By this time, there were others besides the lord’s household gathered to see what was to be seen, for the noise had roused the neighbours, who had come flocking out when news of the knight’s nocturnal adventure reached their ears. All joined in unstinted praise of the illustrious stranger’s courage, and all rejoiced in his victory; and every eye was upon him as his squire began to untie his points and unarm him. As the squire bent to undo the straps of his lord’s greaves, he cried out in alarm, for the metal greave round his calf was filled with clotted blood. It was only then that the hero disclosed the wound in his thigh, from whence the blood had flowed. The host’s family were deeply concerned, and hurried him in to have the wound bathed and dressed, though the knight himself still scorned it as being of no consequence.
Out in the courtyard, attention was still focused on the wonderful horse. Ghost though its rider might have been, there could be no doubt about the reality of this wonderful piece of horseflesh. Nevertheless, it seemed wise to keep the creature well tethered, and to set a watch on it all night.
Just as the dawn began to break, however, the horse began to become very restive, rolling its eyes, laying back its ears, and straining against its tether. At the first cockcrow it began curvetting and prancing; at the second it began to paw the earth; snorting and whinnying; and at the third it plunged and strained until its tether snapped, and before any man present could leap forward to hold it, it had kicked up its heels and galloped away to freedom, disappearing from view in the direction of the Gogmagog Hills.
In vain did the Baron Osbert and his men search for it next day; in vain did his host send out men to scour the countryside for the precious spoils of the victory, and in vain did all the folk in villages around keep open eyes for a glimpse of its hide or hair, in the hope of handsome reward. The beautiful horse with its fiery eye and jet-black mane and tail was never seen again. Nor, indeed, was its rider.
Sir Osbert’s wound presently healed, so that he could return to his own home, but he was to have a perpetual reminder of his strange though valorous encounter. Each year, on the anniversary of his fight with the ghostly knight, the wound in his thigh burst open, and the blood flowed down once more to clot inside his greave. Then, as always, he made light of it, except perhaps for the chance it gave him to recount the strange adventure that had befallen him on a lonely green hilltop one frosty winter night in England. It may be that the memory filled him with homesickness for a sight of those gentle green fields, for by this time he was fighting the infidels far away and under burning skies. There, he did many other deeds to add to his fame and glory and there, at last, he died. His honour and reputation for valour lived on after him, until Gervase of Tilbury wrote down the tale of his Gogmagog adventure – in the early years of the thirteenth century. But the folk in and around Cambridge went on talking – of the ghostly knight of Wandlebury (and more particularly of his magnificent horse) until a century ago, thereabouts. Then the figure of the giant cut on the hills finally became obscured, and the memory of the ghostly horse was fused with that of Lord Godolphin’s famous Arabian stallion which was certainly buried up there some time during the eighteenth century.
And that, as the folk of those parts still say – ’that is how tales get about!’
The Legend of Lyulph’s Tower
The following story does not belong properly to this category, being only a romantic tale with no ghostly play-back effect. But as there is no other category into which it fits any more happily, it shall be allowed to remain.
Back in the early days of history, it is said, there was a chieftain called Ulph, who built himself a lodge in the wild countryside by the side of the lake that since then has borne his name – though now we call it Ullswater. Since Ulph’s time, there has always been a dwelling on the same spot, and at Lyulph’s Tower in the Middle Ages, a sad and romantic incident took place that has never been forgotten.
Lady Emma Greystoke was young, and fair, and kind, and good. She was as beautiful as the flowers in spring, as supple as the birches on the shores of the lake, as full of vitality as the waterfalls of the Aira as it tumbles into the lake from the crags, and as innocent as the deer that roamed the chase around her home. To Lyulph’s Tower, in quest of her hand in marriage, came many a gallant knight; and in the course of time, with the consent of her father, Emma was betrothed to the knight of her choice, Sir Eglamore. But she was still very young, and Sir Eglamore still had a desire for the sort of adventure likely to befall any young gallant with a horse and a sword at his command. Having secured Emma’s promise and her father’s consent, Sir Eglamore left her in the lonely wilds among the lakes and fells, and set off to seek whatever fate and fortune had in store for him.
He soon found that the country was full of adventures for such as himself, especially in the matter of false noblemen to be dealt with, wrongs to be put right at the cost (very often) of ‘making children fatherless and their mothers widows’, and, above all, of ladies in distress to be rescued. In all such matters. Sir Eglamore proved himself to be a very paragon of a knight, whose courage and valour soon gained him a fame that put his name on to every tongue, so that his exploits were talked of from one end of the land to the other, from the marches of Wales to the windswept coasts in the East. Valiant was his sword, chivalrous his bearing, courteous his behaviour, by all accounts. As the tales of his prowess and gallantry passed from lip to lip, they lost nothing in the telling; and in the course of time, they reached even as far as the remote fastness of Ullswater, where Emma awaited his return with the demure and uncomplaining patience that was then expected of a lady of good breeding in a man’s world.
She trembled at the memory of his handsome manhood, and at the thought of the constant danger to life and limb his knight-errantry led him into. She glowed with admiration and hero-worship at the reports of his daring deeds, and sighed secretly in envy of the ladies that so often witnessed his chivalry, or were the recipients of his courtesy. He was, after all, her betrothed, even while rampaging about the country as the professed and acclaimed champion of other damsels in distress.
He had been gone so long, and by all accounts was enjoying himself so much in spite of his separation from her, that she began to entertain grave doubts in her own mind about his desire to return, and even of his fidelity to her. Then she allowed her fears to prey on her mind to such an extent that her step lost its spring, her cheeks their bloom, and her laughter gave way to sighs and tears. Moreover, as time still went relentlessly forward and Sir Eglamore’s praises were sung louder and louder, though farther and farther from lakeland, she developed the habit of walking in her sleep. Night after night she rose in her troubled slumber and made her way to the very spot on the banks of the stream (the lively Aira), where she had first met and loved the gallant knight, and indeed where she had plighted her troth with him before he set out on his adventures.
However, as is so often the case, exaggerations had weakened truth in the report of Sir Eglamore’s doings. True it was that he had covered himself with glory and honour; but in true knightly fashion, he had done them for the sake of his lady, and in spite of the many times his sword had been drawn and his life imperilled for the sake of another fair damsel, his heart had never been endangered nor his loyalty tempted by the charms of any other. Feeling at last that he had laurels enough to lay at the feet of his beloved, he turned his face towards the North and began to wend his way back to Ullswater.
So it was that all unannounced he rode into the chase surrounding Lyulph’s Tower one winter evening when the moon was full. Looking longingly at the tower that housed all his sweetest hopes and longings, he realized that it had already been darkened for the night and that he could not now make his entrance to claim his beloved as he had so long planned and dreamed. Well, one more night spent in the open would not hurt him. He would wait until morning before making his presence known. So he led his horse to the spot he remembered so well by the side of the Aira, just below the falls where the st
ream leaps down from Aira Force a full eighty feet into a rocky basin, round which it swirls before tumbling at breakneck speed on down the ravine. He would sleep that night at the enchanted place where Emma had given him her troth, and dream away the hours until daylight, when he could ride boldly up to the tower and claim her for his own.
Towards midnight, he was roused from light slumbers by movement among the trees, and in an instant was wide awake with his hand on the hilt of his sword; but a moment later he had sunk to his knees and was crossing himself in superstitious dread, for coming towards him was a slight figure clothed in white, moving in the shadows with slow and wraithlike motion. In spite of his hardihood, the young knight’s blood ran cold within him, for cold steel is no good against the supernatural, and this phantom, whatever it portended, could surely forebode nothing but ill. Many were the tales he had heard in the past of knights encountered by just such faery wraiths, and dismal, always, had been the outcome. But he had never believed the stories he had been told, and had many times pronounced his own belief that such visions were nothing but the fruit of fevered imagination combined with too much strong ale. The figure in white was gliding straight towards him through the shadows. Should he run from it? All his proud spirit rose in defiance at the thought. He would stand his ground and see the matter through, come what might.
When at last the phantom came within arm’s length, its hands held out before it and its face hidden among the long tresses of moon-streaked hair, he breathed a silent prayer, crossed himself, and put out his hand to test the reality of its substance by touch.
With a terrified gasp, the beautiful sleep-walker awoke, and fell headlong into the foaming torrent at her feet. In that one moment, Sir Eglamore had seen and understood all. The turbulent river was bearing his beloved Emma away from him, banging her slim frailty against rugged boulders, bruising her lovely face against rocks, stopping her breath with foaming water. Throwing aside his sword, he plunged in after her, and after struggling against a worse adversary than ever his knight-errantry had sent him, he succeeded in reaching the lady, and brought her to the bank.
She lay in his arms while he poured out impassioned words to her, words pent up over an absence of years; and at last the dark eyelashes quivered, the eyelids were raised, and she looked up at him – in that one moment recognizing him and showing in her glance the love and welcome that should have graced a happier homecoming.
Then her head fell back against his breast, and she died.
From that moment, Sir Eglamore foreswore knighthood, fame, honour, and everything that went with it. He built himself a tiny hut on the spot made holy by their betrothal and Emma’s death, and living there as a hermit, spending his days and nights in prayer and bitter self-reproach, until at last he was allowed to let go life and time, and join his ladylove in death and eternity.
The Relics of History
Saints and Martyrs
The struggle of the Christian faith, first against the paganism of the indigenous Britons, and secondly against the heathen Norsemen, is a very real part of our history. No doubt it encompassed many deeds of great individual courage, such as the folk of the period were hardly likely to forget.
By the time Christianity had gained supremacy and a great many religious houses had been set up, the tales were already very old, but they still made good capital for the Church’s purpose. As the monks had the monopoly in the matter of literacy, to them fell the task of writing down the stories for the first time. Naturally, each brother wanted to make the most of any legend connected with his own house, particularly as rivalry between the monasteries was rife, even to the point of occasional pitched battles for the possession of holy relics. The monkish chroniclers certainly made the most of the tales the folk had so far preserved, perhaps deliberately because they knew that the peasants of the time, like children, could and would believe in the miraculous; but it is more likely still that the scribes themselves believed what they recorded, and gave thanks where thanks were due to the God who still provided them with daily miracles to report.
England’s First Martyr
This story of Roman Britain had been ‘going the rounds’ for five hundred years or so before the first abbey of St Albans was set up by King Offa of Mercia to mark the spot of the saint’s martyrdom.
About three hundred years after the first Roman feet stepped ashore on English soil with a view to adding it to the Roman Empire, the Christian Church came in for a bad time. It had to spend a lot of its energy striving with the all-too-attractive paganism of the indigenous folk, and a lot more countering the Roman pantheon, including the sun-worshipping cult of Mithras, which was everywhere growing in popularity. But for much of the time, the Roman overlords themselves were content to look the other way, and let religions get on as best they could, so long as they didn’t run foul of Roman law and disturb the Roman order.
However, in the time of the Emperor Diocletian (or thereabouts), there was a change of policy, and Christians began to be systematically persecuted by the Romans. Churches were destroyed, demolished by fire or dilapidated stone by stone. Sacred books and manuscripts, along with holy relics, were piled high in the streets and set fire to; and such people as would not renounce their faith were ‘butchered to make a Roman holiday’, priests and their flocks perishing together in one or other of the various ways the civilized Romans had at their disposal. Priests were, of course, particularly prized victims, and it is no wonder that many of them thought it their duty to flee while they had the opportunity, and lie low to keep the seeds of their faith safe against a time when they could once more be set in English soil.
One such priest was a man called Amphibalus, a good man, a good priest, and above all a good Christian. When his church was attacked, he managed to get away, dressed as he was in his priest’s robe, and was thereafter passed from friend to friend, every one of whom risked his life to keep the priest for a few days, feed him, and send him on again under escort in the dead of night to another place of comparative safety. Many who were not themselves Christians were brought into this deadly game of hide-and-seek, for though they did not share faith, they did often share British blood with the fugitives; and though by this time Roman and Briton were living side by side, and had even intermingled enough to find an integrated way of life, old hatreds die hard and the Romans were still the bitterly resented masters of the British, Christian and heathen alike.
So it was that one night the priest Amphibalus found himself in hiding under the simple roof of a heathen Briton named Alban. The two, until that time, had been utter strangers; but being confined in close quarters together, under the strain of imminent discovery, each took careful stock of the other. Amphibalus judged his host to be a man of strength, courage and integrity, though a pagan. Alban was much impressed by the complete faith his guest had in his god, even while admitting that he might very well be taken and put to torture or to death by fire or sword – or even like the crucified Lord he worshipped, on the cross. Amphibalus spent much of the night, as well as most of the day, in prayer or in meditation; but in spite of his peril, he seemed calm, even joyful, and completely unruffled in spirit. Alban watched him, and served him; and then, after some days, inquired of him what it was that gave him this sense of well-being and joy, fugitive though he was.
The priest in Amphibalus was quick to take up the challenge, and in a short time he had converted the heathen Alban; but as Amphibalus knew, conversion was often merely skin-deep, lying easily on the lips and tongue. When danger appeared, it was liable to slip away and dry up like dew in the rays of the morning sun. How would his new convert behave in the face of Roman accusation?
He had little time to wait for the answer. On the fifth morning of Amphibalus’s retreat in Alban’s hut, almost as soon as day had finally broken, the unmistakable sight and sound of Roman soldiers on the march reached them. The patrol was coming straight towards Alban’s humble dwelling, for the spies of the Roman governor of nearby Verulam had nosed
out the runaway priest to his lair there. It was barely daylight, and both men inside the hut had only just risen from their rude couches. Seeing the soldiers, Amphibalus fell on his knees, and began to pray; but his convert looked round for more practical ways of dealing with the situation. Lying where he had thrown it off the night before lay the priest’s robe. Alban picked it up, put it on, and belted it round his own waist. Then before the soldiers could bang on the wood of his rude door, Alban opened it and stood before them, to all intents and purposes the Christian they had come to seek. The mistake was not discovered until Alban was brought before the Roman governor, by which time Amphibalus was once more on the run, and had got safely away.
Perhaps at this point Alban could have saved himself and got off with nothing worse than a beating, had he so wished; but the strength of his new faith upheld him, and boldly he declared himself to be a Christian. So they beat him without mercy, and at the end of it he was condemned to death by beheading, that very day, on a little hill that rose just the other side of the river Ver. News of what was afoot soon reached the populace, who left their homes and moved in excited droves towards the spot of execution, eager to be in the front row so as not to miss anything of the spectacle. It was getting towards dusk when Alban set off on his last walk, guarded by Roman soldiers, with his Roman executioner at his side.
The Book of English Folk Tales Page 19