North Yorkshire Folk Tales

by Ingrid Barton

  The men-at-arms looked even more nervous if possible. They began to mutter among themselves and to back their ponies. Little John lowered his bow. ‘But if I let you continue it will interfere with my own master’s business!’

  The men-at-arms turned their ponies around. One of them shouted, ‘No offence meant – wouldn’t dream of interfering with Master Robin’s business. Just going!’ And before the astonished monk could say a word his escort had turned tail and cantered briskly away.

  ‘Cowards! Poltroons!’ he yelled after them.

  Will now stepped forward and bowed. ‘Sir Monk, we would not dream of hurting a man of the cloth. All we want is for you to dine with our master today.’

  What could he do? Little John already had his hand on the mule’s rein so the monk had to put on the best face he could as he was led into the forest.

  ‘I’ll stay and wait for Sir Richard,’ said Much. ‘Save me some dinner!’

  The monk could not complain about his treatment. Robin Hood was as courteous as he could wish and when he saw the greenwood feast spread out he began to think that all might be well. Soon he was gobbling as happily as if he was in his own refectory.

  His tongue was loosened by an excellent claret that Robin pressed on him. Before long he had revealed that he was the cellarer of St Mary’s and was on his way to London on the abbot’s business, buying wine.

  ‘So you work for Our Lady Mary?’ asked Robin.

  ‘Well, in a manner of speaking, I suppose so. The abbey does technically belong to her.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Robin exclaimed. ‘What do you think, men, has this good monk been sent to pay Our Lady’s debt?’

  ‘Aye! Aye! Aye!’ shouted all the outlaws, banging on the tables with their knife handles.

  The monk looked confused. ‘What debt? I don’t know anything about any debt!’

  ‘You see, master Monk, Our Lady Mary stood guarantor of a loan and as this is the day it must be redeemed and as the borrower isn’t here, it’s time for her to pay it back. She’s made you her holy instrument, you fortunate man!’

  The blood drained from the monk’s face. ‘B-but I’ve only got twenty marks on me. Just enough to get me to London!’

  ‘Little John, go and see whether what he says is true. If it is then, of course, you may keep it!’

  Needless to say Little John returned from the baggage mule with several small sacks that chinked satisfyingly. When they had counted all of the coins, they found that the monk had been carrying £800. The outlaws laughed and laughed at his discomfit.

  ‘What a woman that sweet Lady Mary is!’ said Robin Hood, running his fingers through the shining coins. ‘I’ve never known a better security! She’s paid her debt twice over!’

  It was vain for the monk to argue and plead and even weep, swearing that it was the abbey’s money needed to buy food for the poor. They put him back on his mule and sent on his way with nothing but a good dinner inside him and a few mocking bows.

  Now, at last, Much came back with Sir Richard. ‘He’s here!’ shouted Much. ‘He was delayed, but he’s here and he’s brought the money, just as he promised!’

  Robin greeted him with pleasure. ‘I always knew that you would keep your word. But by God, it’s a miracle! Two debtors have repaid their debts voluntarily in one day!’

  Sir Richard looked surprised. ‘Two?’

  ‘Aye. And it bodes well for you, my friend. We have made £800 today from the Abbot of St Mary’s. Keep your money; your debt is cancelled. And here is another £400 to gild your spurs with!’

  Sir Richard was speechless at his good fortune – raising the £400 had been hard work and he and his family had had to go without during the last year.

  ‘Cheer up, Sir Richard!’ said Little John. ‘You’re a bit late for dinner but you’re just in time for an early supper. We don’t want your wife saying that we haven’t fed you properly!’ And so, surrounded by Robin Hood and his merry men, Sir Richard at the Lee, sat under the broad sunlit boughs of the forest oaks and ate the happiest meal of his life.

  DICK TURPIN

  Thank you for your kind interest, gentlemen. If only we had time, I could make a fine tale of my life, but dawn being all too close your curiosities will have to be satisfied with this sorry brief digest!

  I was born in the year 1705 at Thaxtead in the county of Essex where my father was a butcher who also kept a public house. We often saw the gentry passing through. How fine they seemed to me with their grand clothes and their noses in the air! From my earliest years my ambition was to become such a gentleman, with a carriage and servants. To that end, knowing that education was needed, I went to school more willingly than many boys. What dreams we have when we are children! How soon they are dashed! It was my misfortune that my father could afford nothing better than the local common school where I learnt to write a fair hand, but nothing more useful to the achievement of my ambition. Seeing this – for I was always of a keen intelligence – it was not long before the play of my schoolmates became more attractive to me than work. I fear we led our schoolmaster, a Mr Smith, many a sad dance.

  My education ceased when my father decided I should be apprenticed to a butcher like himself. I liked the work well enough but the price the farmers asked for their beeves often left us with little profit.

  Not long after I completed my apprenticeship I wedded Mary Palmer of East Ham. We had no money and our parents were not well pleased, but she said to me that we would make our fortunes one of these days so why wait?

  The acquisition of money was our main topic of conversation. Soon we were in debt and almost starving, for the butcher I was working for turned me off for stealing. Well, thinks I, if I already have the name of a thief then I should at least profit by my new occupation. So, I stole a bullock from a fat local farmer and butchered it behind our cottage. Mary sold the meat in the market. It brought us enough blunt to live on for a while and so I did it again, and again, always being careful to pick different farmers so that none suffered too much. My Mary called me another Robin Hood.

  All went well enough until two scrubs, servants to Mr Giles of Plaistow, peached on me to the magistrates. They had seen me driving off two of his oxen so I had to escape from my home sharpish, without my dear Mary. She proved true, however, sending me money to get me down to the coast.

  I was somewhat disheartened by this failure of mine. From now on, I thought, I shall leave butchering and engage in a more gentlemanly trade. With this in mind it so chanced that I fell in with a party of men who told me of a new venture in fine wines and spirits. ‘We sell only to rich men and connoisseurs!’ they said, thinking me, as I supposed, no more than a rum cully, but I, not being as green as they thought, took to the smuggling trade (for that was in fact their venture) so well that they soon looked to me as a leader.

  All went well until the Excise grew so hot upon us that we had to remove to Epping Forest where we lived very hand-to-mouth, stealing in a small way. Then one day one of my associates returned from attempting to rob a little farm. He brought us a new idea. He had been driven off with blows and insults and he now thought that if we went in a body we would meet little resistance. ‘That old tit would have sung another tune if you had all been there to help me!’

  So it was that we hit upon our greatest plan: we would work all the lonely farms around the forest as a gang, and see what a little persuasion would squeeze out. Soon we became quite famous: the Essex Gang, we were called. It was easy work, especially on market day when the men of the farm were in town. The servants gave us little trouble and soon yellowboys and jewels flowed into our pockets. We were in clover!

  You will hear people say that we were torturers, but that is a black lie. A few slaps, a twisted arm soon made the woman of the house – what shall we say – keen to accommodate us with the keys to her strongbox. It was only with those who attacked us that we were severe.

  It was a sweet enough lay for a while. We had enough to live like kings in the taverns ar
ound the forest at all of which we were welcome. However, as our fame grew it came to the notice of the king himself. He offered £50 for the apprehension of me and my gang. No one in Essex dared attempt it though, we made sure of that.

  The day my luck turned we had just done the sweetest job: old man called Francis, in Marylebone. We had tied up his servants and beaten his wife and daughter – for the old fool wouldn’t tell us where his valuables were. In the end he gave us a fine haul: gold, some of it; there was a watch, I remember, and some rings as well as other stuff. Unfortunately he was fly enough to get the Bow Street Runners onto us afterwards. I only just got away, but they got two of my boys, damn their eyes, and hanged them without mercy.

  After that I went solo for a while. It’s amazing how far a polite address and a good suit of clothes will take you, for no one distrusts a gentleman – though in my experience, they are snakes, every one. My biggest need was more blunt – for some better duds to improve my appearance.

  At that time highwaymen were all the rage. There were ballads and chapbooks about them everywhere. Gay’s The Threepenny Opera had come out not long before and everyone, including me, fancied himself MacHeath.

  Well, thought I, I want to be a gentleman and highwaymen are gentlemen of the road, so why delay further? I betook myself with my pistols to the Cambridge Road and waited for my prey.

  Soon a well-dressed man came riding along. I stood forth into his path with my pistols pointed at his breast saying ‘Stand and deliver!’ To my surprise he merely laughed.

  ‘Well said, my lad. Almost like a highwayman! What’s your name?’

  ‘Dick Turpin!’ says I.

  ‘Well, Dick my cully, I’ve heard of you,’ says he, ‘and I fancy you’ve heard of me, for I am Captain Tom King!’

  That is how I joined forces with the most famous highwayman of his day. He took a liking to me and we agreed to share our ventures and to lodge together in a secret cave between King’s Oak and Loughton Road. We worked the roads through Epping Forest. Do not think that we were at all ill-housed in a cave, for everything we needed was supplied by my dear Mary, who had been living at this time on the earnings of a little public house I had procured for her when I was a smuggler. She brought us food and drink; many a merry party did we have together.

  My acquaintance with Captain Tom did much to improve my manner, for he was a gentleman born and bred. He taught me much, laughing often at my ignorance and country ways. I brooked his correction knowing that it would help me in the future, as indeed it did.

  The fickle wheel of fortune turned once more when a foolish man called Morris, inspired with greed for the £100 at which my bounty now stood, came after me. I was forced to shoot him and though it was in self-defence and entirely his own fault, in the eyes of the law I was now a murderer The bounty on my head was raised to £200 and a description of me printed and spread abroad. It was not flattering, but it was near enough to cause me trouble:

  About five foot nine inches high, very much marked with the smallpox, his cheeks broad, his face thinner towards the bottom, his visage short, pretty upright and broad about the shoulders.

  Tom King was not pleased with me. We quarrelled about Morris, but we went on working together. Then one night he went to Whitechapel to pick up a good horse that I had conned out of a man called Major. The Runners were waiting there, thinking to get both of us and claim the reward. You will hear scrubs bad-mouthing me but I never meant to shoot Tom; I was aiming at the Runners. My horse tossed his head as I shot and the ball went wide and hit Tom instead. He fell like a dead man. I overcame my horror enough to escape but later I heard that poor Tom lingered on for a week before he died. Better than hanging? No, it was no way for a highwayman to go.

  After that I had to get out of Essex. The last time I saw my Mary, for she died soon after, she begged me to go north, saying that she had no wish to see me dance on empty air at the gallows. She gave me some money and food and I left my old haunts forever.

  This time I set myself up in Lincolnshire at a place called Long Sutton. The fame of Dick Turpin being less well known here, I rented an apartment and dressed as a gentleman, being accepted as such by my neighbours.

  You may think that my life would now be peaceful but the truth is that I was soon tired of this quiet life. There were no easy chubs to cheat at cards and no light women to drink with. After a time, some of my old acquaintances came into the county and I fell into my former ways. There were plenty of very fine horses around, not well guarded and so we turned to ‘prigging gallopers’ as my vulgar friends called it.

  It was a good trade for I could easily sell the disguised horses in York. I soon gained a great acquaintanceship there where I passed as a wealthy horse trader. I called myself Palmer, after my dear Mary. After a time I decided to remove there, York being a fine city and much more to my taste than Lincolnshire.

  One evening, I was riding home with some of my rich friends when my landlord’s cockerel came strutting out in front of us, crowing fit to burst your ears. On a whim, I shot it, occasioning much mirth in my companions as well as praise for my shooting. My landlord was not so happy though and the rogue clapped a fastener on me. I had to appear before the magistrates in Beverley and was remanded on bail. This was my downfall, for I had no ready money on me to pay it.

  The magistrate stretched his eyes and said, ‘Mr Palmer, you have the appearance of a gentlemen and so I am amazed that you cannot easily pay your bail. I fear that as you are newly come to the county I must investigate you further for we want no bankrupts here nor wanted men.’

  I was transferred to the debtor’s prison in York Castle. Hearing that I was in trouble for money, all my creditors began to dun me. Soon questions began to be asked about the horses I had sold and I was indicted for horse stealing.

  One of my prison colleagues suggested that I should get a friend from my past to write a letter of good character for me. ‘This is not London,’ he said, ‘The magistrates here will believe what they read if it be well written.’

  I thanked him and wrote to my brother, the only person I knew in the world who might be persuaded to give me a good character, for most of my old acquaintances were either dead, in prison or unable to write. I thought of Captain Tom with regret. Here is what I wrote:

  Dear Brother,

  I am sorry to acquaint you that I am now under confinement in York Castle for horse stealing. If I could procure an evidence from London to give me a character, that would go a great way towards my being acquitted. I have not been long in this country before being apprehended, so that it would pass off the readier.

  For heaven’s sake dear brother do not neglect me. You will know what I mean when I say I am yours,

  John Palmer.

  Now was fortune determined to ruin me. Retribution waited to dash me to the ground. My dear brother refused to pay the postage owed on my letter and it was returned to the post office. By the veriest chance, a man spotted it and thought he recognised the handwriting. He asked one of the magistrates to be allowed to open it for he thought it was writ by the notorious highwaymen Dick Turpin. His request was granted and so the one man who could recognise my writing, my old teacher Mr Smith, revealed my true identity!

  Now all York rejoiced that such a famous figure had been captured in their own city. My trial was short, considering the evidence against me, but the courtroom was filled by the very best sort of people, tender-hearted ladies weeping at my cruel fate and men offering me drink. The court ushers roared themselves hoarse and the judge, putting on the black cap, could scarce make himself heard as he delivered the deadly verdict.

  Since being placed in the condemned cell, which is a large room they have here in York Gaol, I have had no peace. So many visitors have come and gone, wringing my hand or begging a remembrance of me. I am determined to be turned off in style; I feel I owe it to Tom to die like a gentleman and it is in my mind to give them all a surprise. I have ordered a new suit and shoes and distributed to my fri
ends what possessions remain to me. I have ordered my last meal and laid out ten shillings for five mourners to follow the hangman’s cart.

  The chaplain has been here wearying me with talk of repentance but I have sent him away with a flea in his ear. Life has been good and I regret none of it except perhaps Captain Tom. Let God watch out! I mean to drink with the Devil tomorrow night. Then we’ll raise Hell together!

  Farewell!

  Turpin was hanged at Tyburn on the Knavesmire in York on 19 April 1739. A great crowd collected to accompany the cart from the prison. Turpin bowed to them all and continued to greet acquaintances all the way to the gallows. Once there, he leapt easily up the ladder onto the scaffold. He refused a blindfold and stood with the noose around his neck, chatting to the guards and hangmen for half an hour before jumping off without assistance. He was dead in moments.

  His body had some adventures of its own. It was first taken to the Blue Boar public house in Castlegate where the landlord put it in his parlour and charged visitors to see it. In the end, Dick’s friends had to steal it to stop people from cutting off parts of it. (Whether for keepsakes or black magic is not clear.)

  Even after burial the body did not rest in peace but was dug up several times by bodysnatchers. On one occasion it was found in the garden of a surgeon.

  In the end it was buried in quicklime in the churchyard of St George’s church where the grave may still be seen.

  THE PIRATE ARCHBISHOP

  Sometimes a person appears in the world with more than usual vitality or charisma around whom folk tales begin to gather like barnacles around an old boat; Mrs Thatcher is an example from our own time.

  Archbishop Blackburne of York is forgotten now, but in his day his obscure history and his less than virtuous character meant that by his death he had become, quite literally, legendary. Some of what follows may be true, but which bits?