When the abbot asked if there was any way for other authorities to catch and punish this woman, she told him that the witch had the power of changing shape – of appearing as either a woman or a man, or of becoming any animal or bird she wished, so it was impossible to catch her or to prove that it was she who had done the deed.
On hearing this, the abbot was furious. First he helped the old woman in a practical way by giving her a sum of money to enable her to pay her rent and feed herself for the near future, and then he turned his thoughts towards the witch. He spoke a dreadful curse, ‘May the hand of Heaven fall upon this wicked mortal and, in whatever shape she be at the present moment, may that shape cling to her until justice be done.’
Now, that morning the old witch had changed herself into the shape of a wolf and in that shape had slaughtered several sheep in neighbouring villages. At the moment the abbot proclaimed his curse, still in wolf shape, she was sleeping off her dinner of prime mutton under a bramble bush.
By coincidence, good King Henry himself was also in the Longdendale Forest. As the guest of the Baron of Ashton-under-Lyne he was indulging himself with hunting in the company of other local noblemen, his son, Prince Henry, and the Lord of Longdendale. The hunting was good as the forests around there were full of deer and boasted some of the largest wild boar in the country, as well as wolves and all kinds of smaller game. The Lord of Longdendale had made the most prestigious kill so far that day, bagging several ferocious wild cats which they called ‘British tigers’. The young, proud Prince Henry was eager to outdo him, so he slipped off unaccompanied into a remote part of the forest away from the din of the hunting party where, he hoped, he could find some worthy prey.
And he was not disappointed.
Prince Henry was suddenly set upon by a ferocious wolf. It charged from the undergrowth in a furious attack and the surprise and the speed of the onslaught nearly dismounted the prince. Luckily his horse took avoiding action and enabled the prince to stab at the beast with his hunting spear. He felt the point enter the wolf’s side and as it did so the beast emitted an almost human cry. Then the wolf rose up on its hind legs, took the spear in its forepaws and with its jaws snapped it in half as if it was a twig. The prince drew his sword, but the beast leapt at him and knocked him from his horse before he was able to use it. They grappled on the ground, the wolf trying for the prince’s throat and the prince attempting to strangle the wolf. Over and over they thrashed and the prince’s strength was rapidly fading.
His life was saved in the nick of time by the Baron of Ashton, who appeared on the scene having been sent to find him when he was missed from the main party. The baron, coming up behind, slew the wolf and rescued the prince. Then the baron escorted the prince back to the main party and they all returned to the baron’s castle. The carcass of the wolf was also taken there, along with the other game they had killed that day.
After dinner, King Henry rewarded the baron for saving the life of his son and then, with great ceremony, the huge wolf carcass was slit open and out of its stomach rolled the heads of three young children whom it had taken as a tasty snack before finding the sheep. Everyone was amazed as wolves rarely attack people, preferring to slink around the outskirts of their farms taking far easier prey in the shape of young or injured livestock. Everyone remarked on how unusual this wolf was and the prince spoke about its amazing ferocity and boldness. He also told of how its cries had often sounded almost human in tone.
Then a forester spoke up and said that he had a story to tell which might cast light on the mystery. Around midday, he said, he had been hiding in ambush in the forest, hoping to catch a gang of poachers who were ignoring the forest laws and taking game for their own tables, when he was startled by a thrashing in some nearby bushes. Out of them came a large wolf who seemed to be trying to scramble out of its own skin, in much the same way as a man scrambles out of his clothes. The wolf was making sounds which almost sounded like the enraged cries of an old woman. It was very unusual behaviour for a wolf, said the forester. He had seen hundreds of wolves but had never seen or heard one like that.
While the forester was telling his tale the Abbot of Basingwerk arrived to pay homage to the king and when he heard the story he was able to tell of his encounter that morning with the poor old woman and of his curse on the witch.
And so it became clear that the wolf killed by the Baron of Ashton-under-Lyne was the old witch, trapped in her werewolf shape by the abbot’s curse. Justice had been done far more quickly than he could ever have imagined.
REYNARDINE
‘Reynardine’ is a British ballad which first appeared in the eighteenth century as ‘The Mountains High’. By the following century it could be found on both sides of the Atlantic. In those early versions there was no suggestion of the supernatural, it was simply a song about a robber or highwayman. The magical element seems to have been added, or brought out, by the singer and folklorist A.L. Lloyd in the 1960s.
Lloyd was well known for rewriting traditional material. He took the hero’s name, originally some variant of ‘Rinordine’ or ‘Ranordine’, and by changing it to look like the French word for fox – renard – and accentuating a single line – ‘his teeth so bright did shine’ – he transformed the robber into a werewolf (or werefox, perhaps). A moment of inspiration!
I have sung ‘Reynardine’ for the last twenty years or so, having originally learned it to perform with the group, Popeluc. Popeluc were a trio made up of Ioan Pop, from Maramures in Romania; my daughter, Lucy Castle, who was studying traditional fiddle styles in Romania for a PhD; and myself. Originally we set out to play Popica’s music to a British audience in as authentic a way as possible, but we soon expanded that brief to include playing British music with Romanian influences, and vice versa.
All most people knew about Romania (and particularly Transylvania) at that time was Dracula(!), so ‘Reynardine’, with its hints of vampirism, was ideal material and I am very proud of the version we recorded on the CD, Blue Dor. It is a great song and I always picture it happening on the East Cliff at Whitby!
One evening as I rambled amongst the springing thyme
I overhead a young woman converse with Reynardine.
Her hair was black, her skin was white and her lips as red as wine
And he smiled to gaze upon her, did that sly, bold Reynardine.
She said, ‘Young man be civil and my company forsake
For it is my good opinion, I think you are a rake.’
He said, ‘My dear, I am no rake brought up in Venus’ train
But I’m seeking for concealment from the judge’s men.’
Her cherry cheek, her ruby lips, they lost their former dye
And she fell into his arms amongst the mountains high.
He hadn’t kissed her once or twice ’til she came to again
And modestly she asked him, ‘Pray, sir, what’s your name?’
He said, ‘If by chance you ask of me perhaps you’ll not me find
But I’ll be in my castle, enquire for Reynardine.’
Day and night she followed him, his teeth so bright did shine,
And he led her o’er the mountain, did that brave, bold Reynardine.
Old Daddy Fox
We’ve now moved from dogs to wolves to foxes. People’s attitudes towards foxes are very varied. To some they are vermin and need to be wiped off the face of the earth, to some they are sport to be chased and hunted, to others they are beautiful, clever animals. So, foxes: clever, wily heroes or villains?
CHANTICLEER AND PERTELOTE
This tale was used by Chaucer as the ‘Nun’s Priest’s Tale’ in The Canterbury Tales, but it had probably been around for centuries even then.
There was a woman, a widow, who lived in a cottage down a lane, near a wood. This woman had two daughters and she kept the three of them through hard work and by being careful. They didn’t get ill through overeating because they lived very frugally on the food they could produce themselves
, and they never suffered from drinking too much because all they drank was water from the well or milk fresh from the cow.
On her small piece of land the woman kept three cows, three pigs and a sheep called Moll. She also had a cock and some hens who provided her with a good supply of eggs. This cock was a rooster called Chanticleer and he was a magnificent bird. On his head he had a comb as red as coral, his legs and feet were of azure with sharp white spurs, his beak was as black as the darkest night and the rest of his plumage was as gold as the sun.
But his magnificence didn’t lay just in his looks, Chanticleer was famous for his crowing. Every morning, just before the sun poked the first fingers of light over the horizon, Chanticleer would be waiting on his perch ready to greet the new day with the loudest, finest clarion call. None of the other cocks in the neighbourhood would dare raise a sound until Chanticleer had heralded the day.
Chanticleer had a harem of nine fine hens, all coloured like himself – but not so magnificently – and of these, his favourite was Pertelote. Pertelote roosted beside him on the topmost perch and was always the wife he mated with first when he felt the urge come over him. She was his wife, his help and his confidante.
And then, one morning, the unthinkable happened. Dawn began to spread across the sky but Chanticleer hadn’t crowed. Pertelote, on the perch beside him, gave him a nudge. Chanticleer took a breath and stretched his neck but, instead of greeting the morning with a great crow of joy, the only sound to come from his throat was a sigh. Such a sigh as you’ve never heard!
Pertelote was beside herself. She couldn’t believe it. What was wrong with her husband? What would happen if he didn’t crow? She nudged him again and told him he mustn’t wait a moment longer, she encouraged him and cajoled him and, in the end, realised that something must be really wrong. ‘I can’t crow,’ he said. ‘My life is over. I have seen it in a dream. My end has come.’
‘A dream?’ squawked Pertelote. ‘You’ve had a dream? We all have dreams! Dreams mean nothing, you just ate too much too late last night. I don’t want a husband who is frightened by dreams!’
But Chanticleer insisted that this was not just an ordinary dream. It was an omen, a sign, and he told her about it. ‘I dreamed I was in the yard,’ he said, ‘and things were just as usual, but then I saw something in the long grass by the ditch. It was like a dog, but it wasn’t a dog. Its colour was red and its tail had a black tip; its ears were pointed and its nose was long and sharp – but not as sharp as its teeth! Oh, those teeth! It was terrible and it was there to eat me!’ So lamented poor Chanticleer.
Again Pertelote told him not to be a fool. No hen wanted a husband who was a coward. Scared of a dream indeed! Then Chanticleer spoke about the long history of dreams and of all the people they knew who had had dreams which turned out to be true, and then he went on to famous people: he spoke of Joseph in the Bible and how he had dreamed the Plagues of Egypt, and he quoted Daniel and Croesus and Hector’s wife. They had all had dreams that foretold events that had then happened.
Chanticleer went on and on in great detail and you might think this would have made him even more afraid, but it had the opposite effect. Suddenly he pulled himself together. He sat up on his perch, stretched his neck skyward and let fly his usual welcome to the morning. All the other cocks joined in, glad that things were back to normal. Then Chanticleer led the hens into the yard where he mounted them all several times, as he had done when he was young and full of life, and they scratched and pecked all around.
After a while Chanticleer’s attention was caught by a butterfly which fluttered past him and into the grass by the ditch. He watched it and then looked, and looked again. There, nearly hidden by the long grass, was the tormentor from his dreams. It lay still, watching him. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ it said. ‘I haven’t come to harm you. In fact, just the opposite. I am a great aficionado of music and, wherever I have been, I have heard tell of your crowing. I have heard that you have the loudest, most magnificent voice in the land, and I just had to come to hear it for myself. Please, good cock, let me hear so that I can judge if it really is as good as they say.’
Now flattery will get you everywhere, so Chanticleer forgot all about his dream and drew himself up to his full height, took a deep breath, stood on tiptoe, stretched his neck … and, as swift as lightning, the fox grabbed him, threw him up on its back, and squeezed through a hole in the hedge and was gone. Pertelote and the other hens set up such a commotion that the old woman and her daughters came out to see what was happening. They were just in time to see the back of the fox disappearing from sight, and they shouted and screamed and ran after him banging pans and waving their broomsticks. The fox ran across the field and into the wood followed by the women and some men from the village with their dogs, and the cows, and not forgetting Moll the sheep and a flock of hissing geese and a swarm of bees …
When he reached the safety of the wood the fox lay down to recover his breath. The hue and cry was in the distance but here he felt safe – for a while. Then Chanticleer, who had got over the shock of being taken, spoke. ‘You are safe for a minute,’ he said, ‘but pretty soon those men and their dogs are going to find you and they’ll catch you and kill you. If I were you, I’d call out and say “Be off with you, I’m going to eat this cock whatever you do, but if you don’t let me eat it in peace a terrible pestilence will fall upon you. So be off!”’
The fox, thinking this was a good plan, opened his mouth to call out and no sooner had he done so than Chanticleer wriggled free and flapped up into the branches of a tree. But the fox wasn’t finished. ‘I think we have misunderstood each other,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t telling stories, I really do want to hear your crow. I only brought you out here so that I could have you all to myself and I could listen without the noise of those silly chatterbox hens.’
‘Be quiet,’ said Chanticleer. ‘I was a fool to let myself be caught once but I’d be more than a fool if I fell for the same trick a second time!’
And the fox, seeing that he was beaten, slunk off to try his luck somewhere else.
And that is the end of the story of Chanticleer and Pertelote. You might think it is just a silly story about a cock, a hen and a fox, but if you do then I suggest you read it again and think what you might be able to learn from it. (At least, that is what Chaucer suggested.)
THE FOX AND THE COCK
One day, a fox met a cock and they began talking. ‘How many tricks can you do?’ asked the fox.
‘Well,’ said the cock, ‘I think I could probably do three; how many can you do?’
‘I can do three score and thirteen!’ boasted the fox.
‘What tricks are they then?’ asked the cock. ‘Will you show me?’
‘Well,’ said the fox, ‘there’s one I learned from my grandfather … he used to shut one eye and give a great, loud shout.’
‘Oh, that’s nothing. I could do that myself,’ said the cock.
‘Go on then, do it,’ said the fox. So the cock shut one eye and crowed as loud as ever he could. But he shut the eye that was next to the fox and the fox grabbed him by the neck and ran away with him.
The cock’s wife, the chicken to whom he belonged, saw what was happening and cried out, ‘Let go of that cock; he’s mine.’
The cock shuddered. ‘Oh I think I’d rather you ran off with me than make me go back to her! Tell her “Se mo choileach fhein a th’ ann” [It is my own cock],’ said the cock to the fox (for he was an Irish cock!)
When the fox opened his mouth to say what the cock had told him to say the cock sprang from his jaws and up on to the roof of a house. There, he shut one eye again and gave a loud crow of victory; and that’s the end of that tale.
THE FOX AND THE BAGPIPES
One day a hungry fox found a set of bagpipes which someone had dropped by the road. Now, today, the bags of bagpipes are probably made of all kinds of artificial high-tech materials, but in those times they were made of hide. The fox started to chew on the bag, f
or he was hungry, but there was still a tiny remnant of breath in it, so when the fox bit it the drone gave a groan. The fox, surprised but not frightened, said, ‘Why, here I’ve found both meat and music!’
OLD DADDY FOX
I just had to include a version of this song. It’s one of the best-known English language folk songs there is. Back when I was growing up a version sung by Burl Ives was regularly on children’s radio programmes; more recently it has been recorded by people as unexpected as Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen! Everybody on the English folk club scene seems to have sung a version. This is the one I’ve sung for at least three decades. I can’t remember where I learned it from.
Old Daddy Fox went out on a wintry night
He called to the moon to afford him light
For he had many long miles to travel that night
Before he reached that town-O, town-O, town-O,
He had many long miles to travel that night
Before he reached that town-O.
At first he came to the farmer’s yard
Where the ducks and the geese declared it hard
That their nerves should be shattered and their rest be marred
By the visit of Mr Fox-O, Fox-O, Fox-O,
That their nerves should be shattered and their rest be marred
By the visit of Mr Fox-O.
He grabbed the old grey goose by the sleeve
Where Dragons Soar: And Other Animal Folk Tales of the British Isles Page 5