London Folk Tales

by Helen East

  Queen Matilda was a deeply pious woman. Although she truly loved her husband, she was not fond of some of the pleasures of his court. Yet young Rahere she took under her wing. She liked his gentle playful nature, and she loved to hear him sing. And so she had him instructed in the music dearest to her heart – that of the Church. To help in this she also made sure that he was taught to read and write. Latin at first, of course, but when she saw his overwhelming thirst for knowledge, she encouraged him to study other languages as well. For Rahere, with his hungry mind, the ability to decipher script was a gift beyond all others; it opened the doors to people’s thoughts, in lands he’d never dreamt of. And he repaid the queen with such devotion that she trusted him absolutely, and when her son Prince William was born, she thought there was no better playfellow to sing her child to sleep, and watch over his first steps, than young Rahere.

  And so Prince William Adelin, the apple of King Henry’s eye, and sole heir and hope of all of England, grew up treating Rahere as if he was an elder brother who could somehow always find the time to play or sing or tell him stories.

  For Rahere that was the happiest of times. But destiny, it seemed, had other plans. When the prince was fifteen, Queen Matilda died. London went into mourning. The king was distraught. William sat in his in his mother’s rooms and wished that he could weep in peace. But since such behaviour was not proper for a prince, he returned to court society, and tried to drown his grief in wild excess. And although he married the following year, and was instated as Duke of Normandy soon after that, his right royal indulgences went on unchecked. Even when Rahere reasoned with him, he failed to talk him into better sense.

  That autumn, King Henry was returning with the prince from a visit with the King of France. It was after the harvest, they were laden with gifts, and fine French wine, of course. At the port, they met FitzStephen, a long-term friend of the family. It had been his father who had captained the ship that took the Conqueror to England in 1066. Now FitzStephen was waiting with a ship of his own, built to be the swiftest in the fleet, according to a special new design.

  ‘My White Ship is made to fly across the waves,’ he boasted. ‘We will carry you to Hastings, as my father took yours, but yet we will arrive in half the time!’

  The king was sorry, he’d arranged to go with someone else, and they were due to sail within the hour. But Prince William was delighted to accept, and as the vessel was so fast he saw no need to hurry off. Besides, there was too much fresh wine to taste.

  Long after the king had left, William and his entourage were dancing all along the shore and toasting the White Ship’s success. They were enjoying themselves so much that they refused even to pause and let the priest come past and bless the new ship’s boards.

  By the time they set off it was dark, and most of the crew were also drunk. The lights of the king’s ship, far ahead, had long since vanished out of sight. ‘He could be landing before long,’ a sailor said.

  The prince’s party took this as an affront. Determined not to arrive last, they challenged FitzStephen to make good his boast. ‘Prove your ship is truly fast!’ ‘Overtake the king!’ they cried.

  And so the captain tried. He altered the course to make it more direct, though he might have guessed that in the night this was suicide. Not far from Barfleur port, they struck a submerged rock, and the ship very quickly capsized. A butcher survived because the ram skins he wore kept him warm and afloat until he was found at dawn. But everyone else was drowned.

  William Adelin had been put into a boat, but climbed back to try to get his sister out. FitzStephen managed to swim up to the surface, but when he heard the prince was lost, he let himself go down.

  It is said King Henry never smiled again. The flower of the royal youth gone in one swoop: two much-loved illegitimate sons, a daughter, a niece, dear friends, half of the English court and any hope of smooth succession to the throne all sank with William Adelin, heir to the English throne.

  But while the country reeled with the tragedy, there were many who pointed the accusing finger. ‘A judgement from God’ they wrote, ‘A punishment for the sins of the flesh.’

  Rahere was overwhelmed with sorrow and a sense of guilt. He begged permission from the king to make a pilgrimage to Rome, to visit the shrine of St Paul, the patron saint of London, and to pray on behalf of them all. Henry readily agreed, and Rahere set out at once. Dressed as a penitent, in rough cloth, armed only with a pilgrim’s staff, it was the first time for many years that he had felt the London streets beneath his bare feet. It was hard to have so little again, but yet he felt curiously free. Although, with only a small scrip of money, he soon remembered that there was no romance about being hungry.

  Travelling by foot it was a journey of many months to Rome, and one that plenty did not survive. He must have thought of William Adelin as he lurched across the Channel, crammed in the ship’s hold, with 100 other stinking and vomiting penny-paying passengers. It was a long walk down through France and a steep climb over the high snow-capped mountains into Italy. Rough too, sleeping in monasteries and pilgrim dormitories, sharing beds with others, fleas and lice. And in such close confines, diseases of all sorts passed from one to another as easily as greetings.

  Rahere, however, did not get truly sick until he had arrived in Rome, and done penance for his sins to St Paul. As he had promised Henry, he visited the very spot where the saint was martyred – the Three Fountains – outside the city walls. This place was also famous locally, for mosquitoes. They carried a disease known as ‘Roman fever’, which nowadays we call malaria.

  Rahere stayed there praying for several nights and soon found himself shivering and burning by turns, aching in every limb. Other pilgrims found him, and, seeing he was desperately ill, they carried him to the hospice of St Bartholomew. Although the monks there cared for him as best they could, everyone assumed that he would die.

  But in his wild delirium, Rahere had a vision. It began with the roar of a thunderstorm which turned into a dreadful dragon-winged beast. Catching him up in its great clawed feet it carried him high, high, high into the air, then suddenly dropped him like an eagle might toss scraps to its young. He landed on a narrow ledge, and peering over the edge he saw an awful abyss. But far, far below he sensed something moving. Though terrified of falling, he felt an awful urge to see what it was.

  Then, all at once he felt someone holding him safe, and it made him feel so calm, he was able to look deep down. Right at the bottom were many minute creatures, like insects swarming. But now he saw they were children playing, boys as ragged as he himself had been. And the place they were in was where he had grown up, Smithfield, in London. Where the smiths worked beside the horse pond and the Kings Fair was held every year. The ground was so boggy that it was never wholly dry, and in winter time it froze so hard that if you could find two sheep bones and strap them to your feet with strips of skin, then you could slide across the ice with tremendous speed. Rahere remembered the thrill of it even now. But as he looked he saw things he had never noticed then.

  All around there were people in such poverty that their skin was hanging off their bones. Some had broken limbs, or hands that were missing fingers or thumb, or sores festering on faces and arms. It broke his heart to see it, and to think of the comfort he had lived in at the court. And there and then, he swore that if ever he should recover and return home to London, he would build a hospice for the poor where there was none; a place they could go for help and for healing, whether they could pay for it or not.

  At that moment, once again, Rahere felt strong hands supporting him. And now he pulled back from the edge, and looked to see who it was. It was a man with a face of extraordinary sweetness and light in his eyes almost too bright to bear. ‘I am Christ’s apostle, St Bartholomew,’ he said. ‘I have come to help you, and to command you too. In that place that you have seen in your dream, you must build a great church in my name, and your hospice by its side. If you do what I ask, never fear; I will be
here to support you in the task.’

  Then Rahere felt his head clear, and his fever go. He opened his eyes and looked up. By his bed a priest was standing, ready to administer the last rites. Filled by the strength of his dream, Rahere returned directly to England and the king. And when Henry saw how changed he was, and how inspired, he promised him all that he required by way of land and money and authority too.

  The land Rahere chose was the marshy flat expanse of Smithfield. And as soon as the building work began, three holy travellers came from the Byzantine Empire, as well as Alfune, one the wisest men of Christendom; they planned it together so it became a place where all could meet in brotherhood, and peace. The church was built with a priory on the south side, and a hospice for the poor beside it, and Rahere named it all St Bartholomew’s. Even the Kings Fair that continued there every year was then called after the saint.

  Rahere himself was the first prior, and he also presided over much of the healing that took place in the hospice. And even after his death, they say, the sick were healed, the blind could see, and the lame were made to walk again. Today you can still feel the strength of his spirit in the church. Some claim they have seen his ghost, too, by the altar. As for his hospice, it was moved and rebuilt elsewhere as St Bartholomew’s Hospital. But even in this altogether different modern world, it remains a place that anyone in need of healing can go to, without having to pay.

  7

  WITCH WELL

  Ding Dong Bell, Pussy’s in the Well

  What she does there

  No one can tell.

  Once upon a time, when pigs spoke rhyme, and London was a small place in anybody’s mind, there were wells all around the town. Shepherds Well to Streatham Wells, Sadler’s Well to St Chad’s Well, Woodford Wells to Bagnigge Wells, St Bride’s or Bridget’s Well, Mossy Well or Muswell, Clerks Well to Camberwell, Briton’s Well or Cripplewell. Some had fresh water, good for drinking, and there were always queues of children, women and water-carriers. Some had sweet water, good for healing, and people came to cure their sore eyes and stiff legs and sad hearts. Others again had scummy water that was good for hiding, and people came with all sorts of dark secrets, and threw bodies, bones, and even babies down there.

  Now, in that long ago time when wells were all round and witches were as commonplace as apples, there was a man whose wife died, leaving him with a little girl. She was bright and willing but he couldn’t manage on his own, so he married again before too long. His new wife had a daughter too, much of an age as his own, so that would be company for the child, he thought, as well as a mother to care for her.

  But sadly it was the worst sort of company and no caring at all, for the new wife hated her stepdaughter from the moment she first clapped eyes on her, because her own child seemed as heavy and slow as a toad beside her. And mother and daughter between them made sure that young girl had such a hard time of it, it was a wonder she didn’t run off altogether. But she was always hoping that somehow she might please them, and befriend them, and so she kept on trying. They made her work so hard, she was almost spinning in her sleep, seeing to the fires, cleaning the floors, cooking the food, mending and making all the clothes. She never had a moment to sit still.

  Even when she went to get water from the well, and was waiting for the bucket to drop down to the bottom, she had to take out her spindle and spin. But that was a pleasure too, for her, because that little wooden spindle was one thing she still had left from her dead mother.

  Then one day she was at the well, spinning while she peered into the dark depths to see if the bucket was full, and, ‘oh dear!’ the spindle slipped out of her hand, and fell down into the water. The poor girl was beside herself. She could not go back without her spindle, and so she jumped into the well after it.

  To her surprise she found that, instead of landing in water, there was soft green grass beneath her feet. She looked about, and saw she was in another world altogether. There were fields all around her, with a little path running through. But right beside her was a well just like the one above, and on the little wall around it sat her spindle, safe and sound. So she slipped it into her apron pocket, and set off on her way.

  She walked and walked and walked, but saw no one. Not even a bird or a bee. Then suddenly she heard a strange voice crying, ‘I burn! I burn! I burn!’

  She still couldn’t see anyone, but just ahead there was an oven, all on its own, with a little wisp of smoke coming out. Hurriedly she opened the door, and inside was a loaf of bread, just beginning to burn at the edges. So she took it out as quick as could be, and laid it on the grass to cool.

  ‘Oh, thank you, thank you,’ said the oven. ‘I hope one day I can help you too. Break off a bite of bread if you like.’ Well she was very hungry, so she took a piece to eat, and went on her way wondering.

  By and by, she heard a miserable moaning, ‘I burst! I burst! I burst!’ Before long she came to a cow, dripping milk, udders so full they were scraping the ground.

  There was a bucket nearby, and milking stool too, so the girl sat down and set to. In no time the bucket was filled to the brim, and the cow was much relieved. ‘Oh, thank you, thank you,’ she mooed. ‘I hope one day I can help you too. Drink as much as you like.’ Well the girl was very thirsty, so she drank her fill, and went on her way wondering even more.

  After a while she heard a creaking voice calling, ‘I break, I break, I break!’

  Around the corner there was an apple tree, its branches so loaded with big ripe fruit it was bent right to the ground. ‘Pick me please,’ said the apple tree. So she picked the apples into neat heaps until the tree could straighten up again.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ it rustled. ‘I hope one day I can help you too. Take as many as you like.’

  Well she did like apples, so she walked on munching, wondering more than ever.

  At last she came to a dark wood with branches and brambles tangled all around the path. She pushed on through, and finally found a broken old gate to an empty garden, with a tumbledown house in the middle.

  She knocked on the door and it opened with a screech, and there was an old witch, with a nose down to her knees, fingernails as long as knives, and eyes even sharper.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I suppose you want to eat and sleep, but it’s nothing for nothing in this house. You’re going to have to work for it, and hard too, or it will be the worse for you.’

  ‘I can work hard,’ said the girl, ‘for a little wage and a place to stay.’

  ‘Then you’d better come in,’ said the witch with a grin, ‘but watch the cat. She’ll bite and scratch.’

  The girl stepped back as a cat slid by, all teeth and claws and wild eyes.

  ‘Now start,’ said the witch. ‘Straight away. Mend the gate, dig the garden, clean the house from top to bottom, fetch the water and the wood, and then you can cook my food. But there’s one thing you must remember. Never, ever, ever look up the chimney. If you do I’ll break your bones and bury you under the marble stones.’

  So the girl got going, and when she was done, she was so worn out that she could barely see her own bite of food. But she didn’t forget to save some for the cat, though she got little thanks from the beast for that.

  And it went on like this, day after day, and if it didn’t get any better, well it least it never got worse. But as for her wages, they never seemed to come, and when she asked the witch for them, all she got was a laugh.

  Then one day the witch was out, and the cat was in, and prowling about. And all of a sudden it stopped, and stared at the girl, hard. ‘You know what to do, don’t you?’ it asked.

  ‘Goodness gracious!’ said the girl. ‘I never knew you could speak.’

  ‘Well if you don’t ask, you don’t get,’ said the cat. ‘And if you don’t look you don’t see.’

  ‘Look where?’ asked the girl.

  ‘Up the chimney of course,’ said the cat.

  So the girl did look and what did she see but a bag. A big
bag. And when she got it down she saw it was full. Full of gold.

  ‘I’d pick it up and run if I were you,’ said the cat. So the girl grabbed the bag and put it on her back, and she ran out the house, across the garden, through the gate, and off fast as she could through the wood.

  But just as she had gone the witch came home, and straight away she could smell something wrong. So she looked up the chimney and saw that the bag was stolen and since the girl had gone too, then she knew.

  ‘Why didn’t you scratch and stop her?’ she asked the cat.

  ‘She fed me,’ said the cat. ‘And you never do that.’

  So the witch spat at her and ran outside. ‘Garden, why didn’t you tangle and trip her?’

  ‘She dug me and cleared me and cared for me too. I never even get a glance from you.’

  ‘Gate, why ever did you let her through?’

  ‘She mended me and you never do.’

  The witch kicked it, and ran on through the wood, screaming and swearing and sniffing out the trail. The girl was well ahead; she had reached the apple tree. But she heard the witch getting closer and closer; soon she would catch her up:

  Apple tree, Apple tree hide me, before the old witch can find me.

  If she do, she’ll break my bones and bury me under the marble stones.

  Apple tree do hide me.

  The tree bent down and scooped her up, and put her high up on its trunk.

  Soon enough the witch came up. ‘Apple tree, did you see, a girl as skinny can be? She looked and she took my long-tailed bag, and she’s got my gold, she got all I had.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the tree, ‘she ran off to the right.’ So the witch chased after, down the path to the right, and the girl climbed down and went off to the left.

  But by and by the witch saw she was tricked, and she turned and she ran the other way. Now the girl could hear her catching up again. Just then she saw the cow: