North Yorkshire Folk Tales

by Ingrid Barton

  The next cottage he stopped at had a fine first storey that overhung the street. A tailor was sitting cross-legged on a table in the big sunlit window of the upstairs parlour. The old man looked up and the tailor looked down. Then the tailor leant forwards and opened the window.

  ‘I’ve nowt for beggars,’ he shouted. ‘Go away and stop cluttering up my street!’

  ‘A little water, maister? A crust of bread?’

  ‘Mary!’ shouted the tailor angrily. ‘Water for the beggar!’

  A little dormer window opened above him and a grinning maid emptied a chamber pot into the street, missing the old man by a whisker. The tailor laughed uproariously and slammed his window shut.

  Shaking his head sadly, the old man continued up the street. Soon he came to a large house with fine carving on its timbers – a prosperous butcher’s house. Surely, such a well-off man could spare something for a beggar.

  The beggar knew better than to knock at the front door. He went around to the kitchen at the back. A smart lad opened the door and peered out.

  ‘Can you spare awt to eat or drink, young sir?’

  The lad threw his eyes up to heaven. ‘What sort of gowk are you? Hasn’t anyone told you? Maister can’t bear your sort. Get going before he finds you here!’

  And so it went all the way through the town. In one house the cook pretended that the old man must belong to a gang of thieves come to spy on the place; in another the man of the house, tankard in hand, lectured him on working hard instead of being a layabout. ‘The undeserving poor are leeches sucking the wealth out of this country!’ he said.

  In yet another, where a fat family were about to begin an enormous dinner, he was told that charity begins at home. ‘If we gave to every beggar who knocks on the door we’d be as poor as pauper soup.’

  It seemed that the whole town had forgotten what it was to be poor and old and cold and desperate.

  At the top of the village he was directed to the priest’s house by the warmly dressed inn-keeper’s wife.

  ‘It’s the Church should care for ancients like you. The priest is a man of God, after all, or so he tells us as he pockets our tithes!’

  Limping badly by now the beggar followed the directions and soon came to a handsome stone house surrounded by a high wall. He pushed open the gate and made his way to the back door. As he passed the dining room window, he saw the priest sitting at a table laden with food. There was fish and venison, pies, a great sirloin of beef.

  The priest graciously left his meal for a moment to talk to the old man. He kindly informed him that he was very sorry, but that there was nothing suitable in the house to give a beggar. He would, however, say a prayer for him that very night and God would provide for him sooner or later if he only had faith. Then, with the air of someone who had done a noble deed, he smiled, nodded sympathetically and closed the door firmly.

  The old man shambled back along the garden path. There was only one more place to try: the castle. There it stood, rich and powerful. The main gates were open, for this was a time of peace. There were a few soldiers lolling around in the courtyard eating bread, cheese and apples. When they saw the old man, they began to make fun of him.

  ‘Where are you gannin’ Granddad?’ they shouted. They stood over him and barred his way until he told them what his business was. ‘Oh food, eh? Well they’ve just fed t’ swine. Would thy lordship would care to join thy friends?’ They pushed him around from one to another, but as he did not protest, they got bored after a while and let him go, throwing their apple cores at his back as he limped towards the kitchen.

  There his reception was even worse. The young scullions, black with soot and greasy from scouring pots, chased him around the room, hallooing and waving ladles and knives. Then they grabbed him by his skinny arms and threatened to put him on the spit next to the fat boar that was browning nicely there. In the end, the cook heard the noise and came in to the kitchen in a rage. He beat the boys into some sort of order, but he threw the old beggar out and told him that if he caught him doddering about there again he would set the dogs on him. The beggar could hear the dogs howling, mercifully shut up in their kennels.

  Even more dishevelled now the beggar ran the gauntlet of the soldiers again and patiently walked back over the castle bridge. There he saw a brave sight coming down the road. The baron who owned the castle was returning from some outing. He was surrounded by his servants in bright livery. The beggar stepped forward into the path of his horse and knelt. Surely knight’s honour would not allow him to leave an old man without shelter.

  ‘My lord! My lord!’ he cried. ‘Help for God’s sake!’

  The baron’s horse snorted but his master reined him in. ‘What can you possibly want from me, old man?’

  ‘Food, Sir, shelter for one in desperate need. I asked your folk but they taunted me and threw me out.’

  ‘Get your insolent body out of my path!’ roared the baron. ‘Where are the dogs?’

  The beggar cringed and shuffled hastily out of the way as the baron’s horse sprang forwards over the bridge. Soon the castle’s doors were fastened behind their lord.

  The sun was setting now. The old man had nowhere to go except onwards. The road out of the town was steep and icy, but he trudged forward up out of the valley; it was filling with grey evening mist. On the brown winter hills the last sunlight still glowed, but the cold was already creeping out from the shadows.

  At the last turn of the road before the moor brow there was a cottage. It did not look very inviting for it was a single-storeyed low building, thatched with turf, not much different to a cow byre. Still, the old man had caught a glimpse of cheerful firelight shining from the single window, so he knocked tentatively.

  The door was opened by a wiry middle-aged man with a weather-beaten face.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you –’ began the old man, but the shepherd (for that is what he was) gestured for him to enter even before he finished his sentence.

  ‘Come in, grandfeyther,’ he said, ‘come in and get a warm by the fire. You look half-starved with cold!’ Gratefully the old man entered and stretched out his old trembling hands to the warmth.

  ‘Sit down. There’s nobbut one chair but I can tek t’stool.’ The shepherd indicated a roughly carved armchair and the old man sank gratefully into it.

  ‘Thank you, maister, I’ve been walking all day.’

  The shepherd looked thoughtful. ‘Thoo’ll not have etten, then, I guess. Not if thoo’ve been down yonder. They’re so near down there they’d skin a flea if they could catch it. Dinna thoo worry, I’ve bread an’ cheese an’ a slip of fatty bacon’ll set tha up like a lord. A drop of ale too, if thoo wants.’

  ‘But that’s your meal.’

  ‘Eh well, they say shared bread is sweeter! Put thy feet up while I fettle it.’

  And so the old man got food and drink, little enough, it is true, but given with as much cheerful insistence as if the shepherd had a full storeroom. They chatted together after the meal, with the old man telling of his travels, the shepherd of the strange ways of mountain sheep. Then the shepherd made up a bed for himself by the fire, insisting that the old man sleep on his rough pallet, covered with warm sheepskins.

  When the shepherd woke the next morning the old man was not there.

  ‘He’s left betimes,’ he thought, sorry to lose the chance of further talk, for his was a lonely life. As was his custom he opened the door and stepped out to see what the weather was doing. Then he saw that his guest had not gone. He was standing with his back to the cottage, staring down at the still-sleeping town. It seemed to the shepherd that he looked taller and straighter than he had been the night before and that the light of the newly risen sun had changed his white hair to gold.

  ‘I hope tha slept sound?’ he asked. At the sound of the shepherd’s voice, the old man turned towards him. The shepherd gasped, doubting his own eyes. Where were the lines, the wrinkles? Where were the rags? The person who stood there dressed in
shining robes was young and beautiful – beautiful in a way that made the shepherd tremble with fear.

  ‘Wha is thoo, (who are you) my lord?’ he whispered, falling to his knees.

  ‘Do not be afraid!’ said the young man. ‘You merit nothing but the highest praise. You took in a stranger and fed him when you had almost nothing. May you be happy! It is those without kindness who should tremble!’ He stared once more at the town and there was no mercy in his gaze. The sun began to dim as he grew taller and more terrible. Black clouds appeared from nowhere, borne on a rising wind. He flung out his hands in a wide gesture that seemed to embrace the whole town. Then he cried in a loud voice:

  ‘I call thee Semerwater, rise fast, rise deep, rise free!

  Whelm all except the little house that fed and sheltered me!’

  Instantly the black clouds over the town exploded with thunder and lightning; rain poured down. From every keld and beck in the valley great gouts of water spouted up in torrents, foaming and rushing with waterfalls becoming geysers. Spray filled the valley. The roar of water grew and grew; it was deafening but not so deafening that the shepherd could not hear the screams of the townsfolk as they tried in vain to escape their doom.

  The radiant figure turned once more to the shepherd who was still kneeling, filled with fear and grief. There was a brief smile and a hand raised in blessing, then without another word the angel spread its magnificent wings and flew away into the pale-blue sky that still shone beyond the rolling clouds.

  The rain fell all day. Then the clouds vanished and the shepherd, daring once more to look into the valley, saw no town at all, but only the low winter sun shining on the calm grey water of a lake.

  THE DEVIL’S BRIDGE

  Nidderdale

  Do not call it that! To name the Devil is to call him up, they say. Call it Dibble’s Bridge; that would be safer – and yet its evil builder, for once, claimed no deadly price for building it as he did in other places.

  Take Kilgram Bridge, for example, that straddles the Ure between Thornton Steward at the lower end of Wensleydale and Jervaux Abbey. In the past, the villagers’ efforts to build a bridge strong enough to cope with the force of the river in flood kept failing. Wooden bridge after wooden bridge was washed away, leaving them and their animals stranded. In desperation, they turned to someone well known for his ability to build in difficult places: the Devil! There is hardly a dangerous valley in Britain that is not spanned by a bridge attributed to him. But he demanded a high fee: the life of the first being to cross. The Thornton Steward villagers were desperate; they agreed to his terms and the very next day they woke to find a splendid new bridge over the Ure. Everyone rejoiced. All that remained was to find a way to cheat the Devil of a human victim.

  Attempts to get hens or sheep to cross ended in failure. Cats sat and washed themselves; dogs crept away with their tails between their legs. The villagers stared at their brand-new bridge in dismay. Would they ever be able to use it?

  Then a hard-hearted local shepherd had an idea. He made his sheepdog, Grim, sit and wait at the entrance to the bridge. Then he swam over the river, climbed out and called to Grim from the other side. The faithful dog ran towards him but the moment he touched the further shore he fell dead. The bridge was thereafter called – if you will believe it – Kill Grim Bridge (now known as Kilgram).

  A similar bargain made with the Devil is told about many bridges, but Dibbles Bridge is different. It was built because of a generous man and a tasty lunch.

  The little village of Thorpe-sub-Montem (Thorpe Underhill) was once famous throughout the Dales for its cobblers. Odd though it might seem that such an out-of-the-way place should have so many, there were enough monasteries and abbeys in the area to make it worthwhile training up sons in the craft.

  One of the best was Ralph Calvert, who made and mended the shoes and sandals of the monks of Fountains Abbey. It was said that he could make three pairs of shoes in the time it took another man to make two. He also made harnesses, belts and the delicate leather hoods worn by hawks.

  Twice a year, at Christmas and Midsummer, he would load up a big wicker pack with all the commissions he had been given six months before, plus any new things he had thought of, and set off on the thirty-mile trip to the monastery. By Burnsall he went, and Langerton Hill, to Pateley Bridge and then on to Fountains.

  His way took him sometimes on moor, sometimes on the high road, but there was one place he dreaded going through. It was where he had to cross the River Dibb at the dark bottom of a steep hill. There was a ford but he never knew whether it would be easy to cross or difficult, because the river could rise very swiftly.

  He did not hurry. Sometimes he would break his journey halfway, sleeping out in the fields in the summer, or staying in a little wayside inn in the winter. The following day he would arrive at the abbey where he was always welcomed warmly and well looked after in the monastery’s guesthouse. The monks were good to him; they never haggled more than was polite over the prices he charged them and always paid him properly. Best of all, they liked a bit of a gossip quite as much as he did. Altogether it was a good way of life and he enjoyed it.

  One summer’s day, having spent a pleasant evening at the abbey, he set off for home with a new load of shoes and sandals to mend. He was feeling happy, for the day was sunny but not too hot for walking, and, even better, he had a bag of food for the journey, put together by one of the monastery’s many cooks. The moors above Pateley were looking very fine that day, the heather on the verge of coming into flower and the gorse smelling sweetly after the heavy rains that had fallen during the night.

  As Ralph descended towards the River Dibb, however, he became aware of the sound of roaring, and as he came down to the ford, he saw swirling water laced with foam. He realised that he would not be able to cross that day. He scratched his head. He could either wait until the water went down, which could take hours, or he could walk along the bank to Appletreewick and then double back to Thorpe – a long way. Neither option appealed to him but, being a cheerful soul who took problems in his stride, he sat down on a rock in the sun and began to unpack his lunch bag.

  The monks had done him proud, with bread, meat, cheese, a small pie, boiled eggs, an onion or two, three apples and a small leather bottle of wine. As he unpacked, he began to sing to keep himself company (for people sang all the time in those days and didn’t give a fig who heard them):

  Sing luck-a-down, heigh down,

  Ho down derry

  To his surprise there came an answer!

  Tol lol de rol, darel dol, dol de derry!

  Ralph had been sure there was no one around, but when he looked up he saw, standing on the riverbank, gazing at its foaming water, a tall, black-haired, well-dressed stranger. Ralph continued the song to the end, singing alternate lines with the stranger, who turned and smiled at him. When the song was ended, Ralph jumped up and went over to greet him properly. They commiserated with each other on the state of the ford.

  ‘I’m due in Grassington,’ said the stranger. ‘How about you?’

  ‘I’ve me wife and bairns waiting for me in Thorpe,’ said Ralph. They chatted about the weather and the state of the roads and then Ralph, taken with the stranger’s friendly and engaging manner, invited him to share his meal.

  The stranger seemed a little taken aback, but ‘I don’t mind if I do. It’s more than kind of you!’ he said.

  They shared Ralph’s sunlit rock and Ralph divided the monks’ food between them. The stranger seemed quite touched, especially when the bottle of wine was passed to him.

  ‘This wine is good!’ he exclaimed. ‘I don’t know when I’ve tasted better – and believe me, I’ve emptied a few bottles!’

  ‘It’s from Fountains Abbey.’

  ‘Ah yes. Those monks love their wine. I shall certainly remember to visit them!’

  They ate and drank in companionable silence until at last the stranger said, ‘You’ve been right kind to me, Ralph, so I feel tha
t I owe it to you to reveal that I am actually Old Nick.’

  Ralph was a bit surprised, but he was not one to fluster easily. ‘Thoo’s niver!’ was all he replied, passing the bottle. Then he added, ‘Well, what I say is, Old Nick’s a gentleman and I’ll niver hear nowt agin him again.’

  The Devil wiped away a boiling tear with a spotless linen handkerchief. ‘You’re a good fellow. Might I have a bit more pie?’

  ‘Help thaself,’ said Ralph but he was thinking what a wonderful tale this would make. Him, Ralph Calvert, supping – well, picnicking – with the Devil!

  ‘Only thing is,’ he said, thinking out loud, ‘who’ll believe me?’

  ‘Believe that I’m the Devil? I’ve just told you I am!’

  ‘Yes, but how do I know that thoo’s tellin’ truth? Thoo’ll have to prove it, thoo knows.’

  The Devil was slightly miffed. ‘No problem!’

  ‘Go on then!’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  Ralph knew that he was pushing his luck, but he was not easily daunted. He looked around for an idea and his eye fell on the river.

  ‘Gi’us a bridge here!’

  The Devil considered. ‘I could I suppose,’ he said. ‘Hmm, well, I like you and you’ve been very generous to me – a rare thing. All right, you’re on. In four days’ time, there’ll be a bridge here. You can bring your little friends to see it. I’ll waive my usual fee, too.’

  ‘What were that then?’

  ‘Mind your own business.’

  ‘And do I get to keep ma soul?’

  The Devil looked offended. ‘Would I take your soul after we’ve broken bread together? Certainly not! What do you take me for?’ He stood up and stretched. ‘And so we must part.’ He held his hand out tentatively. ‘I don’t suppose you’d shake hands with Old Nick, would you?’

  Ralph held out his own hand. ‘Reet willin’. Thoo’s a grand ol’ lad.’ They solemnly shook hands, then the Devil took three steps and disappeared in a small puff of black smoke. Ralph packed up thoughtfully, swung his pack onto his back and trudged off along the river on the long detour to Appletreewick.