The Book of English Folk Tales

by Sybil Marshall

  His neighbours in Baldock and the surrounding villages had little enough to keep body and soul together in any case. They certainly had nothing to spare for their gigantic ‘friend’, and though they took care not to show their resentment to his face, they were very bitter on the subject of his depredations on their households. They were not his only enemies, either, for when his neighbours failed to supply his wants, Jack strolled down to the village of Graveley, and there he waited till wealthy travellers came by on the road to or from London. Then he would play the part of a highwayman, and take from them everything they carried, whether it was little or much. Many were left dying or dead by the roadside, and the dread of journeying up or down Jack’s Hill spread the story of the Weston Giant’s doings far and wide.

  Such accomplishments as he had only added to the fear people had of him. He was an expert with a bow, and his boast was that an arrow from it would travel three miles at least before it landed. Moreover, he could pick off a rook as it sat on a tree top half a mile away. That he was no simpleton only made his neighbours more bitter about him. For him, might was right, and he cared little who suffered, as long as his wants were satisfied.

  There came a time when the resentment of Jack’s victims turned to desperation, and they were driven to attempt some long-deserved revenge upon him. What could not be achieved by strength must be done by guile and numbers. There were few who had not suffered at his hands, and as soon as the secret word went round that there was a plot afoot to capture Jack and put an end to his wants forever, men flocked to offer their services in the project.

  Meanwhile, they kept up their pretence of friendliness towards him, and gave him no inkling of what was to come. The evening before the attack was to be made, a message passed from mouth to mouth throughout the whole neighbourhood. Let all women and children, and such men as were afraid, keep to their houses next morning; but let all those of stout heart and good courage meet early in the morning in the churchyard at Baldock, and hide themselves from sight until orders were given to sally forth.

  Came the dawn, and with it Jack left his cave at Weston and strolled towards Baldock, carrying his great bow, as was his wont. Having no reason to suspect mischief, he did not notice how deserted were the little streets, and how quiet the town as the women and children cringed inside their tiny houses at the thought of the danger still to come for their men hidden in Baldock churchyard.

  The giant strolled up towards the church, but saw no man on his way; nor did he when he paused by Baldock church, debating, so it seemed to the breathless watchers, which way he should take.

  After what seemed an uncertain age to the crouched or prostrate men, Jack turned and made his way down the road that led eventually to Radwell. Then they all crept out from their hiding places and, craftily and warily, followed in his tracks. There was one man among them who was a good head and shoulders above his fellows, and to him they gave their chief weapon, a huge club made of wood. As silently yet as speedily as might be, they made after the giant, who, with his mind only upon a purloined breakfast, heard nothing, saw nothing and suspected nothing. Then, as the giant paused in his stride for a moment, they leapt upon him. The man with the club, stretching up, struck with all his might and main at the back of their tormentor’s neck, which he could just reach. The blow was tremendous, and like a tree felled by lightning, the giant crashed to the ground. Then all the other men leapt forward, pinioning him by their weight and numbers, till others bound him with stout ropes and leather thongs. When he returned to consciousness, he could not move; and all round him stood the men who had been his erstwhile providers, rejoicing to see him brought low at last. Wicked and cruel as he had been, Jack o’ Legs was no coward.

  ‘What would you with me, friends?’ he asked.

  ‘Your death!’ replied the spokesman. ‘There is no way but that. Therefore, prepare to die.’

  Jack read the resolution in their faces, and knew that his time had come.

  ‘So be it,’ he said. ‘Unbind my arms, and give me my bow. I would let fly just one more arrow. Follow it where it flies, and at the spot where it falls, there dig my grave.’

  Silent and watchful, they did as he requested, and set the bow once more into his mighty hands. The bow bent, the bowstring twanged, and the arrow was loosed. Up, up it soared, high over fields and hedgerows till it struck the tower of Weston church, and fell to the ground. No man had ever seen such a powerful flight, and they stood in wonder at it; but there was still a deed to be done, and they did not flinch from their task.

  As soon as the giant lay dead, they bethought themselves of his last wish, and of their word given to him that it should be granted. It took all their numbers, all their skill, and all their strength to carry the body of their defeated adversary back to Weston. Once there, they set about digging a grave for him. Long, long they dug, taking the heavy task in turn, till a grave yawned before them twelve feet long from end to end.

  ‘ ’Tis nowhere near long enough yet,’ said one, ‘but it is as long as we have room to make it.’

  They took counsel together again, and at last it was settled.

  ‘Dig it yet deeper,’ said the wisest among them. So they set to work again, and deepened it along the whole twelve feet of it.

  Then they took the dead body of the giant, and folded it in two like a jack-knife. That way, it just fitted the grave they had dug, and with satisfaction they spat on their hands and began again on the task of filling it in.

  So that was the end of Jack o’ Legs, but the grave of Jack o’ Legs still remains to be seen, so they say, near the gate in Weston churchyard, with a stone to mark one end of it, and a second stone to mark the other end; and the distance between the gravestones is still four yards.

  William Wake of Wareham

  Here was an amiable and contented parson doomed to extraordinary adventures by events over which he had no control – only to finish up where he started, back in his peaceful parsonage.

  Rich folk start wars, and poor folk suffer, as anybody who lived on the coast of Dorset could have told you at any time after the Romans came until the end of the Civil War; for whoever was attacking, and whoever was defending, there always seemed to be, as one chronicler put it, ‘endless forays, alarms and assaults, carnage and burnings, battle, murder and sudden death’ in the region, especially in the town and environs of Wareham.

  But of all wars there is none so cruel and heartrending as a civil war, when brother is turned against brother, friend against friend, and from day to day nobody knows on which end of the seesaw of fortune he is likely to sit.

  So it was in Wareham. The town was held for the Royalists, but was under constant attack from the Parliamentary garrison at Poole, and at last it fell.

  It was at this time that a certain Robert Moreton, of Wareham, received orders from the Parliamentary Commander to fortify and garrison Wareham, and hold it for Parliament against the king. Now the loyal citizens of Wareham were very incensed that one of their own number should be chosen, and be willing, to go against the forces of their sovereign – none more so than the ‘merry, true-hearted parson’, William Wake, who was at that time Rector of Wareham.

  Much puffed up by authority, Robert Moreton chose a Sunday afternoon to ride to the town cross, and make publicly a declaration of the authority vested in him by Parliament. A crowd soon gathered to hear the proclamation, made up mainly of the members of Parson Wake’s flock, who, having been to church dressed in their best, were taking an afternoon stroll. The rector, too, had left his peaceful rectory, where the roses bloomed and the trout played in the stream at the far end of the orchard, for a walk among his parishioners in the street. So it was that he stood at the cross while Robert Moreton sat on his horse and read his piece to the vulgar. Now the jolly little parson’s anger got the better of his prudence, and he begged the crowd to listen to him, not to Moreton, telling them they should regard Moreton’s authority as nothing more than the wind blowing, and give no obedience w
hatever to his words.

  At this, the enraged Moreton rode at the parson with his arm raised, and brought down on the reverend gentleman’s head the butt end of his pistol, which was, in the words of the chronicler ‘somewhat to his detriment’. However, as he was not badly hurt, and Moreton had ridden off by he time he had picked himself up, the crowd dispersed, and went home.

  Next day, being Monday, the poor went about their work as usual, and the rector, as was his wont, also went out to take the air. And it was his misfortune to meet with Robert Moreton again. Moreton swaggered up to him, and bade him repeat what it was he had said at the town cross on the previous day; but before the Reverend Wake could give him any reply, the furious Moreton drew his pistols, took aim, and fired both point blank at him. It was well that Moreton’s aim was somewhat marred by his passion. With one pistol he missed, but the bullet from the other took the little parson straight in the forehead, just on the hairline, with a glancing blow that knocked him out, so that he fell to the ground at Moreton’s feet unconscious. Then the cowardly Parliamentarian leapt from his horse, drew his heavy backsword, and slashed at the clergyman two hasty blows which resulted in two nasty cuts in the head. Not satisfied with this, either, Moreton continued to lay about his prostrate adversary with passion, and would no doubt have killed him, had not rescue been at hand.

  In one of the fields bordering the path on which the encounter took place was a strapping young woman named Susan Bolt, who worked for the rector, and was indeed at that moment busy harvesting his crop of peas – or, more probably, clearing the ground of the stripped pea-vines, for it is certain that she had in her hands an implement named in the story as ‘a corn-pike’, but which was more than likely a long-handled, two-tined fork known later as a pitchfork. Hearing the commotion and looking round to see her beloved, saintly master in danger of his life, she kilted up her skirts, levelled her corn-pike as a weapon, and charged.

  Now it is a brave man indeed who will stand before a strong and determined woman at the other end of a long-handled, deadly-tined pitchfork! Moreton’s pistols were empty, and his sword not nearly long enough to protect vulnerable parts only thinly covered by cloth breeches. He turned, and began to retreat, but Susan by this time also had her dander up, for she had seen the many wounds her pastor had sustained. So she pricked Moreton on in no ladylike manner, and made him dance all the way through Wareham till at length he reached the safety of his own house.

  The infuriated man was not long in taking his revenge. Within a few days, William Wake was seized by the Parliamentarians, and thrown into Dorchester gaol. His wife and family were turned neck and crop out of house and home, and all his goods confiscated. While he languished in gaol, however, the fortunes of war temporarily put Dorchester in Royalist hands. He was set free, but promptly joined the king’s army, and entered the fray in real earnest. He was at Sherborne Castle when that was besieged, and when it fell, was once more taken prisoner.

  This time, it was his turn to be publicly humiliated. With several other prisoners, he was stripped stark naked, and paraded through the town for all to gawp at. Next, he was sent to Poole, where, in addition to the hazards of war, there was a dreadful outbreak of the plague to contend with; but he managed to survive, and soon after, in an exchange of prisoners, found himself one of the garrison at Corfe Castle. It was here that he had his second lesson on the ability of women to pit themselves against men.

  Corfe Castle was at this time held for the king by Sir John Bankes, and was in 1643 one of the few strong places in Dorset to remain in Royalist hands. Sir John himself was away with the king in Yorkshire, and his wife had taken refuge with her children in the castle, attended by her menservants and maidservants, and a tiny garrison. When Sir John was safely out of the way, a local Parliamentary leader, one Sir Walter Erie, laid siege to the castle, expecting it to fall without much trouble.

  Lady Bankes had other ideas. She had no intention of yielding, and used every ounce of her authority, every nuance of her charm, every aspect of her own indomitable courage and every scrap of her ingenious wit to rally her tiny band of supporters and retainers into like resistance with herself. All the fire-power the Parliamentary army could spare was ranged against the castle from the hills all round, and even from the church tower: but the lady did not blench. Sir Walter tried bribery and corruption of the household servants turned warriors. He might as well have offered bribes to the stones themselves. The little home-made garrison stood shoulder to shoulder with their gallant leader, who continued to defy everything the army could bring against her.

  They then tried bribery of a different colour. Poole was largely for Parliament, and the mariners of that town were known to be a rough, tough and courageous lot. The army recruited some hundred and fifty of these seamen on a special assignment with a promise of £20 for the first man to scale the walls; and to put Dutch courage into them, in case this type of warfare proved not to their liking when it came to it, a good deal of the kind of liquid refreshment all mariners are partial to was ladled out free well in advance. By the time the hour approached for the assault to be mounted, the assault force was, if not exactly drunk, well under the influence of alcohol, or ‘drinky’ as the local population would have put it. So the extraordinary attack was begun, with men unaccustomed to dealing with army equipment staggering under scaling ladders, finding their feet unsteady beneath them while carrying containers full of petards and grenadoes, and all the time they were cursing in the forthright language of the fo’c’sle, bursting into sea-songs from their bawdy and blasphemous repertoire, and thrusting forward with more wine-induced valour than prudence.

  When they reached their target area, they were, of course, confronted with the green, steep, slippery slope on top of which the castle wall stands. It is difficult enough in any event to climb, unencumbered and sober. The mariners were neither, and their skill in climbing rigging stood them in little stead as they tried to scramble up the slope with their unwieldy ladders and baskets of bombs. When, finally, some of them reached the foot of the walls, the defenders were ready for them. Lady Bankes was not the only woman to cry scorn on such pitiful attackers. Legend has it that it was a kitchen-maid who was in command of the defence at the Plucknett Tower. She had her deterrents at the ready, and at the crucial moment discharged upon the attackers bucket after bucket of red-hot cinders and still-glowing ashes.

  This was not quite the retaliation the ale-pert seamen had envisaged, and breathing in hot ash while attempting to get rid of a burning cinder clinging to your shirt is certainly likely to puncture alcoholic valour. They let go of their ladders and weapons and beat a hasty retreat to the bottom of the slope where a wet ditch provided at least temporary ease from discomfort. Those storming the Gloriette Bastion were served no better, if differently. There were stalwart menservants, together with a few of the garrison, of whom William Wake might have been one. They hurled down whatever ammunition they had, as in the Middle Ages – consisting largely of huge stones and small boulders, which the attackers liked as little as their fellows did the cinders. They took to their heels and fled pell-mell, and the extraordinary tragi-comedy petered out. Perhaps shame at this ignominious defeat, at the hands of a redoubtable woman, was the deciding factor in the mind of Sir Walter Erie. Whatever the reason, he raised his siege of Corfe Castle that very night, after more than three months of bold defence by Lady Bankes.

  The castle fell eighteen months later in another siege, when treachery, not force, opened the gates; and as punishment for its brave resistance it was slighted, and reduced to the ruin that still stands.

  Then William Wake was once more taken prisoner, and put to shame and punishment with all the ferocity such barbarous times were breeding. But war dealt like a shuttlecock with the cheery parson, tossing him into captivity and setting him free again no less than nineteen times in all. Yet at the end of the war, he was still able to return, with his family, to the quiet rectory of Wareham. And if he talked of his exploits in
after years, it was probably only in contest with those of his son, who also returned safe to the rectory after having been taken by the enemy only on eighteen occasions; but no doubt the parson could clinch any argument about who had endured the most with his Parthian shot that he had been sentenced twice, with all due solemnity, to the awful fate of being hanged, drawn and quartered! So much for the romantic notion of idyllic peace and hallowed quiet of life in an English rectory.

  Old Mother Shipton

  Ursula Shipton’s prophecies are known world-wide, but other accounts of her doings (and those of her mother, Agatha Southed) are just as extraordinary.

  The Breakfast Party

  Agatha Southeil was a witch. It became evident to her neighbours in Yorkshire that she had made the usual contract, and sold her soul to the Devil, while she was still young – only fifteen, so they said. Certainly she soon began to exercise very unusual powers. In the year 1486, belief in witchcraft was rife, and to have a witch in your midst was not only a bit frightening, it was also intensely interesting and exciting.

  As Agatha soon found, she was forever in the public eye. Her neighbours even began to spy on her in her own home, delighted to be able to report any tit-bit of new information as to what ‘t’witch’ had or had not done.

  This Agatha regarded as a breach of good manners, besides being a great nuisance. She made up her mind to teach them a lesson when a suitable occasion should present itself. This happened when she was in attendance at a breakfast party to which many of her most influential antagonists had been invited.

  All was proceeding with much hearty eating and bucolic jocosity when one worthy, who was wearing a fine ruff around his neck, according to the latest fashion, put up his hand to finger it, whereupon it disappeared in the most astonishing manner. What is worse, in its place he found that he was wearing a string of the faggots – a greasy dish of pigs’ intestines wrapped in the lardy membrane called ‘the apron’ – which the previous instant had been part of the breakfast spread.