London Folk Tales

by Helen East

  Cow, oh Cow, do hide me, before the old witch can find me.

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

  Oh Cow, do hide me.

  So the cow hid her in the long, long grass, under her swishing tail.

  Sooner than ever, the witch was there. ‘Cow, oh Cow, 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 cow, ‘she ran off to the left.’ So the witch chased after, down the path to the left, and the girl came out from under the cow’s tail, and ran off to the right.

  But by and by the witch saw she was tricked, and ran back the other way. Now the girl heard her almost at her heels:

  Oven, oh Oven, do hide me, before the old witch can find me.

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

  Oven, do hide me.

  ‘Very well,’ said the oven, ‘crouch behind me, but when the time comes be ready.’

  The girl had hardly hidden herself before the witch was there. ‘Oven, oh Oven, did you see, a girl as skinny can be? She looked and she took my long-tailed bag, and she’s got my gold …’

  ‘Yes,’ said the oven, ‘look in me. She climbed inside to hide.’

  So the witch opened the oven door, and reached right in, to grab the girl. But the oven gave a lurch and the girl gave a push, and then slammed the door shut, and that was that.

  She thanked the oven, picked up the gold and danced all the way to the well. Spindle in the water, she went after, back home dry and safe. And weren’t they surprised when she arrived with her great big bag of money! As there was so much, her father said she should have half, to do with as she wished.

  The stepmother, of course, was none too pleased with this. But when she’d heard the whole tale through, she thought her own daughter should go too; for where there’s money found, there’s always hope of more.

  So she sent her own child off to the well, telling her exactly what to do. This girl never even tried to spin; she just took her mother’s spindle and threw it in. She didn’t really want to jump in after, but her mother had told her it was not real water.

  So in she leaped. But the well was deep, and the water was wet, and she couldn’t swim, so down she went.

  When her daughter did not come home, the mother went to the well to see where she had gone. Some say she slipped. Some say she jumped. All say she went in and never came up.

  So the girl and her father were left by themselves. And with riches aplenty they lived very well.

  8

  GILBERT BECKET’S

  CRUSADE

  Gilbert Becket was a mercer, not a knight. He knew all about trading cloth, especially silk, but he didn’t know how to fight. Nor would he, normally, have wanted to.

  But a call had come from Pope Urban that the Holy Lands must be saved from the Infidel, and all lords of Christendom should leave local strife and unite in a new Just War. ‘God Wills It’, the word went out; ‘Deus volt’, the Crusader’s cry. All must ‘take the cross’ and make himself a ‘soldier of the Church.’

  Europe was whipped into a frenzy of fervour, princes and barons excited by promises of feudal fiefdoms, soldiers by dreams of rich pickings, and traders and travellers by hopes of safer shipping routes. Even pilgrims, who had always been guaranteed safe passage by Muslim rulers, were swayed by the spread of stories of massacres now taking place. But the deciding factors for many were the Papal promises. Indulgences for all participants; however sinful, they would go straight to heaven if they died. And financial incentives like the waiving of all debts for three years. A huge lure, since everyone assumed the Crusades could be done in one.

  It was this that drew Gilbert. He had just paid his issue fees, having finished his apprenticeship, and he was setting up his own business. Although he came from a wealthy mercer family, he wanted to stand on his own two feet. So he had borrowed a large amount from a money lender near the London Stone. Good rates, though high interest and punishing penalty clauses for default. Those didn’t worry Gilbert, because he knew the silk trade was booming. And with three years without interest he might even clear his debts!

  Besides, as his father pointed out, travel was good for traders. ‘It could be a chance to make personal contacts in some of the cities you pass through. Venice, of course, but also Ragusa, and maybe, even Jerusalem itself!’ he boomed enthusiastically. And if Old Becket was behind an idea, it was bound to be a sound one.

  The less sound reasons for leaving home, Gilbert kept to himself. He had no need of Papal indulgences because his peccadilloes were so minor, easily absolved at no great cost. Ever since he was fourteen he had kept his head down, doing nothing but work, learning his trade. And throughout this last year all he could hear was talk, talk, talk of the Holy War – the excitement and fun, and the glory to be won. Gilbert was young, and before he settled down he wanted a taste of the free life of a knight!

  He wasn’t the only one. His servant, Richard, whom he had known ever since he was born, was as boyishly eager as he was. They took the Cross together, making their vows as a pilgrim would, and joined a Norman baron’s entourage, setting off at once for France.

  Their first shock was the crossing. Neither had been in a ship before, and the sea was rough. So was the lifestyle once they arrived in France. Nothing was as Gilbert had imagined. Disgusted by the food, the sleeping quarters and the lack of washing facilities, and exhausted by army training and daily drills, he might not have managed at all if not for Richard, who was well-used to physical work, and eating whatever you got. Richard also had an endless store of jokes and anecdotes to cheer his master up, and that soon won them other friends.

  Slowly, as they travelled on, through France and into Italy, life improved. Although the journey was exhausting, the weather was good, and when people saw the crosses on their clothes and shields, many gave them fresh water, or little gifts of fruit.

  So at last they came to the great port of Venice. Gilbert was impressed, all the more so because here he stayed with a friend of his father’s, rediscovering his delight in comfortable and civilised company. Fine food, rich red wine, exquisite music, and before he left a purse of money, at his father’s request, to improve his travelling fund.

  Richard, ever practical, insisted on sewing most of it into the breasts of both their tunics, hidden underneath the cross.

  The passage on along the Balkan coast was even worse than their first boat, for now it had got hot. For Gilbert, Ragusa alone stood out, like a single picture burnt on the mind in a fiery fever, yet one he could never have conjured up for himself.

  A walled city like London, hanging on the sea as London clung to the Thames. A city of many faces from many different places.

  ‘But there,’ he thought, ‘comparison ends, for here the range of differences endlessly extends.’ Traders from the four corners of the world; strings of mysterious eastern spices, men with skin as dark as night, walrus tusks from lands of ice, silk far finer than he had ever seen, signs and scripts he could never read. And the people themselves, and the languages they spoke – bubbling, barking, some semi-singing, and some sounding half-caught in the throat. Gilbert had never supposed such variety could exist, let alone all be held in one small walled city. ‘Oh!’ he said to Richard. ‘Think if London were like this!’

  Gilbert himself thought of little else, holding the memory in his mind like a talisman to keep away the horrors of the endless voyage. People crying and dying, sickness, and the stench of it everywhere. And salt in the mouth, on the lips, and even crusting round the eyes. Until the longed-for morning, when all at once, it seemed to him, they arrived.

  Constantinople. And the news came as they disembarked. They were late, and the main force had already gone on to Jerusalem. As soon as they were ready and fit to march, they were to go to Tyre. And yet before they were either, they were hurried on their way. Onwards now through re
gions that Crusaders had won.

  And now Gilbert and Richard had their first taste of war. So much confusion: messages back and forth, factions fighting over stores of food and drink, and arguments arising from old feuds. All the rivalries of Europe, especially France, since most of the Crusaders there were Franks, were re-emerging now under the pitiless Saracen sun.

  As they came closer to Jerusalem, news filtered back. At first triumphant announcements, then an undercurrent of whispers. Jerusalem was taken, it seemed. A wondrous victory claimed. Some said the ‘soldiers of the Church’ had only had to pray, and the walls fell down. Others thought it had not been defended. Still others said the city had surrendered. ‘But if so,’ whispered some, ‘why was half the city burned? Why did all the children and women also die?’ The answers were hinted in the ashes of the still-smoking villages they passed – the eyes of any left behind, who ran to hide at the sight of soldiers marching by. Or worse, the ones who could not run, and simply lay, their awful injuries on full display.

  Gilbert tried not to see, nor think too much. It was not hard. They were so tired. And so many of their soldiers were ill. ‘Deus volt’ – ‘As God Wills’. Maybe Tyre would simply open its gates, and welcome them as friends. And then their Just and Holy War could end for them, before it even wholly began.

  As it turned out, his hopes were no more foolish than their leader’s expectations. For assuming that Tyre, like Jerusalem, had only their inhabitants to defend them, they attacked openly, without much strategy. To their surprise, they found themselves facing Zahir al-Din, the Muslim leader of Damascus, who was also fighting in God’s name. Having heard of the massacres at Jerusalem, he had answered Tyre’s appeal for defence.

  Even the best-laid plans would not have helped Gilbert or Richard. Barely knowing which direction they were supposed to be fighting in, they were caught trapped against the city walls. Luckily for them, they surrendered to an eminent amir, a prince who observed the code of Islam and the rules of war, never to harm a man who has yielded to you. Besides, from the way Gilbert spoke and behaved, it was clear that he was well born, and would be worthy of a good ransom. And he was so concerned about his friend, it was assumed that he must be more than a mere servant.

  So both were taken prisoners, and word was sent to London that they would be released once the ransom was paid. And meanwhile they were treated according to their station with all due courtesy and respect. They were housed in spacious and comfortable rooms, and although, of course, they were not free to leave, they soon found the amir’s palace a pleasant place to be.

  Confident that the ransom would soon be paid, Gilbert settled down to make the most of his stay. Looking round, with the eyes of a trader, he saw so much he could learn from. The carpets were remarkable, for a start. Such intricate patterns, all woven in fine silk. He wondered if there was anyone he could talk to about them. Some of the servants spoke some French, but not enough. Gilbert had an interest in languages, and a willingness to work at them, and so he began to try to master Arabic.

  The amir was amused by this, and after a while impressed. He began to call for Gilbert to come and talk to him, and the more he did, the more he liked him. Soon the young man felt almost like a guest. He began to eat at the amir’s table, and spend evenings listening to music with him, being introduced to new instruments and ways of playing. It reminded him of staying with his father’s friend in Venice.

  And at the request of the amir, he told him in exchange about life in London. Sometimes he grew homesick as he talked, describing the Thames in all its moods, or an occasional nightingale singing in the evening. But neither man knew someone else was listening.

  The women’s quarters had a room adjoining the music hall. It was separated by a fine lattice-work wall, intricately patterned so the holes were almost invisible.

  Equally well hidden, the amir’s wives and daughters on the other side of the wall were free to come and go as they pleased, listening to the concerts so often played below. And here the youngest of his daughters had lately taken to stealing in on her own. At first she went simply to hear the music her father chose for his new guest. But lately she’d taken to lingering on, listening to the young man himself.

  The amir was a wise and learned man, and prided himself on giving all his children – daughters, as well as sons – as wide an education as possible. But of all of them, it was his youngest daughter who had proved to be a scholar after his own heart. She had the desire to learn, and the mind to hold all that she was taught, and was as fluent as her father in several languages, including that of the Franks. She was thankful for this now, for that was the language the amir and his young friend most commonly used, although frequently making little forays into Arabic for Gilbert’s sake. The amir’s daughter loved to hear him struggling with her native tongue, making a myriad of amusing mistakes which her ever-patient father corrected one by one.

  But most of all, she loved it when Gilbert told stories of his home. She could almost see the pale lacy green of an English spring, hear the rippling notes of the bird in the garden, and feel the icy wind through his City gates. And then one evening her father persuaded him to sing in his rough English language. It was like nothing she had ever heard before, and she fell in love with it, and with the singer too.

  One morning, Gilbert was walking in the amir’s garden. Past the sparkling fountains and through tall columns of flowers so fragrant that it almost made him faint. Through the grove of almond trees, heavy with nuts, which he could freely pick and eat. Then up through the waving palms towards a little stone building where he loved to sit, for it was always cool there. But as he climbed towards it, he heard the sweet sound of a young girl singing. Although he did not understand the words, the meaning of the song pierced him to the heart. Love, hopelessly longed for. And that was how he met the amir’s daughter.

  Days tuned into weeks, and they met, secretly snatching what moments they could, eyes understanding, hearts opening each to each, hands holding, lips finally meeting lips. And they, too, talked of everything and anything. As they did, little by little, impossibilities began to appear feasible, differences no longer so extreme. Even their beliefs, their Christian or their Moslem creed, when they discussed these deeply, no longer seemed so separate as to merit such great conflict. Why could they not unite, like two sides of the one coin, both part of the divinity of God above?

  Weeks went into months, and so became a year. Twelve months and still no sign of Gilbert’s ransom. No word from England that a letter had arrived – nothing. Now Gilbert and Richard talked late into the night, wondering what might have happened to the message sent. Surely it must have been lost along the way? If Gilbert’s father had received it, he would certainly pay. Another thing was troubling Gilbert too. The time spent on the Crusade, and this year now with the amir, meant he was only free of debts for one more year. If he was not back by the end of that, and ready to pay some interest straight away, it could be called default. Then his creditor had the right to seize everything he had, his business and his goods, and all that he wished to take. Now, too late, he saw the mistake he had made in his agreement. What he did not know was that many creditors, angry at the debt-free laws imposed on them, were seizing any chance to prevent some crusaders from ever coming home from the Holy Land.

  The amir’s daughter was also worried. If the ransom did not come, her father could not let Gilbert go, much as he might wish to do so. Nor could he keep him for ever as his guest. Either way would be breaking the rules. The only honourable option, which he could not put off forever, would be to execute his prisoner, as an example to everyone else. She knew her father was concerned about this too, from the way he obliquely referred to the ransom in his evening conversations with Gilbert.

  It was Richard who suggested the solution. They would have to escape, and make their own way back home. And that could only be done with the help of the amir’s daughter. Gilbert did not want to ask, but she saw the question in his eyes, and wo
ndered why she had not thought of it herself.

  One moonless night when her father was with one of his wives, she stole the key, unlocked their door, and led them out to where she had two horses waiting, their hooves bound in cloth to silence them. ‘Only promise me one thing,’ she said as Gilbert held her in his arms one last time. ‘When you are home and safe, then send for me.’

  Gilbert gave her half the gold he had sewn underneath his cross. ‘Take this,’ he said to her, ‘as my saddaq. My marriage gift to you. When you hear from me, use this gold to carry you home to England.’

  Enough of rides, sea voyages and adventures. Suffice to say at long, long last, Gilbert and Richard arrived back safe in London. What a welcome they had there! And when they were done with the celebrations, the stories and the explanations, the exclamations and expostulations, and when even his mother had stopped sobbing with relief, then Gilbert tried to decide how to send a message to the amir’s daughter. But now it seemed so hard. She was so far, far away. And he didn’t know what to say that would not give her away, for having some connection or part in their escape. Whatever he said might endanger her. The only way to keep her safe must be to seem to forsake her.

  Far away across the sea, the amir’s daughter waited in vain for news. For weeks, for months, for almost a whole year. Yet she refused to give up. She could not forget him.

  And she knew he would not forget her. One evening her father called her. He wished to talk about a marriage proposal. She kissed his hands, and hoped he might forgive her one day.

  Later that night she cut her hair as short as any boy, and tied a man’s headscarf round it. She bound cloth tight across her breasts, and put on a short linen tunic, with baggy trousers below. Inside these she hid her money bag. Finally, she wrapped her oud in soft cloth to protect the strings, and around that an old cloak of her brothers, and then she slipped like a shadow out of the palace where she had lived all her life.