Warwickshire Folk Tales E-Book

Cath Edwards

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

Seitenzahl: 240

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Old Warwickshire, the ancient heart of England, encompassed many iconic historic sites. Coventry, Rugby, Warwick, Stratford-upon-Avon and Birmingham, among others, all had tales to tell. Equally fascinating are the stories of the people, the virtuous and the villainous, who lived in the greenwoods and rolling hills of this celebrated county. Here are the folk tales passed from teller to listener over centuries, and the legends of the region's famous sons and daughters. From Lady Godiva and Dick Turpin, to the murderous Foxcote Feud and Coventry's claim to Saint George, storyteller Cath Edwards retells these tales and more with verve, vitality and vivid original illustrations.

Leseprobe

First published 2021

The History Press

97 St George’s Place, Cheltenham,

Gloucestershire, GL50 3QB

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

© Cath Edwards, 2021

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

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 7509 9765 2

Typesetting and origination by Typo•glyphix

Printed in Great Britain

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

CONTENTS

Introduction

Highwaymen

Saint Augustine in Long Compton

The Rollright Stones and Witches in Long Compton

Ghosts

Guy of Warwick

Coventry Legends

Doomed Love

Edge Hill

Ilmington Noodleheads

Bibliography

INTRODUCTION

It has been such a pleasure to research and write these folk tales and legends. Warwickshire is a remarkable county: steeped deeply in England’s history, its stories reflect the lives of the ordinary people who have called it their home as well as incidents from its warlike and heroic past.

In writing this book, I have learnt so much of the truth and fiction surrounding its most famous inhabitants: Godifu, or Lady Godiva; Guy of Warwick, who has heroic adventures to rival King Arthur, and with a conscience; and Saint George, who was, of course, born in Coventry. I found, also, an unexpected link between Saint George and Guy of Warwick; in some reports, George is Guy’s father. Historically, that would put one or the other of them in the wrong century, in fact several hundred years awry, but when have the facts ever stood in the way of a story?

I have also uncovered stories of real people who had larger than life adventures: the fearless and reckless exploits of highwaymen and women, lamentable doomed lovers, the reputed dark deeds of real-life witches, courageous and tragic Civil War soldiers and even the redoubtable Saint Augustine.

This book has its fair share of the best-loved kinds of folk tales. So here you will find stories of witches and the supernatural, ghost stories and noodlehead (fool) stories.

As a storyteller, I love telling every kind of tale and equally as an author I love to include a variety of stories in my books. When I write, I usually write as a storyteller; what you will find in this book are my own versions of Warwickshire’s stories, with something of the flavour of the way I would tell them to an audience. As anyone who is familiar with folkloric material will tell you, there are always different, sometimes contradictory, versions of the same story. Here are the versions that seemed to me to be the best and the best fit with the character and landscape of the county.

This brings me to another point: I have included stories from ‘Old Warwickshire’, that is, the Warwickshire with boundaries as they existed in past centuries, when, after all, these stories originated. When I was writing West Midlands Folk Tales, I deliberately left out stories from some of old Warwickshire, notably Coventry. It seemed to me that, even though that city is now included within the West Midlands county boundary, its stories, of Godiva and Saint George, really belong with Warwickshire, rather than in a county that has only existed since 1974!

If I may repeat myself, writing this book has been an absolute pleasure; I do hope you gain as much pleasure from reading it.

HIGHWAYMEN

DICK TURPIN

There are two little local tales concerning perhaps the most infamous highwayman of all. He has many legends attached to his name, and few, it would seem, are true. But veracity or the lack of it has never stood in the way of a good story. Let’s look at the setting for one of these stories:

Stretton Baskerville has a sad history. The village, or what’s left of it, lies between Leamington Spa and Hinckley, near to what is now the A5, known for centuries as the Roman road, Watling Street. In fact, ‘Stretton’ means ‘settlement on a Roman road’. It’s situated on a slope facing towards Leamington between the shallow valleys of two streams.

There is a record of the village being freely held by Edric the Wild before 1066. No doubt when Edric led English resistance to the conquering Normans, he had little time for the village, and after his time it passed through a number of hands, including William de Baskerville, who gave it his name.

Things began to change for the worse in the fifteenth century when Thomas Twyford, so that his sheep might safely graze, enclosed 160 acres of open field previously shared by the villagers, who observed ancient methods of strip farming. He destroyed seven of the villagers’ houses into the bargain. The next owner, Henry Smyth, enclosed more land and would commit no expense to the maintenance of the remaining timber and clay houses and cottages, thus eventually rendering eighty people homeless. Even the church became a ruin and was used as an animal shelter.

So it was that by the eighteenth century, there was little of Stretton Baskerville left. The buildings were all but gone, leaving a series of earthworks: ‘hollow ways’ or sunken roads; raised, level rectangles that were the foundations of the former houses; the outlines of paddocks and gardens; saucer-shaped scoops near to the streams that had been ponds where bream were bred; and the remains of the cobbled main street. Thus, anyone who may have reason to want to bury an object in a place where it could easily be recovered would find plenty of landmarks in the ruins of Stretton Baskerville.

Born in Essex in 1706, Dick Turpin did not confine his criminal activities to the south-east. His fabled ride from London to York in one day to establish an alibi was in fact undertaken by another highwayman, ‘Swift Nick’ Nevison, but nevertheless Turpin roamed the length and breadth of the country and it was in York that he met his end by hanging.

No coaching route was safe from his attentions; in Warwickshire, the mail coaches, passenger coaches and, of course, lone travellers who rode up and down Watling Street could all fall prey to an attack by Turpin.

One mild autumn afternoon, a coach and four was bowling merrily southwards, the Leicestershire countryside on the left of the road and Warwickshire’s on the right. In the middle distance, for anyone who cared to look, were two or three small towns. There was a full complement of passengers and their luggage, roped precariously to the roof, rattled and bumped above their heads. The coachman was well wrapped up with his coat buttoned up to his chin, his hat pulled firmly down and a rug over his knees, for even on a mild afternoon it could be a chilly affair, sitting on the bench seat in the open. He noted Weddington Castle away to the south and congratulated himself on making good time from Derby.

He had drifted away into a reverie when he felt the coach slowing. He looked up to see a masked man on a black horse. The man was riding alongside one of the lead horses with a hand on the horse’s bridle and he was twisted round in the saddle with a pistol trained on the coachman.

‘Stop the coach!’ said the man. He swept back his long black coat to reveal two more pistols pushed into his belt. The coachman hastened to do as he was commanded, making a show of pulling on the reins so the man could be left in no doubt of his co-operation.

Dick Turpin – because, of course, that is who he was – turned his horse and then reined it in alongside the coachman. Without a word, Turpin held out his hand and the other man gave him the reins. Turpin knotted them and dropped them out of the coachman’s reach.

‘Coachman! Why have we stopped?’ called an angry voice. A man had his head sticking out of the window. Turpin levelled his pistol at the head and invited its owner to leave the carriage and to bring all his companions with him.

After a short pause, which was filled with frantic whispers, a hesitant little procession made its way down the coach steps and the passengers assembled on the road, huddled together as if for warmth.

Turpin wasted no time. ‘I want your valuables. I want rings, bracelets, necklaces and gold coins. Anything small and expensive. Don’t waste my time with silver.’

When no one moved, he pulled a second pistol from his belt. There was a sudden pulling off of gloves, a rummaging in pockets, a fumbling with necklaces, and soon there was a pile of glittering, glinting objects in the road.

Sliding down from his horse, Turpin flipped over the pile with the toe of his boot. ‘I said no silver! And who put that purse there? Empty it!’

A young woman stepped forward and did as he had said. She took the opportunity to observe him more closely and she realised why he wanted only the smallest and most valuable items. The horse’s saddlebags were so full the buckles were straining. Turpin’s coat was heavy with the items that already filled its pockets. He hardly had space to take any more. She watched him as he stooped to scoop up the spoils, stuffing handfuls into his shirt.

Everyone watched in silence as he remounted and without a backward glance rode off towards the north-east.

Turpin rode for a short way then turned off the main road towards the Warwickshire side. He guided his horse along an overgrown lane, over a stream and up and over a low ridge. Stretton Baskerville. This was a good place, and it had been a good day, so good that he was reluctant to ride any further while carrying so much booty. Equally, it would be a mistake to arrive at an inn with his riches. He dismounted and led his horse through the remains of the village until he came to a spot that was both sheltered and easy to remember: just off the holloway, between the foundation plots of two houses, under a hawthorn tree. He found a sharp-edged stone that could serve as a shovel and began to dig. After a long time and much effort, the hole was big enough.

His hands sore and his shoulders aching, Turpin reached into one of the saddlebags and pulled out a sack, which he filled with most of his day’s haul. He tied the top and dumped the sack into the hole, scraping the soil back in with the stone, then stamping it flat.

His plan, of course, was to return at a convenient time to retrieve his treasure. But he never did. He soon found it necessary to make his way to Yorkshire, where he assumed the name of John Palmer (his father’s name was John and his mother’s maiden name was Parmenter). After a year or two in Yorkshire, he was apprehended for the theft of two horses, a crime that carried the death penalty. He was hanged in 1739.

No more was heard of him on Watling Street for 180 years or so. Then, in the 1920s, a motorcyclist saw a strange sight approaching him out of the mist on that road. A man on a black horse, with a large black tricorn hat and a mask and wearing a coat with red sleeves rode towards the motorcyclist and then disappeared. There were a number of other sightings of Dick Turpin, reported in the local paper, and the red sleeves seem to be a recurring theme. Were people seeing what they expected to see? At about that time, a series of children’s comics was published, entitled The Dick Turpin Library. Dick Turpin was shown wearing a black tricorn hat and a red coat.

Or, perhaps his ghost recalls the day he buried a sack full of loot at a ruined village and rode away.

Weddington Castle was mentioned in the previous story; the castle (or rather, it was a castellated manor house), was demolished in 1928 and a housing estate was subsequently built on the land. Nearby was Lindley Hall, described as a Palladian mansion and also sadly demolished, in 1925. In Dick Turpin’s time though the hall would have been only twenty or thirty years old. It was reached by a half-mile-long drive from Watling Street and so, like Stretton Baskerville, it was within easy striking distance of the Roman road.

Lindley Hall was set in 94 acres of pastures and parkland and near to the hall was a hill, imaginatively titled the Mound. Towards the foot of the hill was a hole, now hard to find, but three centuries ago it was the entrance to a cave large enough to afford temporary living quarters to a man and a horse.

Dick Turpin, or so the story goes, when laden with gold and treasures from his adventures on Watling Street, would sometimes ride to the Mound and make his way into the cave, leading his horse behind him. Once inside he lit a lantern, which he set down on a large iron-bound chest. He reached into a secret pocket inside his coat and drew out three heavy keys. Moving the lantern to the floor to give better light, he knelt down and fitted a key into one of three locks on the chest; when each key had turned and each lock had clicked open, Turpin lifted the lid and peered inside, reassuring himself that the plunder was as he had left it. He now emptied his pockets and saddlebags into the chest, noting with some satisfaction how full it was becoming. He closed the lid and once again turned the three keys in their locks before using the chest as a seat on which to enjoy a meal of bread, cheese and beer that he had brought with him.

Soon afterwards, as in the previous story, Turpin found it expedient to flee to the North and such was the weight of the loot in the chest within the cave that he had no choice but to leave it, no doubt intending to retrieve it at a more convenient time.

It is here that events took a more supernatural turn. Before he left for Yorkshire, Turpin placed a guardian on the chest: a cockerel. This creature remained faithfully perched where the highwayman had left it until a man came with a key. How the man knew of the chest or the locks is not recorded but it may be sufficient to say that he was not just any man but an Oxford scholar and perhaps he was therefore privy to secrets that had eluded ordinary folk. He had one key, and it must have been a skeleton key because he placed it in the first lock and opened it; he placed it in the second lock and opened it; and he was just making an attempt on the third when the cockerel, inexplicably passive until now, attacked him and drove him from the cave.

The cockerel remained at his post, prepared to repel any marauders, and folklore has it that he will only yield if presented with one of Dick Turpin’s bones. There is no record that this has come to pass, and so we must conclude that the cave, chest, cockerel and treasure are still in situ.

As a responsible author I feel I must point out that a very similar story is told of a hill known as Alcock’s Arbour and a robber named Alcock, so it is just possible that a search for Turpin’s cave may be a wasted journey.

Before we leave Dick Turpin, here are two more little anecdotes:

There are many old inns up and down the country that claim a link to the famous highwayman; one such is the Cock Inn in Sibson. The inn is on the Twycross Road to the north of Nuneaton and 3 or so miles north of Watling Street – very much in Warwickshire’s ‘Turpin territory’. The Cock Inn was built in 1250 and is a half-timbered building that still today has a thatched roof. Turpin was said to have been a regular visitor; when he was being pursued by those intending to bring him to justice, he would hide his horse in the cellar while concealing himself in the bar chimney. The inn was also said to have a tunnel that ran the short distance from the inn to the village of Sibson: possibly another reason for an outlaw to take refuge there.

Finally, a return to Turpin’s last days in York. When imprisoned and awaiting trial for horse theft, he wrote to his brother-in-law, Pompr Rivernall, in Essex, presumably asking for help. Although Turpin (at the time masquerading as John Palmer) was evidently allowed pen, ink and paper while in prison, it seems that he either did not have the correct money for the postage, or perhaps whoever posted the letter for him pocketed this extra cash. Whatever the reason, when the letter was delivered to Mr Rivernall he was asked to pay the cost of the postage. Seeing that it was marked as having been sent from York, he said that he knew no one in York and he refused to pay.

Perhaps Rivernall simply did not want to pay the charge, or perhaps he knew that his brother-in-law was in York and he was reluctant to be associated with him. There is no record of what Rivernall’s wife, Turpin’s sister Dorothy, thought about the matter. The letter was taken to the Saffron Walden office, where it was seen by a postal employee, James Smith. Smith recognised the handwriting and he took the letter to the local Justice of the Peace.

Smith explained to the judge that before working for the post office he had been a schoolmaster and he had taught many boys to write. The handwriting on the letter was, he was sure, that of one of his former pupils, by the name of Richard Turpin. The judge, having first scrupulously paid the postage, opened the letter and read it. Although Turpin had not signed it in his own name, the contents made it clear who he was. The judge sent word to York, and Turpin, unmasked, had to stand trial for his many violent crimes as a highwayman.

On his way to the gallows and wearing a stylish new outfit he waved regally to the throngs of people, giving every impression of enjoying the crowd’s attention and the stir he was causing. He was hanged but he had lost nothing by having his true identity revealed: the penalty for horse theft was also death by hanging.

BENDIGO MITCHELL

The Black Horse Inn can be found in Warwick town centre. As you stand and look at it from the other side of the road, on its left side are large wooden double doors typical of old coaching inns. It was formerly painted with a depiction of the highwayman Bendigo Mitchell, mounted on a black horse with a white blaze and four white socks, holding up a coach. A woman’s arm extends from the coach window towards Mitchell, holding a drawstring pouch, presumably containing valuables. Red-coated attendants on the coach have their hands raised in surrender.

A plaque on the doors read:

Bendigo Mitchell was an eighteenth-century highwayman. He plied his trade on the Warwick turnpike and waylaid those who had enjoyed a profitable trade at Warwick market. He rode ‘Skater’ – named after an icy escape from imminent arrest. Eventually captured, he was tried at Warwick Assizes in 1776 and publicly hanged across the road at the top of what is now the Sainsbury’s car park.

Mitchell’s unusual first name is thought to be a corruption of ‘Abednego’. The parish records at Harbury show an Abednego Mitchell who died in 1852; this Abednego is believed to be a member of the same family as Bendigo.

Bendigo Mitchell, as the pub plaque suggests, did indeed work the Warwick to Banbury turnpike, as well as the Fosse Way. He is remembered still: locally, the intersection near Harbury is known as ‘The Bendigo Mitchell Crossroads’.

Here is the story of Mitchell’s ‘icy escape from imminent arrest’.

Bendigo Mitchell was having a profitable day. He had held up two coaches and had relieved the passengers of their valuables, but one coach in particular had been carrying several rich people with a good amount of gold on their persons. He considered: should he repair to the inn for refreshment and the warmth of a log fire, it being a cold January day? Or should he spend one more hour lying in wait for others who were travelling on Fosse Way that day? He had come to no firm conclusion when he saw four men approaching. They were all on horseback, and Mitchell had started to debate with himself whether the odds were too much against him – four against one – when he began to feel uneasy. Something didn’t look right. It was more about what the men weren’t than what they were. They didn’t look at all like local farmers; the horses were wrong, too racy and spirited. They didn’t look like merchants; they carried no goods. They weren’t travellers, not on those horses and with no baggage.

What were they, then, but constables sent from Warwick to apprehend criminals who worked these roads? Mitchell’s suspicions were confirmed when, turning his horse’s head away from the men and urging it into a canter, he looked behind him to see that the four had increased their speed too and were gaining on him. He thought quickly; ahead was the turning for Windmill Hill Lane. That would lead to Plough Lane where he could turn left, and that would take him back to Fosse Way and the way home. If he could outrun the constables.

At full gallop now, he left Fosse Way, turning sharp left. Windmill Hill Lane. He galloped on for half a mile or so. The men were still gaining on him. What to do? He would never gain Fosse Way, he had to escape another way. He saw ahead a narrow drive leading off to the right. He could ride up to Chesterton Mill, leap the hedge behind it and lose himself in the length of a few fields.

By the time Mitchell was galloping up the drive, the four constables were closing fast. The hoofbeats on the frozen ground sounded dangerously close. The mill buildings were just ahead now – but as he rode into the mill yard, he saw that the gap he thought he could ride through was far too narrow. He turned to face his pursuers like a fox at bay. They had reined in their horses and were waiting in the drive. Mitchell was outnumbered but still he was dangerous. Seconds passed.

Mitchell’s heart thundered in his chest. Time for desperate measures. He drew his pistol and walked his horse towards his pursuers, watching their faces. He suddenly spurred his horse on, guiding it around the end of the mill towards the millpond. The constables watched him with some interest. What would he do when he found his escape completely barred by the pond?

Mitchell paused only for a moment at the edge of the frozen pond. No time to gauge the thickness of the ice. Maybe better to die this way, a free man. Forward once more, over the pond, the horse’s hooves sliding dangerously. A loud crack that he thought was a pistol shot was but the ice breaking. Onwards, the ice near to giving way with each step, almost at the bank now – and the horse scrambled on to firm ground. Mitchell looked back. The constables were at the far side of the pond, not daring to follow. He rode through the barely-flowing Tach Brook, keeping up the pace, knowing they would be looking for a way to head him off. South to Chesterton Green – the country too open for his liking – then he found the relative seclusion of a lane. He followed it to Chesterton Wood. Here he waited for an hour or more until he was sure his pursuers had given up the search, then he made his way towards the warm and friendly inn.

When he told the story of his escape to his friends, the horse gained a new name: Skater.

Chesterton Mill is still there, off Windmill Hill Lane. It’s a Grade II listed building.

Bendigo Mitchell is no more. As the plaque on the pub door suggests, he was tried at Warwick Assizes in Northgate Street and publicly hanged just down the hill next to the racecourse.

Two recent online correspondents have added further information. Wiggerland Wood Farm now seems to have been given over to a housing development, but in the 1990s there was a plaque in a barn there that stated that Bendigo Mitchell was lynched in that same building. Further, it is said that the Rugby Advertiser of 26 November 1904 carried a report that Mitchell was hanged at Rugby and gibbeted at Warwick. Where is the truth I wonder?

A HIGHWAYWOMAN

At the time of writing, Stratford-upon-Avon hosts a farmers’ market in Rother Street. It’s on the first and third Saturdays of the month, if you’re interested, and it also has stalls offering new goods, old goods, vintage and rare items, jewellery, hand-made crafts and lots more.

In centuries past, Rother Street, Bridge Street and Wood Street were the principal locations for the annual fairs that brought hundreds of people to the town. There was a hiring fair, where servants looking for work would fix small tokens of the employment they sought to their clothes or their head-dress: a groom carried a whip; a farm labourer a twist of hay; a shepherd a wisp of wool; and a maid-of-all-work a mop (hence ‘mop fair’). The servants would be taken on for a year and a day.

The street sufficed as a cattle market, and beasts were tethered to iron rings fixed firmly into the walls; Rother Street still had some of these rings remaining until just over a hundred years ago.

In the week or so before the fair, the borough constable collected contributions from the public to buy a hog to roast. There must have been some sort of ticketing system for the contributors to claim their share of the profits. A sixteenth-century half-timbered inn, now The Garrick in the High Street, would roast the whole hog outside the front of its premises and plates of the meat were sold to passers-by, superintended by the constable.

Stratford was full of people with money to spend and people with goods to sell. At the day’s end, the pockets of the farmers and other traders would be heavy with coin. Some stayed at one of the several inns in the town to celebrate a good day making money by spending some of it, while those who lived more locally made their way home at the end of their day’s trading. Farmers who lived to the south would ride their horses or drive their carts along Bridge Street, across the Avon bridge and into the Banbury Road. Some carried straight on, others soon turned right into the Shipston Road.

There was a woman who I will call Moll living 5 miles south of Stratford in the tiny village of Wimpstone. Moll led a double life. By day she was the quiet woman who kept herself to herself, looking after her vegetable garden and her chickens and occasionally bartering a few eggs or a cabbage or some onions for the necessaries of life. By night, when the time was right, she became something quite different.

On the Stratford fair days, Moll would wait for sunset. Then she went up to her bedroom and began to prepare herself. Her skirt she cast off in favour of a pair of well-worn breeches. She pulled on a pair of high black boots. She reached into the furthest recess of her cupboard to find a long, black, brass-buttoned coat, a three-cornered hat and a mask. She put them all on, looking in her cracked and spotted mirror as she adjusted the hat to its most rakish angle. Finally she reached an arm under her bed and drew out a pair of pistols, which she stuck into her belt.

She skipped light-footed down the stairs and into the kitchen, where she took a bridle from its hook. Out of the back door, she ran down the garden to the fence below. This she climbed, and gave a low whistle. Almost at once, the neighbouring farmer’s black hunter trotted up and nuzzled her hands. She had him well trained. Any carrots she could spare from her garden were saved for him and he had learnt the meaning of the whistle. She soon had the bridle over his head and had climbed from the fence on to his bare back.

A gate took Moll from the field on to the village street, and she was away, cantering through the gathering darkness towards Stratford.