and clasp her round the waist. As he did so he whispered, ‘See the purse at my belt? It has gold coins, two golden pieces. One for you my love, when you grant me my desire.’

Now, though newly-wed and loving her husband just as any good wife should, the young woman had realised very soon after her wedding that her bridegroom was overly careful with his wealth. The gold coin in the purse at the monk’s belt would be most useful. She paused and looked at the monk, ‘Come tomorrow, at noon, when my husband will be from home.’

Happy, Dan Hugh released his hold of her, stepped back and bowed. She walked swiftly home.

At home the tailor questioned her, ‘Come wife, what news from the market?’

‘Why husband, news of a most importunate, lusty monk.’

‘What of that monk, wife?’

‘He comes here tomorrow to make love to your wife.’

‘Indeed. And you, wife, would play me false would you?’

‘No sir, that I would not. And therefore I beg that you be at home before noon tomorrow, and let me hide you in the closet before sir monk is come.’

‘And what then my witty wife?’

‘You shall be witness to my honesty, and spring out to save me.’

The next day Dan Hugh made his way to the house of the tailor, and, taking the woman in his arms, dangled the purse before her eyes.

‘Now my beauty, let us make fine sport together.’

‘Indeed sir, but first allow me to put your purse away, lest in our enjoyment and delight the golden coins from your purse should roll to the floor and be lost between the boards.’

Taking the purse with its two golden coins, she went to the closet and opened it. Then out sprang the tailor with a cudgel in his hand and straightaway began to beat the monk about the head. Two blows, three blows, four, and the monk staggered, swayed and fell to the floor.

Dead. Quite dead. Thus was Dan Hugh first slain.

‘Alas husband, is he dead?’ cried the wife. ‘What’s to be done with him? We shall surely be hanged if he be discovered here. Husband, let me think. Hush now, never fear. I have it. When it has grown dark, you must take this false priest to the abbey. Soon he will begin to stiffen. Stand him against the wall by the gate to the abbey.’

So, in the darkness, the tailor did as his wife had instructed him and carried the body of the monk back to the abbey and left him leaning nonchalantly against the old stone wall.

Near midnight the abbot, calling for Dan Hugh and not finding him anywhere within the abbey, bade a young novice to accompany him and set out to find Hugh. As the two went out the gate, they saw the figure of the monk propped up against the wall.

‘Rogue, art thou drunk? Why dost thou neglect the holy service? Come speak. What no explanation? No word? Then I’ll box your ears to open your mouth,’ and the abbot clenched his fists and pummelled him about the head till once more Dan Hugh fell to the ground.

Dead. Well and truly dead. Thus was he slain a second time.

‘Sir Abbot! You have killed Dan Hugh.’

‘Aye, he’s dead indeed. But he must most certainly not be found here. A gold piece for you to take him and put him elsewhere. Aye, let the good monk be found anywhere but here by the abbey.’

Now, the novice had watched Dan Hugh follow the tailor’s wife, and understood the monk’s lecherous intentions. He knew, also, that the tailor was an extremely jealous husband, quite capable of wounding, or even killing, any man he suspected of having designs on his young wife. So the novice took the body back to the tailor’s house and left it just outside the door. In his sleep the tailor stirred, heard a scuffling at his door, woke, climbed out of bed and peered from the window. In the darkness he did not see the novice creep away, but could just make out the shape of a body at his door.

‘Wife, wife, the monk! The monk – he has come back to trouble us! Alas, alas wife. Now what’s to be done? For sure the dead can walk.’

‘Let me think, husband. Hush, hush now. What’s to be done with this importunate dead monk? I have it. You shall put the wretch in a sack and cast him into the river. Hurry, before it grows light.’

So the tailor took the sack, stuffed with the goodly weight of the monk’s body, through the dark streets of Leicester. He was nearing the mill which stood at a bend in the river, and he could hear the rush of the mill race, when he saw the door to the miller’s house open. Fearing to be seen with his burden, the tailor dropped the sack and fled, running as fast as he could for home. However, it was not the burly miller who emerged from the mill; it was a thief. And the thief, Sammy by name, was also carrying a sack. In this sack was a fine side of bacon stolen from the miller’s kitchen, for Sammy’s wife was particularly partial to a slice or two of fat bacon to eat with her tea.

Sammy was creeping away with the bacon when the dogs began to bark. A window was flung open and the miller thrust his head out and roared, ‘Thief! Stop thief, stop. Stop villain.’ Terrified, Sammy threw away his burden and hid himself under a bush. The miller came out from his house, carrying a lighted candle, and began to search for the thief. But then the wind got up, and quite suddenly the candle was blown out. The miller retired back to his bed, cursing the dark night, the wind, and all thieving rascals.

When all was quiet, out from his hiding place crept Sammy, and he felt around in the darkness for the sack. Finding it at last he hurried off home to wake his wife and to feast upon fat bacon. ‘A feast, in the middle of the night, my dear.’

She was so hungry for bacon that she could barely wait to draw water and put on the kettle. After opening the sack with a knife, she plunged her hand in. No bacon there; instead – oh horror, horror – a dead monk.

‘Merciful heavens – you have killed Dan Hugh and we shall both be hanged if it be discovered.’

‘But wife, I had this sack from the miller’s kitchen. It was not I that killed the good monk; it must be the miller that did this deed. I shall return it to him now, while it is still night. It must hang again on the hook in his kitchen.’

So was Dan Hugh twice slain and once hung.

Early the next day the miller’s wife went to cut her husband a slice of the bacon but found, in its stead, the body of the monk. Calling the miller, they considered what to do, and agreed it was best to send him back to the abbey.

They put an old helmet on the dead man’s head, found a shield to strap about his chest, and put a sword in his hand. Then they bound him so that he sat, straight as any warrior knight, upon the back of their best donkey. Next the miller led the animal to the gate of the abbey and waited. When the gate opened he whipped the donkey so that she brayed loudly and galloped into the courtyard of the abbey. At the same time the miller blew on his horn and cried out, ‘Wake, wake my masters! An enemy is come to put all to the sword, arm yourselves.’

The monks were thrown into confusion, gathered what weapons they could find and ran out to do battle. They thrust swords at the figure on the donkey, hurled stones and shot arrows at the rider, till Dan Hugh crashed to the ground.

Dead. Absolutely dead. Thus was the monk of Leicester once hung and three times slain.

And so our story ends, for this time his fellow monks they buried him. They buried that lusty monk with prayers, with ‘bell, book and candle’, so that, as far as we know, he remained thereafter well and truly dead and buried.

THE TAILOROF LEICESTER

And here is yet another story of our lusty monk of Leicester. Was there such a man, one wonders?

A tailor lived in Leicester as I’ve heard many tell

He had a handsome witty wife who loved him full well

But he was touched with jealousy, as often you may hear

Which made that handsome witty wife for to shed many a tear.

And after she had wiped the tear from her eye, that handsome, witty wife sat herself down by the fire and considered by what means she could cure her husband of his excessive jealousy. The fire crackled and she could hear the soup, which was simmering in the pot above the flames, begin to bubble and boil. She took a spoon and stirred. Potatoes, onions, a good handful of thyme from the garden, and the fine fat carp that she had bought from the market early that very morning. She stirred slowly, carefully, and as she stirred a plan began to form in her head.

It was soon time to remove the bones from the bubbling soup. The flesh slipped easily, gently, from the bones as she pulled the fishy skeleton from out the pot. Now she knew what she must do; the next time the monk Don Hugh, who plagued her so with his unwanted attentions, approached her, she would seem to listen kindly to his protestations of love, would seem to welcome these attentions. She would invite him to visit her, to dine with her one evening when her husband was supposedly away from home. In the meantime she must warn the tailor, and persuade him to secrete himself in the closet on the fateful evening and leap out to save her from the lusty monk. Her honesty in the face of an admirer’s advances would surely restore the tailor’s faith in her honour.

So, one evening, the monk made his way to the house of the tailor. The tailor was well hidden in the closet. Once again the wife had cooked a dish of boiled carp and she and the monk were seated at the table. In the closet the tailor could hear snatches of their talk, then the clink of spoons and the slurp of soup being supped. The rich smell of onions and carp seeped into the closet, tickling the tailor’s nose, tempting his taste buds. He could bear it no longer. Was it his greed, or was it the need to save the honour of his handsome wife, that drove the tailor to burst from his hiding place brandishing a very large cudgel and lunge at the monk?

Startled, Don Hugh gulped down an enormous, succulent mouthful of carp soup, coughed, spluttered and struggled for breath. A fish bone had clamped itself firmly inside his throat. A very large and persistent bone; a stubborn and determined bone. The monk gasped, struggled, turned bright red, then white and then blue and fell to the floor. He lay twisting, squirming on the floor until, at last, his body ceased its writhing and the lusty monk was dead.

The tailor looked at his wife. ‘Oh wife, what have we done? Most surely he is dead, and we shall both be hanged.’

‘Courage, my dear, take courage, for none know that he was to come here. Let us carry him back to the abbey, so it may appear he died of eating fish from the monks’ table.’

The tailor put the body on a small cart and wheeled it through the dark streets of Leicester to the abbey. There he leaned Don Hugh against the old stone wall and crept back home, where he settled down to what was left of the dish of boiled carp.

Later that night the abbot’s serving man was returning to the abbey after a very happy evening in the alehouse, when he spotted the body leaning against the wall. He greeted the figure, but got no answer. This silence on the part of the monk enraged the servant and, being as they say ‘in his cups’, he set about beating the body till it slumped to the ground. Don Hugh did not stir. The serving man kicked at the body. Still no response, no movement. He peered into the monk’s face and realised that this was a very dead monk. ‘Alas, alas, he’s dead, so help me Lord. Dead by my hand and I shall surely hang for it. Dead, dead. Alas and woe to me.’

Now the serving man remembered what manner of monk Don Hugh had been. A lusty and greedy monk, much given to all carnal delights, to the pleasures of the flesh and of drink and food, especially to the enjoyment of sweet things, cakes and sweetmeats. And so he thought it would be good to put the body near to the baker’s shop.

In the darkness, the serving man stumbled over a stone, dropped the body and then blindly endeavoured to stand the dead man next to the door of the bakery. Hearing the noise, the baker woke from sleep, climbed from his warm bed and peered out of his window. In the dim light, the baker saw a figure apparently intent upon entering his shop. Immediately, he seized the chamber pot and hurled it at the intruder. The baker’s aim was good; he hit his target and the apparent thief toppled to the ground and lay there, unmoving.

Very pleased with himself, the baker hurried downstairs to apprehend the thief, but was much dismayed to find him dead. ‘I never intended to kill the fellow. Most surely I will hang for this. Must move the body. Let me think. Here’s the river close by, there be sacks in the mill. He shall go into a sack and thence into the river.’

And Don Hugh was cast into the water; first he sank to the bottom, then he rose and, escorted by shoals of fish, slowly, lazily, he drifted downstream. There the constable fished him from the water, and saw that the sack was marked Finest White Flour. Who but a baker would have sacks marked Finest White Flour? The baker was promptly arrested, taken before the justice and sentenced to hang.

The gallows stood ready, the justice waited, and an eager crowd was gathering. The constable led out the convicted man, the hangman stood ready with the noose, the priest prayed the last prayer and the baker prepared to meet his maker. The noose was put round his neck and the crowd grew silent when, in the silence, up spoke the abbot’s serving man. ‘Stop! Don’t hang the baker, hang me. ’Twas I that cudgelled the monk to death, for he would not speak and angered me with his silence. Don’t hang the baker. Hang me.’

And now the justice pronounced the baker innocent, and on the guilty serving man he passed sentence of death by hanging. The priest prayed the last prayer, the hangman took the noose from round the neck of the baker and placed it round the neck of the serving man, and the serving man made ready to meet his maker. The jeering and the laughter of the crowd stilled. They waited. And in the silence, up spoke the tailor. ‘Stop! Don’t hang the serving man, for it was at my house the monk died. Don’t hang the serving man. Hang me.’

And the judge was adjusting his black cap, was preparing to pronounce sentence upon the tailor, when ‘Stop!’ cried the tailor’s wife. ‘Don’t hang the serving man, don’t hang the baker, and don’t hang my husband. Hang me, for I cooked the carp that harboured the bone that lodged in the throat that choked the monk.’

Now the justice looked at the constable, the constable looked at the hangman, the hangman looked the crowd and the crowd just looked at the gallows, till in the silence a small voice could be heard. ‘Stop! Don’t hang the tailor, don’t hang the tailor’s wife. Don’t hang the baker, don’t hang the serving man. Hang the fish, hang the carp, hang the fish bone.’

And they did just that. After, that is, the whole sorry saga had been reported to the King, who demanded to hear the story not once, not twice, but three times, and laughed and laughed and laughed. And when the King had wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes, he declared that henceforth, every year, upon the anniversary of the day, he would dine only upon the finest dish in the land – a dish of onions with boiled carp.

NICODEMUS

In the late nineteenth century, George Sanders and his sister Selina lived in the village of Cossington in a house near the village pound. George had some very strange habits. He would wrap his head in a towel and parade around the streets in a long, light-coloured coat that swept the ground as he walked. He had deep staring eyes and long, dark, straggly hair. His appearance and behaviour frightened the local children and disconcerted many of the adults. He was so odd that the villagers called him Nicodemus; a strange name to fit a strange man.

Though Nicodemus was never known to go out to work, he seemed to live as well as anyone else in the village. On Sunday he went twice to the parish church. There he was given money from the poor box. On Monday he was to be seen at Mass at Ratcliffe College, professing himself a Catholic. On Wednesday he was a Primitive Methodist, worshipping in a nearby village. And by Friday he had become a Baptist, attending meetings at any distant village to which the carrier’s cart could convey him. He did very well, as they say!