Shropshire Folk Tales E-Book

Amy Douglas

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

Seitenzahl: 274

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

In places, Shropshire has traditional patchwork fields and hedgerows; in others, small villages and market towns with black and white half-timbered buildings. But it also has places that are still wild – hills where heather and bracken cling to the rocks while peewits call overhead and strange rock formations jut to the sky, casting their shadows over the countryside below. The thirty stories in this new collection have grown out of the county's diverse landscapes: tales of the strange and macabre; memories of magic and other worlds; proud recollections of folk history; stories to make you smile, sigh and shiver. Moulded by the land, weather and generations of tongues wagging, these traditional tales are full of Shropshire wit and wisdom, and will be enjoyed time and again.

Leseprobe

AMY DOUGLAS

ILLUSTRATED BY LYNN RUST

To Chloe, these stories are for you to read and keep. I hope they will keep you company, guide you on your journey and remind you that though sometimes the world can be a dark place, it is also a place of joy, wonder and magic

and

To Sal; my friend, confidante and co-conspirator, for your keen eye and sound judgement. Your open-hearted listening has been an inspiration

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

© Amy Douglas, 2011

The right of Amy Douglas, 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 7045 0

MOBI ISBN 978 0 7524 7046 7

Original typesetting by The History Press

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Introduction

Map of Shropshire

One: In the Beginning

The Making of the Wrekin

Severn

Two: Saints and Sinners

Saint Milburga

Wild Will of Wenlock

Humphrey Kynaston

Ippikin

Three: A County Divided

Major’s Leap

The Lost Bells of Colemere

The Women of Wem

Four: Wily Women and the Devil’s Brew

Betty Fox and the Treasure

Nellie in the Churchyard

The Wenlock Devil

Nanny Morgan

Five: Foxes, Hounds and the Wild Hunt

Tom Moody

The Fox’s Knob

The Stolen Cup

The Hound on the Hill

Six: Watery Women and a Woodland Maiden

The Asrai

Morwen of the Woodlands

Mrs Ellis

Seven: Strange Hauntings

The White Lady of Oteley

The Boogies and the Saltbox

The Roaring Bull of Bagbury

Madam Pigott

Eight: Life and Death

The Prison Chaplain

Thomas Elks and the Ravens

The Shrewsbury Blacksmith

The Death of Dick Spot

Nine: A Hero’s Tale

Fulk Fitz Warine

Ten: A Shropshire Toast

The Devil and the Stiperstones

Sources and Notes

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

There are a large number of people whose support, enthusiasm, knowledge and generosity have helped make this book possible.

The oral tradition is alive and well in Shropshire. A wealth of heritage, wisdom and folklore is held in the memories of local communities. I’d like to thank everyone who has shared snippets and titbits of stories, anecdotes and memories.

I am particularly in debt to Mike Rust, who has been a tireless proponent for storytelling in Shropshire. He was a founding member of the storytelling club ‘Tales at the Edge’, the storytelling festival ‘Festival at the Edge’, as well as the national ‘Society for Storytelling’. He has collected stories throughout his life and has been exceptionally generous with his time and knowledge during the preparation of this book.

My gratitude goes to the following for their help and positive attitudes in answering my bizarre requests, tracking down obscure references, pointing me in the direction of new stories and checking historical details: Dez and Ali Quarrèll of Mythstories Museum of Myth and Legend; Shropshire Archives, in particular Sarah Davis and Liz Young; Bishops Castle Heritage Resource Centre; the Wenlock Olympian Society and the Much Wenlock Town Archives; Father Ambrose, St Milburga’s Roman Catholic Church; Wenlock Priory, English Heritage.

I am indebted to Clive Fairweather, who translated a large chunk of Latin for me when I was pulling my hair out with frustration.

Thank you to Sarah Douglas and Fiona Collins for their invaluable help in letting me sound out ideas, and to Sarah for all her time spent painstakingly proofreading.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Amy Douglas first discovered storytelling at the age of thirteen. Shortly afterwards, she helped Mike Rust and Richard Walker to found ‘Tales at the Edge’, one of the first modern-day storytelling clubs in England. At sixteen she was part of the team that launched ‘Festival at the Edge’, the first English storytelling festival of its kind. At nineteen, she was chosen as the first West Midland Arts Storytelling Apprentice and spent a year studying storytelling with professional storytellers throughout Britain and America. During that year she first worked with Scottish traveller and storytelling legend Duncan Williamson, the beginning of a much longer apprenticeship and friendship.

After finishing her studies, Amy became a full-time professional storyteller in 1999. She has performed in Britain, Europe, the U.S. and Canada at venues including schools, libraries, arts centres, museums, pubs and clubs as well as storytelling, literature and folk festivals. She served two years on the board of directors for the National Society for Storytelling in England and Wales.

Amy now works extensively on site-specific projects, celebrating local communities; their stories and recollections and that magical connection between the land, story and the people who live there. She is fascinated by different learning styles in children and the impact that storytelling and the use of outdoor spaces can have. She has co-edited two books of reminiscences, Memories of Pontcysyllte and Evesham Voices. In 2005, she co-edited the award winning English Folktales, a collection of traditional English stories retold by English storytellers.

For more details about her work and publications, please visit Amy’s website: www.amydouglas.com

INTRODUCTION

Shropshire is a large rural county on the Welsh borders. It is definitely border country, traditional English patchwork fields and hedgerows giving way to wild bracken-covered hillsides as you travel west towards Wales. The atmosphere of the Shropshire hills, and their familiar presence watching over me, has fascinated me all my life, and they all have stories of how they came to be and of the people who have walked here.

This book is a selection of some of Shropshire’s folk tales. They are stories that have been handed down from generation to generation, sometimes written, sometimes only by word of mouth. These are tales that have grown up out of the landscape, clustered around certain characters, or evolved to make sense of the world around us. They are stories to entertain, to give shivering thrills on dark nights, to deal with daily life and to face common fears.

I love the power stories have. Storytelling is my hobby, my passion and now my career. Stories contain maps for the emotional world around us; they throw open doors to other worlds and other times; they take us on journeys that can lead to the other side of the world, or reunite you with those you would wish to be closest to. Storytelling has always been and, I believe, always will be a vital part of human life. A world without stories would be a world without joy and magic, a confusing and frightening place, without the experience and wisdom of those who came before to guide us.

Somewhere within them all stories carry a grain a truth, that speaks to us and makes the story live within us. But these stories are not historically accurate. Stories have grown up around historical events, places and people; they can give insight into the character of those times and how they were viewed by the people. They often contain detail that has been left out of the history books. Just as frequently, the story that survives could never have happened the way it was told. I haven’t found any proof of a piece of tax-free land near Astley Abbots, as claimed in the story of Collen and Sabrina. There is no evidence to support the cruelty of Squire Pigott; the estate was sold in about 1780 for reasons that had nothing to do with Madam Pigott’s haunting. But once a story has caught hold of the imagination it will not let go. In Shropshire Folklore Charlotte Burne describes the spirit of Madam Pigott being laid twice, and concludes that she no longer troubles the neighbourhood. Yet over a century later, everyone in Newport has a story to tell of where she haunts or of a friend who has seen her.

There are always occasions where the dates don’t quite add up. Stories are clothed in the details of daily life – a story may be set a thousand years ago, but the day-to-day details are those familiar to the teller, or what the teller imagines as old fashioned.

For me, these anachronisms and fanciful additions enrich the stories rather than diminish them. I love the way that stories grow with communities, becoming interwoven with their landscape, personality and daily life.

Storytelling is an intrinsic part of human nature and there are stories wherever there are people. That said, Shropshire seems to have a particularly rich vein of folklore and storytellers. Over the past couple of decades, storytelling has enjoyed a resurgence throughout the country and Shropshire has been at the forefront of the revival. There are well-established storytelling clubs flourishing in Wem, Bridgnorth, Bishops Castle and Shrewsbury. It is home to ‘Festival at the Edge’, an annual weekend celebration of storytelling on Wenlock Edge. Mythstories Museum of Myth and Legend, the only museum of its kind in England, is based in Wem and is also home to the Society for Storytelling’s library.

Amy Douglas, 2011

MAP OF SHROPSHIRE

Decorative map of Shropshire, based on the 1932 OS ten-mile road map. The locations of stories are underlined.

One

IN THE BEGINNING

THE MAKING OF THE WREKIN

The Wrekin is one of the great landmarks of Shropshire. I grew up in its shadow and when I see its familiar outline, I know I am not far from home. There are few places in Shropshire where the Wrekin cannot be seen. It rears up in the flat Shropshire plain: from Cressage and the south, a sharp conical peak; from Shrewsbury and Newport, a long undulating ridge, a great sleeping body sprawled across the land.

The Wrekin is one of those places that become enwrapped in people’s lives and traditions. For many local people, walking up the Wrekin on Boxing Day or New Year’s Day is an integral part of the season’s ritual. For many years, one family climbed the hill each Christmas Day to eat their dinner on the summit! I always meet my mother there to walk through the bluebell glades in May. To go ‘all around the Wrekin’ is the Shropshire version of going all around the houses. The toast, ‘To all friends around the Wrekin’, is still regularly used, particularly at New Year.

Long, long ago when the Earth was new, in the time when animals and humans talked the same language and giants roamed the land, there were two brothers, two giants.

The giants were looking for somewhere to make a home. They roamed all over the Isle of Britain until at last they came to the flat plain of Shropshire. There they decided to build their home; a great mound of earth, where they could see for miles all around them.

That’s when the work began. The two brothers had a spade, just one spade between them, and they started to dig. They took it in turns, one brother using the spade, the other scrabbling with his hands. They worked hard, sweat dripping from their brows. The work was tough for both giants, but harder for the brother digging with his hands than for the brother with the spade. Hot and tired, they began to argue, fighting over whose turn it should be to use the spade.

The spadeless giant tried to grab the spade from his brother and the two wrenched it back and forth, each determined to use it. Soon the giants were hitting and kicking, biting and scratching, pulling and tugging. The spade twisted and turned between them, slicing into flesh instead of soil. The giants’ angry roars rolled like thunder across Shropshire. The ground shook as they tussled.

Up in the sky, a raven was wheeling on the wind. He saw the great giants fighting below and that the giant with the spade was winning, his brother growing weak. The raven waited for its chance, then dived down. Suddenly, the giant’s face was full of feathers. A terrible cry rent the air as the raven pecked out the giant’s eye. Clutching his face in agony, the giant dropped the spade. One great tear rolled down his cheek and fell to the ground.

Quick as lightening, his brother grabbed the spade and hit his sibling over the head. The giant’s knees buckled; he swayed from side to side and, like a tree trunk, he slowly toppled, gathering momentum until he hit the ground. The earth shuddered; the giant lay still.

The giant’s body mingled with the earth that was to be his home. Days turned to weeks, months turned to years, decades turned to centuries. The soil was blown over his body. The grass and flowers took root, and then slowly the trees spread their branches overhead. Beneath the trees came minibeasts and rodents, birds and mammals, until the woods were teeming with life, all making their home on the giant’s bones.

Many people have now forgotten the giant, but if you look at the Wrekin, you can still see the shape of his body lying beneath the earth. On the steep, southern side of the Wrekin, looking towards Little Wenlock, is the Needle’s Eye, a cleft in the rock left by the spade during the fight. Lower down the slope is a basin, the Raven’s Bowl, formed from the giant’s tear, where there is water to be found even in the driest summer.

SEVERN

Happy is the eye between Severn and Wye But thrice happy he, between Severn and Clee

Long, long ago, Plynlimon, lord over hill and mountain, field and forest, called his three daughters to his side. He looked at each fondly: fair Severn, serious and thoughtful; red-headed Wye, smiling and serene, and dark-haired Rheidol, impetuous and carefree. He smiled at them all and said:

My daughters, you are grown women now and I am an old man. It is time for me to rest my bones and for you to take over the care of the land. The hour has come for me to share my land amongst you. Tomorrow, each of you must travel from here to the coast, and you will be Queen over all the land you traverse. You have the whole day, from sunrise to sunset, but if you do not reach the sea by sunset, be warned, you will lose your share.

The three sisters looked at each other with growing excitement, each beginning to make plans for her journey.

Severn went to bed early that night and was awake and ready while the stars still shone. She sat waiting in the cold before dawn, watching the east slowly lightening until the sun crested the horizon, then she was up and away like a hare. The sea lay to the south, but instead she headed towards the rising sun, intent on making the most of her day and covering as much ground as possible. Behind her she left a swallow to watch her sisters, to warn her when they woke and set out on their way.

Wye thought about her route, readied herself in her mind and slept at her usual time. She woke with a yawn and a stretch, then smiled as she remembered what the day held. Wye set off in the early morning sunshine, determined to enjoy her day and claim land that she loved. She gently made her way southwards, picking her way through vales and meadows.

As Wye woke, the swallow watching her shook out its wings and took to the skies. The messenger sped east to tell Severn that Wye had begun her journey. As the swallow swooped around Severn’s head, Severn turned and headed for the coast. Strong and determined, her long strides carried her mile after mile.

Rheidol had planned to be away at first light like her sister Severn, but in her excitement she tossed and turned, sleep eluding her until almost dawn. When at last she woke, her sisters were long gone and the sun was high in the sky. In panic she leapt up and headed at breakneck speed for the sea, jumping down boulders, clambering over precipices, desperately racing to reach the coast in time.

Evening approached and all three daughters reached the shore. Severn and Wye’s paths joined together and they held hands for the last few steps of their journey. As the sun sank beneath the horizon, the three girls ran from land to sea. As each stepped into the salt water, she turned into a river. Plynlimon, watching from his distant seat, saw their journeys complete, sighed and settled into the form of a mountain. So the family remains: Plynlimon watching over his three daughters, nurturing and nourishing them; Severn, Wye and Rheidol forever tracing the paths they took long ago on a summer’s day.

On her journey to the sea, Severn makes her way through the heart of Shropshire, dividing the county in two. She is beautiful and wild, serene in summer with the sun sparkling on the water, frightening in spate when the churning brown waters break their banks and cause disruption and chaos, flooding houses and roads. It is true, even today, that the river claims at least one soul every year.

They say that a person who drowns another in the Severn must never again attempt to cross the river in a boat, for long arms will reach up from beneath the water, pull them from the boat and drag them down, down, down beneath the surface. Whether they cross it or not, the river will call the murderer back to the spot that heard their victim’s ‘drowning scream’.

The river, in all her names (Severn in English, Hafren in Welsh, Sabrina in Latin), is always feminine. She twists and turns in sensuous curves; a beautiful surface with treacherous currents beneath.

Severn has always been an integral part of the lives of the people who live close to her, and there are stories all along the banks of the river, from source to sea. In Bewdley, legends cling to Blackstone Rock: tales of a lost ring in a salmon’s belly and the river rocking lost infants safe to the hermitage. Further downriver are myths of both the River God Nodens and of Sabrina, the River Goddess, riding the Severn Bore in her chariot, with dolphins and salmon attending her. In Shropshire, the Devil claims the souls of men caught fishing on a Sunday and rides up and down the river on a coracle, fishing for drowned souls. Then there is the story of a lonely fisherman who lived on the banks of the river, lulled to sleep each night by the song of her waters. He would dream of Severn’s cool caresses, the sigh of her soft silken touch rippling over him, and the lilting tones of a woman’s voice within the endless, mesmerising flow of water to the sea.

The fisherman’s name was Collen. He had a little plot of land, close to where the river flowed, but set high enough to miss the worst of Severn’s moods and seasons. Collen was a shy man, used to his own company. His parents were long gone and he had always been on the outskirts of the village, never joining the dances or season’s revels. He got by, scratching a living from his patch of land and the fruits of the river.

It was September. The days were shortening and there was now a chill in the shadows and the night time. The salmon were returning from their wandering and swimming upriver. Collen climbed into his coracle, armed with his fishing line and a packet of food, and paddled upstream. It was a beautiful afternoon, a last golden echo of summer. The autumn rains had not yet arrived and the river travelled gently between her banks, slow and steady towards the sea. Collen was headed towards Cressage, to the meanders where the river slowed and formed pools of calm water on the inside of the bends, where the salmon could rest before continuing on their journey.

Collen quietly skulled around the bends, looking at the shade on the water and feeling the currents as they pulled the coracle. He found a perfect spot; shadows from overhanging trees dappled the water and the coracle needed only the lightest of touches to prevent it from drifting back into the current. Collen took his line, three hooks dangling from it, and cast it out across the water.

Though Collen had judged the day as ideal for an afternoon’s fishing, luck was not with him. He cast time and again, but each time the line lay untouched, the hooks empty. The sun was sinking in the sky, afternoon turning to evening. Collen cast his line one last time; this time the line jerked. Steadily, firmly, he pulled the line in, the fish twisting and jerking, fighting to be free. Collen hauled the fish into his boat and took a firm hold to take out the hook. He held the flapping fish in his hands and the warm evening light of the setting sun gleamed against her shimmering scales. Collen stared down, entranced. The fish stopped struggling and lay quietly in his arms, looking up at him. He traced the meridian line on her side, the dark colours on her sleek sides, her silvery white belly. Looking at her, a lump caught in Collen’s throat. She was perfect: supple and strong, graceful and wild. He stared down at her and she stared right back up at him. There was no denying the intelligence in those eyes.

Collen couldn’t do it. He couldn’t kill her, couldn’t smack her head on the side of the boat. In a single sudden movement he heaved the fish away from him, over the side of the coracle and into the water. Collen then skulled himself over into the current, cursing his weakness and stupidity, and the wasted afternoon. He had obviously been living on his own for too long.

The magic and stillness of the afternoon was broken. Collen shivered. The day’s warmth was gone and it was time to head home. In the wake of the boat, a sliver of silver turned and swam downstream. The current took the coracle swiftly on its way, but night had fallen by the time Collen reached home. He was glad of the full moon as he splashed out of the boat to haul the coracle up onto the bank out of the water.

That night, Collen woke to singing. He lay on his pallet and listened. There was no doubt about it; there was the usual song of the river, but mingled in with the water was a woman’s voice. Collen pulled himself from his bed, opened the door and stepped out into the night. The moon was high in the sky now, but still lighting up the night, reflecting bright from the river. There was a woman swimming in the water. Her skin gleamed white in the moonlight, and he realised she was naked. She swam towards the bank and climbed out, water streaming from her skin. The night was still. Collen looked at the maiden, her long hair caressing her shoulders and tumbling to her waist. She smiled at him, holding out her hands, and in the moonlit dreamworld Collen took her hands and the two lay on the bank together, no words spoken or needed.

In the morning, Collen woke in his own bed, hair tousled and memory tangled in dream. He shook his head to clear his senses and saw the woman lying next to him, her skin pale as moonlight. Only now did he see the cut in her cheek, where her delicate flesh had been snagged by a barb. She opened her eyes, saw him looking down at her and smiled. Her name was Sabrina and she never left.

Collen and Sabrina lived in contentment on the banks of the Severn, and they began to fill their home with children. People talked, as people always do, but in time the talk moved on.

One day, King Merewald and his family rode out visiting, stopping by the river to walk and picnic. They were talking and walking; the King, Queen and their young family. The eldest princess, Milburga, was only seven or eight years old, the youngest still a babe in arms. As they talked, the Queen absentmindedly played with a ring on her finger. Whether it was a swan skidding to land on the water, making her jump, or she stumbled over a tuft of grass, no one was sure, but something distracted her. The ring tumbled through her fingers, bounced down the bank and into the current. The Queen was devastated and the King called immediately for someone to retrieve the ring. A couple of his men lowered themselves down from the bank and waded around in the water looking for the glint of the ring, but they only made matters worse, churning the sediment up into the water. Another of their attendants rode off for aid and a little while later, a couple of coracles approached to help the search. Soon, people were coming from all directions to see the excitement and catch a glimpse of the King and Queen.

Almost unnoticed, a young woman slid into the river, but Princess Milburga was watching. She saw the smooth grace as the woman dived, and then a flash of silver beneath the surface of the river. She watched wide-eyed; there was no longer a woman searching the water, but a salmon. A little while later the young woman emerged, her golden hair wet, sleek and shining down her back, gold glinting in her palm. She quietly made her way to the Queen, took her hand and wrapped her fingers around the ring. She would have slipped discreetly away, but the Queen held onto the woman’s hand and bid her stay. The search was ended and the King was so delighted he declared that, as long as the woman and her family stayed on their piece of land, they would never have to pay taxes again.

To this day, it is said that there is a piece of land near Astley Abbotts that has never been sold and remains in Collen and Sabrina’s family still. Over a millennium later, you will still find people near that stretch of the river with strawberry blond hair that shimmers like scales; they have a certain tilt to the chin and a birthmark like a little scar from their top lip to their cheek.

Two

SAINTS AND SINNERS

SAINT MILBURGA

It was a time of change. The old ways that everyone had taken for granted were being challenged. Word of a new God, a new faith, a new way of life, was sweeping across the land.

Milburga embodied all the hopes and dreams of the new times. She was radiant with youth, delighting in the world around her and all its daily miracles: the changing seasons, a flower opening, a bird taking flight. Whenever she passed by, it seemed that the birds would sing a little sweeter, the flowers lift their heads and the grass grow greener in her wake.

Milburga was the eldest daughter of Merewald and granddaughter to Penda himself, King of Mercia. During his rule, through the seventh century, Mercia had grown in strength, size and reputation. Penda had ruled in the old ways, holding fast to the old beliefs and resisting the new faith that was atching like fire eacross the land. But now King Penda was dead, the great oak had fallen and the wind was changing. His three sons, Wulfhere, Ethelred and Merewald, turned their backs on the old beliefs and were baptised into Christianity. The sons ruled Mercia between them as Christian Kings, and Merewald held Maegonsaeton – the Forest of Dean, Herefordshire and South Shropshire. Merewald settled near the place where Much Wenlock is now. He raised his family in the new faith and let it guide him as he ruled.

Milburga grew up with a sense of wonder at the world around her. Her spirit was nurtured by her parents’ belief and love, and all Milburga ever wanted to do was to devote her life to God. In all the beauty around her she felt his love and wanted to celebrate it with the world.

However, Milburga was a princess of wealth and high standing, and she was fast growing into a beautiful young woman. The lilt in her step and her shining eye caught attention. Suitors came courting and her lack of interest only succeeded in making her more tantalising to them.

One neighbouring prince determined to marry her, despite her father’s refusals and Milburga’s resistance. One day, Milburga was out riding when she heard the baying of the hounds. She slowed and turned to see the prince and his retinue out hunting. The prince felt her eyes upon him and looked up to see Milburga seated on her white mare. The corners of his mouth curled up. He called back his dogs and set them hunting a different prey.

For a moment, Milburga stared, perplexed, then her mare reared and turned, bolting away from the hounds speeding towards them. Milburga urged her on, but soon the mare’s flanks were heaving and the hounds were gaining, snapping at their heels. Ahead of them was the River Corve. With a desperate effort, Milburga’s mare gathered herself and leapt for the other side. As her hooves landed on the far bank, the water swelled up behind her, roiling against the banks, an uncrossable torrent.

The prince cursed. But his blood was up and he would not give in so easily. He found a ford upriver and continued his pursuit over the Edge and beyond.

Milburga’s flight took her through forest and field, over the rise of the Edge, along the Corvedale, until at last she found herself in the Clee Hills. Exhausted, she fell fainting from her horse. Her head struck stone and a crimson halo bloomed on the ground beneath her. Some peasants were sowing barley in the field beside the road. They saw her slide from her horse and came running to help. They cradled her head and called for water to cleanse the wound, but there was none to be had. Milburga’s eyes fluttered open and weakly she gestured to her horse. The mare struck her hoof on the rock and at once a spring of water gushed out. As the men bathed Milburga’s head, the edges of the wound closed together and the colour came back into her cheeks. Ignoring the men’s protestations, she slowly rose to her feet and looked about her. For a moment all weakness fell away, leaving her stood tall, a halo of light surrounding her.

She looked at the spring and said, ‘Holy water, henceforth and forever flow freely.’ She turned to the new-sown barley field, ‘Grow!’ she commanded.

The light faded and she slumped a little, the exhaustion once again written on her face. Though the field hands begged her to stay, she refused and instead remounted her horse.

The farm men watched her go. When they turned back to the field, there was already a green haze over the bare earth. As the day went on, the barley grew taller and stronger, at last turning from green to gold, and, that very same evening, the barley was ready to harvest. The men were sharpening their sickles when they heard the baying of the hounds and the clattering of the hooves.

‘Where is she? Have you seen the lady in white? When did she pass this way?’

The peasants looked up at the prince and his travel-stained band. Not one harvester removed the cap from his head.

‘Yes, we saw her. But it was a long time ago now. She came as we were sowing this barley that we are just now harvesting.’

At last the prince, in bafflement, gave up his chase and Milburga was able to make her way home safely. She left behind the spring and the bloodstained stone. The village became known as Stoke St Milborough as the story spread, and pilgrims came to the spring for its healing water.