North Yorkshire Folk Tales

by Ingrid Barton

  When peace is restored, however, she fixes Jack with a piercing eye, ‘Well Jack, my clever lad, and how would you go about looking for Bargest? It can take any shape it pleases, you know. A dog, often, but also a horse, or a cow, a calf or even a cat like Tabby here,’ She strokes the cat in her lap. ‘You might see an old cat coming along the road one night and think it was Tabby until –’

  ‘Until what?’ the older children encourage hopefully. Sophie buries her face in Sarah’s skirt.

  ‘Then you’d notice its eyes!’

  ‘What about its eyes, Granny?’

  ‘They’re big, horrible, huge! Like the dog in the story with the eyes as big as saucers. But they’re not like the eyes of a right beast. Oh no, not they. They’re like rings of brilliant colour, like a Catherine wheel. Then you’d know it wasn’t a cat, but then it would be too late!’

  The children consider this interesting piece of animal physiology. ‘And does it make a noise?’ asks Paul.

  ‘Oh, there’s a terrible howling shriek when it catches its prey, but normally you’ll never hear it creep up behind you because its feet,’ she drops her voice to a whisper, ‘make no noise!’

  ‘No noise. Even when it’s a horse?’

  ‘Absolutely no noise. Its feet are as quiet as Tabby’s. The only sound you’ll ever hear comes when it’s very close to you. Just imagine, you’re coming home along the road one night and get a funny feeling that something is following you. You look around but you can’t see anything in the darkness. You go on a while but sooner or later …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ll hear,’ Puff, puff, ‘a strange clinking-clanking noise.’

  ‘Like a harness chain?’

  ‘No, like a chain in a dungeon, a great big heavy chain. Bargest has one around its neck!’

  ‘What do we do if we hear it?’

  Granny looks around at them all. They stare back expectantly but at that very moment there comes a muffled sound of clinking – or is it clanking? – a chain! The children gasp. Granny gets to her feet (dropping Tabby, hissing, to the floor). She clutches her heart dramatically and points with a shaking finger into the darkness of the room behind the children. ‘YOU RUN!’ she shouts at the top of her voice. ‘RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!’ And all the boys do just that, rushing for the stairs or the back door.

  ‘That got ‘em!’ says Granny, sitting down again. She knocks the ashes of the pipe out on the fender. Tabby jumps back up instantly. Sophie and Sarah, who, strangely, have not run away, are smiling and giggling a little.

  ‘Good work, Sophie!’ says Granny. ‘What was it Sarah gave you?’

  ‘Gyp’s old chain!’ Sophie holds up the dog-chain she has been hiding behind her back.

  ‘So, when will you tell us about the Gytrash?’ she asks.

  THE BARGEST OF TROLLER’S GILL

  Wharfedale

  There was once a foolish man called Troller who decided that he wanted to see the bargest, though all his friends warned him against it.

  He decided to wait at a place it was known to inhabit, a dark gill between rocky cliffs where the Skyreholme Beck pours through a narrow channel before joining the Wharfe. No sane man would dare it at night, for though the fissure is very narrow, the gorge that the water has cut is very deep; any false step would mean death. The roar of the water in winter is deafening, the thunder of it resounding throughout one’s whole body.

  Troller would not be deterred. He dabbled in magic and believed that he had a charm that would protect him from the bargest while allowing him to defy and perhaps even control it, like a magician of old. He was obsessed with the idea, drawn to the horror and convinced that he was the hero who would bend the creature to his will.

  He rose from his bed at midnight and, armed only with a small ash twig, set off in the moonlight for the gill. The deep sound of rushing water beneath him did not daunt him. He felt only excitement as he reached a twisted old yew tree at the edge of the gill and knelt beneath it. With the ash twig he drew a circle around himself in the earth, turned himself clockwise three times, knelt and kissed the ground three times. Now, he believed he was safe, fool that he was, and settled down to wait.

  On a nearby hill there was a shepherd camping out with his sheep to protect the newborn lambs against predators. It was he who caught sight of what happened next and later told the tale in Skyreholme village. His attention was first drawn to the gill by the sound of Troller’s voice calling out a challenge to the bargest.

  ‘Come and meet me, Bargest, if you dare!’

  Curious, but glad he was no closer; the shepherd peered towards the beck. He saw a spectral green light that began to glow along the gill illuminating the rocks. As it grew brighter, it was accompanied by the ominous sound of a clanking chain, which swiftly became louder and closer. There was a sudden rush and clatter of falling stones. The shepherd’s blood ran cold as terrible shrieks burst without warning from the depths of the gill – whether those of a man or a beast he could not tell. They came again and again, dying away at last in a rattling howl that echoed across the moors. The shepherd and his dog waited, unable to move from fear, but they heard no more. The ghastly light died away and the beck flowed on undisturbed.

  The shepherd was far too terrified to go and see what had happened. All night he huddled with his trembling sheepdog in the little lambing hut, unable to sleep, but the morning brought them more courage and they left the sheep and ventured down into the gill together. Almost immediately the dog began to bark.

  Beneath the old yew tree lay Troller, his eyes open but unseeing, his face frozen in an expression of agonised terror. At first the confused shepherd thought that he must be wearing his red Sunday waistcoat, then he saw that terrible claws had torn open the poor man’s chest. The remainder of his heart’s blood was slowly trickling down into the beck.

  From that night on, the place has been known as Troller’s Gill.

  THE FELON SOW OF ROKEBY

  Northern Moors

  Ralph de Rokeby had a problem: she was large and fierce and covered with rusty-red hair. She was a pig, a sow, a felon sow vicious beyond belief!

  Sows can be aggressive when defending their piglets, but this sow had no piglets. What she did have is ripping eye-teeth and molars that could crush bone like a twig. Larger than three ordinary sows she ranged the side of the little River Greta like a warlord, attacking – and sometimes killing – anyone who came near her.

  As the poem says: ‘Was no barne that colde her byde.’ (Meaning there was no man who could stand up to her.)

  Baron Ralph did not know what to do with her; none of his men dared go near her so he could not kill her for food and he hesitated to try breeding from such a monster. In the end, the exasperated baron decided that he would give her away. There was a daughter house of Grey Friars in nearby Richmond and he knew that, being a begging order, it was always short of food. ‘I’ll give the cursed thing to them,’ he thought. ‘Kill two birds with one stone. Get rid of the sow and benefit my immortal soul at the same time!’ He smiled wickedly.

  The friars were overjoyed at the prospect of roast pork.

  ‘There’s just one thing,’ the baron told them. ‘You’ll have to bring her home yourselves.’

  Well, that was not a problem; they would just tie a rope to her leg and drive her home with a stick. ‘Better take a couple of strong men with you,’ suggested Baron Ralph carelessly, ‘just in case.’

  Friar Middleton was selected for this task and he picked two lay friary servants to help him, Pater Dale and Brian Metcalfe. The three men set off merrily with their rope and stick. They chatted of chitterlings and bacon, or stuffed chine and sausages.

  They had no trouble at all finding the sow. There she was, lying under a tree by the River Greta. The three stopped abruptly.

  ‘Holy Mother of God!’

  They stared in amazement. ‘Bacon for months, boys,’ exclaimed Friar Middleton. ‘Where’s that rope?’ Cautiously he began to approach the
sow. She lifted up her head to watch him and very slowly got to her feet. Her muddy snout went snuffle, snuffle and her little red eyes peered at them from under her rusty eyebrows. She was about the size of a Shetland pony – but much more dangerous, as Friar Middleton discovered when she charged. Her trotters thundered over the ground. The three men turned and ran back into the wood, but the sow was much faster than any of them had expected and they had to hide behind trees. Their blood was up now, however; there was bacon at stake!

  ‘We’ve got to get that rope on her leg!’ shouted Friar Middleton. ‘You two grab her round the neck and wrestle her to the ground while I tie the rope. Altogether now: one, two, three!’

  It was not an heroic scene. The sow shook off Peter and Brian like drops of water and chased the friar into the river. When she turned back to deal with the others, Brian just managed to avoid being run down by shinning up a tree, and Peter was chased round and round cursing and shouting for help.

  The men were determined not to give up; they regrouped and flung themselves at the pig. Friar Middleton leapt onto her back and had a short but exhilarating ride before being flung into a briar patch. Peter made the rope into a noose and tried to lasso the sow’s head. There was a lime kiln in the wood, used for burning chalk into lime for the fields. The sow avoided the noose and backed abruptly, managing to get her backside stuck in the entrance to the kiln.

  ‘Quick! Get the rope on her!’ Peter slipped the noose over her head.

  ‘Got her!’ The three shouted with triumph, punching the air.

  Now that she was stuck, the sow seemed to quieten down. She stood panting, appearing beaten. The men took hold of the rope and began to haul. The sow’s rear slowly became unstuck. As soon as she felt herself free, however, she suddenly leapt forward and attacked again, vicious jaws snapping. She took a lump out of Brian’s calf and butted Peter violently into a thorn bush. When she turned her attention to Friar Middleton, he did not stop to fight but leapt up into a nearby sycamore tree with un-friarly agility.

  They had reached a stand-off; one man clutching his bleeding leg; one gasping for breath; one sitting like an unwieldy grey bird in a tree; the felon sow strolled back and forth keeping watch on them all.

  Now Friar Middleton began to grow angry at the sow’s attitude. It was all very well for her to attack ordinary men like Peter and Brian, but he was a properly ordained friar and deserved more respect. He remembered how the birds fed St Cuthbert and how St Francis, the founder of his order, had preached to wild animals. She was an ignorant creature, he reflected, and would be improved by being instructed in the gospels. He slithered down the tree and, raising his hand in a dramatic gesture, he began to speak.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ hissed Peter to Brian.

  ‘I think he’s preaching to the sow.’

  ‘In Latin?’

  ‘In Latin.’

  ‘The sowe scho wolde not Latyne heare.’ Recovering from what was no doubt surprise at her enemy’s strange actions the pig squealed her rage and charged once more. Once more, the good friar had to take to his heels and flee to the wood.

  When Baron Ralph saw his sow return home to her sty that evening, he noticed the rope hanging from her neck and knew that there had been a fight. He raised one eyebrow in amusement but said nothing. The sow settled down to sleep, well satisfied with her day.

  It was a battered, scratched and miserable trio who stood before the warden of their friary attempting to explain why they had been defeated by a pig. Friar Middleton swore that she was not really a pig but the Devil in disguise.

  The warden was not pleased with them, but neither was he going to give up. He settled down to write two letters. One was to the famous Gilbert Griffiths, a most renowned man-at-arms, and the other was to a well-known Spanish saracen-slayer. He begged them to go to Rokeby and slay the felon sow; a monster well worthy of their skill, he told them. In return, the friars would pray for their souls forever.

  The two warriors could not resist the challenge and so the sow met her match at last – though vegetarians will be pleased to hear that she nearly managed to castrate the Spaniard before Gilbert felled her with his good sword. He took her back to Richmond cut in half and carried in two panniers strapped to a sturdy packhorse.

  When the friars saw the pork arrive, their joy knew no bounds.

  O how lustily they sang ‘Te Deum’ (We praise thee O God) before that night’s dinner!

  THE GYTRASH

  Western Moors

  On the road from Egton Bridge to Goathland is a farmhouse called Julian Park. The land on which it is built was once, according to legend, the site of a castle built by an early member of the local de Mauley family. He was Julian de Mauley – and he was evil!

  ‘Who is the fairest maid in Goathland?’

  ‘It is Gytha, daughter of Gudron.’

  ‘Bring her to me!’ says Julian de Mauley.

  ‘Sire, you have many women to please you. She is only a young virgin. Pease leave her be!’

  ‘You fool!’ says his master. ‘I do not want her for that but to make this new castle of mine strong. The stones need a life to strengthen them!’

  The servant leaps back in horror. ‘Sire, the sacrifice of a cat or a dog will surely be sufficient to protect it. It would be evil beyond evil to kill a maid!’

  ‘That evil I dare if it will make my castle impregnable.’

  The people of Goathland weep and lament when they hear the news, but it is to no avail. De Mauley’s men seize the girl.

  ‘Who is the best mason in Goathland?’

  ‘Sire it is Gudron, the father of Gytha.’

  ‘Bring him here to me. None but he shall lay the stones that will shut his daughter in my wall.’ But Gudron will not come. He swears that he will die before he kills his daughter in such a cruel way.

  ‘I shall not kill you,’ says Julian when Gudron is at last dragged before him. ‘We shall see what torture will do!’

  He hands Gudron over to his soldiers for torture. Gudron is a brave man. He holds out for a long time, but even the bravest may break in time. Weeping, he takes the trowel in his hand to enclose his beloved daughter in the castle wall.

  She screams and weeps when they carry her to the place. She begs forgiveness for whatever harm she may have done to injure Julian (for she cannot understand his need).

  ‘So pure! So sweet! Dear Gytha, you will guard my castle fittingly forever!’

  Now the wall rises around her and the darkness with it. Her father tries with broken words to soothe her terror. Now only two stones remain to be laid. A loaf of bread, a jug of water, a spindle and wool are thrust mockingly through into the hole so that she will not waste her last hours. Gytha’s blue eyes stare desperately into her father’s for the last time as he shuts out her world forever.

  The people of Goathland beg for her release while there is still time; they fall on their knees before Julian. Priests and monks warn him of holy vengeance for slaying the innocent. Julian laughs at them all, listening with impatience in the dark each night to the fading sound of Gytha’s weak cries far inside his castle wall. At last they cease. Julian rejoices and orders a feast. Now his castle will be impregnable.

  It is a year later. Julian lies asleep. Suddenly he awakes with a jump. There is a light in his room eminating from a drifting figure that moves slowly towards him. ‘Who are you?’ he cries, and then stops abruptly as he sees that the figure wears Gytha’s dress and carries a spindle.

  Her face, no longer beautiful, is emaciated, her shrivelled lips drawn back over her white teeth, but it is her eyes, her terrible blue eyes that make him understand that there is no escape. She drifts closer and holds her spindle over his feet. The thread of despair that she spun in her last days snakes down and binds together his feet and ankles, which lose all feeling, becoming cold and dead. Then she is gone. Next day he cannot stand or walk without a stick.

  The following year, on the anniversary of her death, she returns and binds his legs w
ith the thread that no one except Julian can see. Now he cannot ride his horse and must be carried on a chair.

  And so it goes on year after year, each anniversary bringing a further loss of movement. It is like being slowly walled up. Julian consults doctors, priests and wise women. He covers himself with amulets and charms. He repents and confesses, and swears to do only good. He promises the people of Goathland freedoms they have only dreamed of if only they will pray for him. Maybe they do. But nothing works. On the tenth anniversary of Gytha’s death, his servants find him dead and rigid in his bed. They had no cause to love him, but his death brings them no joy.

  ‘He was cruel, living,’ they say, ‘God protect us against his spirit now he’s dead!’

  Their words prove prophetic. It is only a matter of months before the people of Goathland realise that Julian in death is indeed worse than he was in life. Labourers going home in the evening see it first: a huge demonic being in the shape of a giant black goat with fiery eyes and curving horns that spout flames. They run as fast as they can, but when they get home one of their number is missing.

  ‘It’s a gytrash!’ whisper the old women. ‘A gytrash in goat form. Who’d have thought we’d live to see such a thing in our time?’

  ‘It’s old Julian, if you ask me,’ says the oldest man in the village. ‘He’s come back to destroy us one by one!’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ asked his little granddaughter from her stool at his side.

  ‘He never loved the living, and we wouldn’t pray for him. Now he’s dead he hates us still more.’

  Now all the villagers are filled with fear. No one dares stray away from home when it gets dark. Children, women and the old are kept indoors, for only the fastest runners can escape the gytrash if they meet it. Even so, many die.

  Around the anniversary of Julian’s death, something else begins to haunt the village as well. This time only young maidens are attacked. It is tall and pale, weeping constantly and carrying a spindle in its thin hand. It comes to the girls at night and wraps the wool from its spindle around their chests so that in a few weeks they sicken and die. ‘Gytha blames us for not protecting her!’ the mothers weep.