Yet the Devil knew perfectly well that the people of Canterbury – including the monks – had quite as many thoughts in their heads, and quite as many deeds to their credit, that smacked of the world and the flesh as they did of more spiritual matters. The love of money is the root of all evil, as the Bible says. The thousands of pilgrims travelling yearly to St Thomas’s tomb had brought money beyond their dreams to many a citizen of the town as well as to the monastery; but the appetite for riches grows by what it feeds on, and it seemed they could never have enough of it, or of the profligate life of sin it made possible.
The Devil kept his eye on all that happened there, until he came to the conclusion that it really was so wicked that he ought to be able to claim it for his own. The snag was that right in the very middle of the city were the relics of St Thomas the Martyr, and round his tomb the monks of Canterbury kept constant vigil, night and day, with prayer and praise, lesson and canticle; and while that persisted, it could never wholly be his.
In the end, he made representations on his own behalf to the Almighty Power, pointing out that even the brothers were by no means free of the sins that were so rife among the lay-people; and he desired permission to gather it up, and cast the whole lot of it into the sea. There was sorrow in heaven that his allegations could not be refuted, and in the end reluctant permission was given to him that if ever the sound of prayer and praise round the Martyr’s tomb were to cease, Canterbury should become the Devil’s property, and he might take it up and dump it wherever he liked.
Long he watched; but there were always those among the older monks whose utter devotion to St Thomas thwarted his desires, and could be relied on never to allow the sound of praise to die away from the church entirely, even for a second.
Then, at last, his chance came. A great and holy festival was held, to which pilgrims came in numbers never before equalled. Day after day they pressed in upon the town, and hour after hour the ritual inside the church went on. The priests and monks whose duty it was to keep the endless chain of devotions moving grew more and more weary until they were all utterly exhausted; those who had borne the brunt of the day’s exertions tottered to their rest, but those of the night shift were all so worn out that they did not hear the bells for once, and slept on. The time the Devil had been waiting for had come; the glory of Canterbury would be no more. Buildings and churches, palaces and cottages, lords and lackeys, men, women and children were now fair game for the Prince of Darkness, who had permission to drown it all if he wished.
Down he swooped, with his great black wings making ominous shadows over the moonlit town as he flew. Then he pounced, endeavouring to scoop up the entire city, cathedral and all, in his mighty arms. But it was a good deal larger than ever he had reckoned, and try as he might, he could not get his arms right round it, to pick it up entire, as he had intended. In spite of his dreadful talons, outstretched to their utmost limit, he could not even pluck up a half of it. So he grabbed what he could conveniently hold, rose on the strong beat of his powerful wings, and glided out to sea. Once clear of the land, he let go, and that part of the city fell pell-mell into the water, to disappear for ever beneath the waves. Then back went the fiend, clawed up another armful, and repeated the process, and so on, again, with the third portion. The proud city was almost gone; but St Thomas, neglected though his shrine had been, now performed a miracle to preserve that district of it in which his bones were resting.
Asleep in his cell, exhausted by his day’s work, was a good old monk, Brother Hubert the sacristan. Stirring uneasily in his slumbers, he saw before him the bright outline of an angel – indeed it was the angel that was doing its best to rouse him into wakefulness; and as soon as the bemused brother had made sure he was not dreaming, he gave all his attention to what his excited heavenly visitor was urging him to do.
Rushing into the church, he seized the rope of Great Harry, the huge bell that in the ordinary way took the strength of ten hefty ringers to raise it. Tonight, as Hubert pulled, it yielded to his touch as if he had been a very giant instead of a frail old man.
The Devil had returned for yet another armful, and was flying with it towards the coast, when the first great Boom! from Harry fell on his ear, and on those of the surrounding countryside. There is nothing the Evil One fears more than the clang of consecrated metal, and in his surprise and fury he lost his grip on his load, and let it fall. Then he made off back to his own infernal quarters, having wreaked his vengeance on the greater part of Canterbury, but being forced to leave the rest under the protection of its vigilant, powerful saint.
Great was the wonderment of the people next day, for it was quite clear that it was those quarters of the town in which vice had been rampant that had disappeared completely, though the Devil’s last armful had been the far more respectable part, in which many comparatively virtuous citizens had dwelt; and as it was their dwellings that the tolling of Great Harry had caused the Fiend to drop, they had been preserved from destruction by falling higgledypiggledy up and down a hillside. From them in their new situation grew the thriving town and port of Whitstable; but Canterbury has never since regained its wealth or importance.
The rest of its buildings are in the sea, a mile or so from the coast, where occasionally glimpses of them could be seen for long afterwards. Wise antiquarians have declared that what has been revealed from time to time are the remains of Roman dwellings, submerged by the rising ocean. But of course, the people of Kent know better than that!
Old Nick Is a Gentleman
The medieval folk-concept of the Devil as distinct from that preached by the Church, is that of Rex Mundi – large, dark and handsome, infinitely attractive, a jolly fellow full of pranks and merriment and still displaying some of the attributes of his counterparts in pagan times. This is the picture of him portrayed in this old Yorkshire tale.
Ralph Calvert was a cobbler, in the days when a well-fitting pair of boots or sandals made all the difference to the comfort of life, especially for those whose daily round took them up hill and down dale through the wide stretches of Yorkshire. He lived in Thorpe, a village in Wharfedale, and supplied a good many of his neighbours with sturdy soles; but his best customers were the monks at Fountains Abbey. It was a long trail from Thorpe to Fountains, but when the message came that the monks needed his services, he set off with more than his usual good cheer; for he was a merry fellow at all times, and there was nothing he liked better than a convivial hour or two with the porter, who, to say the least of it, lived well. So did the monks, and a cheery lot they were, too, by all accounts; at any rate the peasant girls of Wharfedale found them so, when they happened to meet them on the hills, where the flocks of the Abbey’s sheep grazed in their thousands.
Ralph loved his stomach, but he loved a good song, too, for he had a most melodious voice, and knew by heart all the old ballads handed down from his grandfathers – gay ones, sad ones, romantic ones, stirring ones – words, melodies, choruses and all. To keep them in mind, and to while away the miles, he sang them to himself as he jogged along with his sack of shoes on his shoulder. When he got tired, especially towards a warm noonday, he sat down by the wayside and partook liberally of the fare he had provided himself with for the journey; and sometimes the exercise, and the warmth, and the food, to say nothing of the good home-brewed, got the better of him, and he stretched out for a nap among the inquisitive ewes before setting forth again on his journey. But this, as every Yorkshireman knows, is a dangerous practice, for those who take a snooze after a good lunch are very likely to dream of the Devil, and Ralph Calvert was no exception.
He dreamed that the Evil One pounced on him from behind, like a cat, before he had time to defend himself at all; and the Old ’Un then pinioned him, gathered him up like a baby in one hand, and held him up in the air while with the other hand he deftly untied the string that bound the neck of a huge sack that he carried. Then he bundled the scared cobbler into the bag, as if he had been a trussed rabbit, and had just begu
n to close the sack up again over the head of the shrieking wayfarer, when that worthy woke himself up with his own cries. Mightily relieved he was, too, to find himself safe on the hillside in the sunshine, with nothing more to frighten him than the unceasing movement of the jaws of the stolid sheep. But it had been a particularly vivid, nasty dream, and he had difficulty in making himself believe there was nothing more behind it than a stomach too well lined; so he looked most carefully for any tell-tale hoof marks in the dust, or signs of scorching on the grass. There were none, and at length the cobbler picked up his sack and trudged on again, gradually recovering his normal cheerful spirits as he sang his way along until the tower of the Abbey appeared in the distance and the end of his journey was in sight.
Having delivered his work to the monks, he made his way back to the gate and his old crony, the porter. There he spent a pleasant evening, hearing all the latest tales and consuming a large quantity of excellent roast beef and ale. Then he put himself down to sleep, ready for the start of the long walk home again, early next morning.
So off he went with his snap-bag newly topped-up with supplies for the road by the hospitable porter, full of high spirits, and struck off into the woods, singing to himself cheerily as always. Once through the woods, he looked back and saw the tower of the Abbey standing proud above them, and the Pately road stretched out before him. Somehow, the farther he got from the Abbey, the more he dwelt upon the curious dream he had had the previous day. He thought so much about it that he was in danger of losing his ordinary cheery endurance, and several times he felt it really necessary to fortify himself with a swig or two of an innkeeper’s strong ale. Then up to the hills he went again, and on to the high moors; but in front of him was a swollen river, and there was nothing for it but to take off his boots and hose, sling them over his shoulder, and wade through. Once on the other side, he sat down on the bank to let his feet dry, pulled on his hose, and then prepared to don his boots again. He was feeling fine, but hungry, and as he bent to put on his boots, he sang happily
As he was a-riding along the high way,
Old Nick came unto him, and to him did say.
Sing link-a-down, heigh-down, ho-down derry –
when a deep voice behind him joined in with gusto,
Tol-lol-de-rol, lol-de-rol, dol, dol, derry.
Ralph twisted himself round with his heart in his mouth, and looking up over his own shoulder, there he saw him – Old Nick himself, slightly larger than life and twice as handsome, making no attempt to disguise all the tell-tale evidence of his identity – cloven hoofs, tiny horns, forked beard and unmistakable tail – in fact, just as the cobbler had seen him in his dream, even to the sack, which now lay empty at the Devil’s side as he reclined lazily on his elbow on the river bank.
Now Ralph was in fear of his life – nay, of his immortal soul; but he knew from many a previous wayfaring incident that the last thing to do in such a case is to show fear, at least until you are sure of your antagonist’s intentions. Old Nick didn’t look as if he meant mischief, and so it proved, for when he spoke again, Ralph’s fear was replaced by mild surprise, as all the Fiend did was to ask him politely how far it was to Grassington!
‘Now,’ thought Ralph to himself, ‘I’ve got to sing this one by ear, as it comes’; but he told himself bravely that there couldn’t be all that amiss in a chap as was so handy and willing to join in a good chorus. So he answered pat, and merrily, ‘Too far to go wi’out a bite and sup’; and opening his snap-sack, he brought out a bottle of Abbey wine and a mouth-watering, generous-sized eel pie.
Well, Old Nick’s eyes fairly sparkled at the sight of it, and he broke into the next verse of the ballad. By the time they got round to
Tol-lol-de-rol, lol-de-rol, dol, dol, derry
again, they were sitting side by side like old friends. Then Old Nick asked Ralph if he’d heard the one about the monk and the maiden of Nidderdale, and Ralph said no, but he had heard some lovely juicy scandal about the abbot, no later than last night. The eel pie vanished, and the wine bottle was emptied, as they capped each other’s stories, till they were both holding their sides with merriment, and the ewes stood chewing stolidly round them in a circle, wondering at a sight they had never seen before.
Then the Devil rose to go, full of grace and courtesy – in fact, as Ralph had to admit, a perfect gentleman, and such good company that he was reluctant to see him leave. Ralph tried to stand up, though his head did feel a bit muzzy; and as he staggered to his feet, he hiccupped out, ‘I knaw not whether tha’ beest t’devil or not; but whoever tha’ be, tha’ beest a merry chap! An’ I say that if tha’ bees truly Old Nick, bigg us a brigg ower this river to prove it!’
The Devil did not turn a hair. ‘Done, old friend!’ he said. ‘Look for it in three days’ time, and it shall be there.’
Then he caught up his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and to the fuddled cobbler’s astonishment, reached the top of the next hill in only two strides. The man saw him darkly outlined on the top of it, stark against the sky, until a huge black cloud came down and enveloped him completely. Then the cloud burst, and sent a rush of water down the river, raising the foaming waters almost breast high; but Ralph was on the homeward side of it already, and he set off again, shaking his still-fuddled head from time to time as if he didn’t quite know what to make of his own thoughts. However, three days later, there stood the bridge just where they had sat together in such good company; and a splendid bridge it was – and is. One thing Ralph stuck to all the rest of his life was that even Old Nick isn’t as black as he’s painted, because when you get to know him properly there’s no doubt but he’s a right merry fellow, and a gentleman who keeps his words into the bargain. There stands the bridge to prove it, after all.
Omens, Warnings and Fetches
Mysterious occurrences used as warnings are part of every village’s folklore, even to this day, and omens presaging death and disaster are too many to mention. The four tales given in this group range widely across the spectrum of omens and ‘fetches’.
The Wild Huntsman
Here is the Devil again, though this time acting as the bearer of evil news before the event, or, in this particular case, at the identical moment of death. In many stories concerning the Wild Hunt, the warning of impending death is given some hours, or even days, before the event actually happens.
In the reign of King Henry II there appeared in England an apparition that many, many people witnessed. If it had appeared before this, it is not recorded; but since then there have been a great many more who have been prepared to swear that they have both seen and heard the huntsman and his pack of fire-breathing, yelping hounds, from Cornwall to Durham, from Wales to Yorkshire.
The story accompanying the twelfth-century apparition was that the Wild Huntsman was a former king in Britain, whose name was Herla.
Herla had been invited to attend the marriage-feast of a dwarf who lived with his tribe of little people in the side of a mountain. The king accepted the invitation, and was treated to lavish hospitality. When the festivities were over, the host left the bridal hall to speed his guest on his way, and at the same time presented him with a parting gift. This consisted of a splendid horse for himself, mounts for the retainers who were with him, a pack of peerless hounds, all white but with flaming red ears, a hunting horn and a bloodhound. The bloodhound was set in front of the king on his saddle-bow, and the dwarf, whose gifts they were, then added the one condition to the acceptance of them. It was that none of the party with the king should attempt to dismount until the bloodhound had leaped to the ground. Then among the farewells of their dwarfish hosts, the king and his retinue moved off, followed by the beautiful hounds.
The journey swiftly accomplished, King Herla arrived back at his own hall, where, for some reason, all seemed extraordinarily changed. When servants rushed out to see who was riding up to the royal dwelling, they showed signs of great consternation and fear, so that the king roared for an explanation
. Then he was given the truth. He had been away, not as he thought, for a single night, but for the space of two hundred years! As the awful realization dawned upon the retainers, some jumped from their saddles in fear and anger. No sooner had their feet touched the ground than they dissolved, crumbling, with their mounts, into heaps of fine dust before the eyes of the spectators. That kept the rest of the troop firmly in their saddles, for they now remembered the dwarfs injunction that they were not to dismount until the bloodhound leaped down from the king’s saddle. But this the creature would not be persuaded to do – and indeed never will do, until the Trumpet of Doom sounds on the Last Day.
Seeing what had happened to their comrades, the king and the remainder of his followers had no choice but to stay in the saddle, and ride on and on for ever in a never-ending chase that will go on till Doomsday. So the king rides on and on, across the moors of the West Country and the fells of the North, round the lakes between the mountains in Wales and through the Yorkshire dales. His horn has been heard in the distance on moonlit nights, and his hounds give tongue from the hillsides, especially when there is a soul to be separated from its body within the next few hours. Those who actually meet and see the Wild Huntsman are either doomed themselves, or must expect calamity among their nearest and dearest.
Such a one was a Devon farmer, riding home one night across Dartmoor, after having been drinking heavily at the Saracen’s Head. The merry farmer was plodding his way homewards, his nag knowing the way far too well to need much guidance, when out of the darkness there loomed alongside him another rider, who, by the fact that he had his hounds running behind him, seemed obviously also on his way home from a day’s hunting. The jovial farmer, feeling goodwill to the rest of mankind, called out to him, bidding him good-evening, and then adding, ‘Have you had a good day? Can you spare anything? What about a hare?’
The Book of English Folk Tales Page 11
