As I approached the spot, I could see a light, fairly bright, and other pin points of light round it. ‘Ah,’ I said to myself. ‘Here’s the bobby I’ve been expecting!’ So I shut off my engine and got off the bike, hoping he hadn’t heard me coming. Then I began to push the bike towards the light. I could soon see that it came from a roadside fire – a big, roaring fire that sent sparks curling up into the night and lit up the road for a long way. Standing or sitting in groups round the fire were men and women, whose shapes I could see in the fireglow before I got near to them. All of them were wearing dark clothes and hats with high crowns. I tried to think what they could be. ‘Scouts, camping,’ was my first thought, till I remembered the shape of the crown of a scout’s hat, and that there were no tents to be seen. ‘Gipsies,’ was my next guess – and my heart began to thump a bit, because I was all by myself and there was no help anywhere to hand if I should be attacked. But the next minute I’d realized that it wasn’t gipsies either, because there were no caravans or horses to be seen. Just the fire, and the people in their queer clothes; and by the fire, two white goats, whose eyes gleamed green when reflecting the flames. By this time I was among them, or at least, on the road by their side, while they were all spread out in little groups on the verge round the fire and all the way down towards the village. I felt the heat of the fire as I passed, and the sweat rolled off me with fright because the fire showed me up to them as clearly as if the sun had been shining. But I walked on, as fast as I could, pushing my bike, and they watched me. Not a word was spoken, and all was quiet except for the crackling of the flames.
When I had passed them I was nearly fainting with terror, and I began to run, though my legs didn’t want to carry me at all. After a minute or two, the old bike began to put-put as its engine started, and I jumped onto the seat. Policeman or no policeman, I was going home as fast as ever I could. When I got just beyond the village, there was a sudden burst of light behind me, like a brilliant flash of lightning – though it was a fine, clear night with no hint of thunder in the air. I looked over my shoulder into the dark as soon as my eyes had recovered from the flash, wondering whatever could have caused it. The only thing my glance showed me was that the fire seemed to have gone out. I didn’t wait to investigate any more. I just let that old bike go as hard as ever it would till I reached home, about six miles farther on. I didn’t meet a policeman, but I had stopped caring about not having a light. I should have been glad to see anybody, even a bobby.
I threw my bike down in the yard and ran into the house. Mam had left me a candle and matches on the table, and my supper set. I managed to light the candle, but I didn’t stop for any supper. I was still sweating cold sweat when I snuggled down in bed, and I daren’t put the candle out. But at last I dropped off to sleep, and it didn’t seem five minutes before Dad was shaking me and telling me to get up because I’d got to take Ole Short to St Ives with some pigs. It was about six o’clock on a brilliant sunny morning, and there I was in my own bedroom with everything just as it always was, and Dad looking made of real solid flesh and blood, like he always did. So I began to get up, and in the daylight I really could not understand whatever I’d been so scared about the night before. In fact, I was so ashamed of being scared that I never said a word to anybody about what had happened the night before and never have done till now.
So I harnessed Ole Short, and off we went to market. And after six miles or so, there I was in broad daylight going along that very same bit of road through King’s Ripton, not more than six or seven hours after I’d been there before. I slowed Ole Short down to a walk (he was always as meek as a newborn kitten going that way) so that I could have a jolly good look at the place where the queer folks had been last night.
You’ll have to take my word for it, because I can’t prove it; but search as I might, I couldn’t find a trace of any kind of what I’d seen. Not a blade of grass on the verge had been trampled; not a sign was there of the brushing of long clothes or boots in hedge or ditch, or in the dust of the road; and strangest of all, not a mark of burning or scorching where so little time ago a huge fire had blazed and burned as I passed within a few feet of it.
Well, I didn’t understand it, then. Ole Short bolted, as he always did, when we were on our way home, at the very spot where I’d seen the fire, and didn’t stop till he came to the place I’d been at when I saw the flash behind me.
Years passed – Ole Short gorged the wheat after letting himself into the barn, and had a good drink of water after it, so that was the end of him. Hitler and his mates moved us all out of the fen, and after a varied life landed me up in Norfolk for my last years. And as I said at the beginning of this tale, I have too much time to think about things now. I read a good deal, as well, specially any old books I can find about country life in times gone by. Not long ago, I was reading one about gipsies, and there it said that true gipsies always warned others of their kind not to camp in certain places (and the reason why), by leaving tokens behind for the next lot to read. Two black rags placed in the hedge meant that between them the place was not safe to camp because it was haunted by spirits and that these places were more often than not to be found at the spot where two ancient tracks crossed each other.
Now it was always said in our fen that some people could see haunts while others could not, and that folk born on the stroke of midnight were the most likely of all to have the gift of seeing. That accounts for me, because I was born at midnight between the 3rd and 4th of November, 1903. And I know what I saw on the night I’ve been telling you about.
As for Ole Short, well they say that all animals can detect the presence of ghosts and haunts; but I reckon Ole Short had been born at midnight as well. I shall always think he could see, even in broad daylight, what I only saw once at night, but only when he was travelling in one direction, the same way as I was going when I could have reached out and touched the apparitions if I’d dared.
And I keep on thinking about it, and wondering what would have happened if I had been riding my old bike instead of walking, or driving a powerful modern car. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been alive to tell the tale. It might have been just one more unaccountable fatal accident at the place where them two old roads cross, or near it.
So now if anybody on the council bothers to read this, they’ll know why it isn’t a bit of use them spending a lot more ratepayers’ money to make that crossroads safer for motorists and such.
Them old spirits are still there, and it’s my opinion they always will be.
The Phantom Army of Flowers Barrow
The Phantom Army, seen by several people at the same time in one case, and reported by others on many occasions up to recent times, seems a typical example of the ‘play-back’ type of ‘vision’.
This tale from Wareham is perhaps one that should be investigated all over afresh by the modern searchers-out of ley-lines, and of the mysteries connected with them.
Above Warbarrow Bay tower white cliffs, on top of which is an Iron Age earthwork called Flowers Barrow. When the Romans occupied Britain, they were quick to realize the strategic importance of this place, and established a large fort there, so that legions were often to be seen approaching or leaving the fort by way of the old straight track called the Ridgeway. Between Flowers Barrow and Wareham is a rise called Grange Hill.
One evening in December 1678, when the country had once again settled down to an uneasy period of peace, and excursions and alarms seemed to be a thing of the past, two brothers named Lawrence, of the village of Creech, happened to be abroad as the daylight began to fade to an early dusk. Now the oldest brother, John Lawrence, was, or at least had been, a soldier, and was in fact Captain John Lawrence. By such knowledge it can be assumed that he and his brother were not ignorant yokels likely to panic at their own shadows or mistake the reflection of a gleam from the westering sun as the flash of a sword. However, there were also abroad four yokels going home from their work, which was cutting clay, and sundry other village
rs known to the Lawrence brothers as neighbours.
They were all proceeding in their own way towards home, when John Lawrence, peering into the distance, saw what appeared to be a column of men marching in formation from the direction of Flowers Barrow, over Grange Hill, and making for Wareham. His exclamation of surprise drew the attention of his brother, who, following his gaze, saw that it was not just a single column or two of footsoldiers, but a force of several thousands of armed men, all resolutely striding in step towards the town. By this time, the four clay-cutters had also seen the approach of this terrifying army in the gathering dusk, and had drawn the attention of the other villagers to it. A hurried consultation took place, and in the belief that the safety of the realm was endangered by a huge foreign force landing on the Dorset coast. Captain Lawrence and his brother called for their horses, and rode at breakneck speed to London, where they deposed on oath before the Council what they had witnessed. Before leaving on their journey, they sent the clay-cutters and those villagers who were mobile running as fast as they could towards Wareham, to warn the Mayor and the militia.
Wareham, so inured by history to such alarms, wasted not a minute. Before the first of the invading army could appear in sight, three hundred of the militia had been called out. The bridge had been barricaded, and the boats drawn across to the north side of the river. Citizens prepared to defend life and property by any and every means possible to them, and runners alerted neighbouring towns and villages in the county. Altogether, several thousands of armed volunteers answered the call, and stood at the ready to do their best to repel the invaders, whoever they were.
But hours passed, and no sign of an alien soldier was seen by the lookouts. Days passed, and they still did not come. Grange Hill showed no sign of troops, or that any had recently passed that way. Somewhat sheepishly, the volunteers went home, and the militia stood down.
Meanwhile, both local and national anger broke on the heads of the Lawrence brothers, and the clay-clutters, for so mischievously causing alarm by their Visions’ and ‘day-dreaming’. They all stuck to their stories of what they had seen – and in the case of Captain Lawrence, what he also claimed to have heard, for he deposed, on oath, that the huge army was moving ‘with great clashing of arms’. Some were for punishing these alarmists severely, as a warning against others playing such ill-judged jokes on a town that had had to face armies far too often in reality to take such events calmly.
Finally, both the Lawrences, and the clay-cutters, maintaining to the bitter end that they were telling the truth, were let off from the threatened punishment.
Was that because some local people had the courage to say that this was not the first time the Phantom Army had been seen? That some still believed wholeheartedly that the Roman legions had never deserted entirely the old haunts where, for four hundred years, they had marched?
Or that still others hold to the belief that the Phantom Army sleeps beneath Grange Hill, and like King Arthur and Barbarossa, will rise to fight again only when the country is in dire peril?
However scathing the comments made about the mischievous Lawrence brothers in 1678, the Phantom Army is not forgotten, by any means. It was seen and reported in 1939, shortly before the outbreak of the Second World War, and several times during the conflict. The last reported sight of it was in 1970, when it appeared close to Corfe, marching up Knowle Hill. Is it an old ley-line track that the phantom legions – Roman or prehistoric – still walk?
Knight to Knight
This provides a good instance of the way old tales become blurred around the edges and merged with more modern events. The people of Cambridgeshire up to the last war connected the prehistoric fort at Wandlebury with the memory of a horse. Some said there was once the outline of a white horse, now grown over, cut on the hillside. Others said there was a famous horse buried there and that accounted for the belief. But there is no doubt that Gervase of Tilbury told the story given here, in the thirteenth century, and that he learned it from the folk, who assured him that it was old, even then.
It had to be a night when the full moon was shining down upon the hills, and showing up the shape of the ancient fort – a level place surrounded by entrenchments of ditch and wall, in the still-remaining outline of which there was only one gap, where the entrance must have been. Then, if a knight dared put on his harness, take lance in hand and ride through the gate on to the level place, he would be sure of a worthy adversary for a joust. Once inside the entrance, he had to call loudly, ‘Knight to knight, come forth to fight!’ and immediately there would stand before him another mounted knight, in full panoply of armour like himself. Then the charge would take place, and one or the other be dismounted; but the challenging knight had to enter the enclosure alone, or his ghostly adversary would not appear – though companions might remain outside the entrenchments, and watch the charge.
Well, that’s what the people said – but there were few knights in and around Cambridge in the Middle Ages willing to put the story to the test.
The Gogmagog hills were eerie places, and the ancient Wandlebury fort up on the summit filled even the bravest with superstitious dread, for were not the old gods buried up there? Good Christians as they were, they crossed themselves in fear at the thought of disturbing Gog and Magog from their pagan slumbers, and gave the place a wide berth, specially at night. Honour for valour was what most knights yearned for, but as everybody knows, there are some things it is better not to meddle with.
However, some proud spirits simply cannot withstand a challenge, especially if it touches a well-earned reputation for courage. There came a-visiting to Cambridge a much renowned knight called Osbert, whose father, Hugh, had also won much honour in his time. Sir Osbert was a great power amongst his noble peers, redoubtable in arms, and chivalrous; indeed, according to all accounts, he was possessed of all knightly virtues to a greater degree than most.
It was winter time when Osbert came to Cambridge, and his hosts made much of him. When supper in the great hall was finished, the family of his noble host, with their famous guest, drew up to the roaring fire, surrounded by an outer circle of the lord’s retainers who were for the most part local folk. Then, as always, the talk began to flow as tongues were loosed by comfort and good ale, and old tales began to be told. There were stories of the great deeds of the family in times past; of courage in battle and courtesy in love; there were sad tales of domestic tragedy, and ghostly tales that caused the men to cross themselves devoutly lest like dread happenings should ever come their way.
Then the servants and retainers began to take up the thread, and recount to their master and his honourable friend some of the stories they knew, especially those concerned with their own particular corner of England. And so it was, listening to one of the folk, that Sir Osbert heard the story of the Armed Knight of Wandlebury. It appeared that no one present had ever seen the apparition, or indeed ever attempted to make trial of the truth of it. Such a challenge was, however, too much for the valour of Sir Osbert to withstand. Calling at once for his squire, he gave orders for his armour to be brought, and his horse to be saddled. The squire was bidden to prepare himself to accompany his master to the top of the Gogmagogs, where the truth of the old legend should be forthwith put to the test.
Amid great excitement the squire armed his knight, and out into the moonlight they sallied, with the host’s entire household gathered to see them off. Their horses’ hooves struck sparks from the cobbles as they rode away into the frosty night, the jingling of their horses’ trappings fading gently in the distance as they went towards the hills.
Once arrived at the ancient fort, Sir Osbert commanded his squire to stand, and wait outside the perimeter of the fort. Then couching his lance at the ready, he urged his own steed through the entrance and out into the moonlit, levelled space. Bringing his horse to a standstill, he looked all around him. There was nothing to be seen but the rime glinting in the moonlight on the frosty bents of grass. Raising his head to send hi
s voice as far afield as possible, he called aloud his challenge, ‘Knight to knight, come forth to fight!’
Immediately there appeared in front of him another knight, armed from head to foot, and mounted on a splendid horse. Sir Osbert had no time to take in his opponent’s knightly trappings, for the stranger had wheeled his horse, lowered his lance, raised his shield and was already preparing to charge. Sir Osbert hastily collected his wits, and did the same. Across the intervening space the two horses thundered, meeting with the shock of combined weight and speed that sounded far through the moonlit fields. The ghostly knight missed his mark, but the point of Sir Osbert’s lance landed fair and square on his adversary’s breast, and the next moment the strange knight had been unhorsed, and was lying on the grass. Sir Osbert, rejoicing in his astounding good fortune, urged his horse towards the riderless steed of his adversary; for by all the rules of chivalry, the winner of such a contest was entitled to the horse, and the armour, of his defeated foe.
But the unhorsed warrior sprang to his feet in an instant, and levelling his lance over his shoulder, he hurled it like a javelin at Sir Osbert. His aim was good and true, and the spear took the valiant challenger in the fleshy part of his thigh. Such a wound was as nought, however, to the victor of many such jousts on previous occasions. He barely felt the pain, and regarded his hurt as little more than mere temporary inconvenience. He caught the riderless horse, but when he looked for its master, he looked in vain. The other knight had disappeared into thin air, and the level enclosure lay open to the moon, again as bare as it had been before Osbert had issued his ritual challenge.
So he rode out of the enclosure, and gave the reins of his prize to his squire; and so they returned to their lodging in the lord’s castle.
As they clattered into the courtyard. Sir Osbert’s host, the family and all the household tumbled out to meet them. They were amazed at the tale, and delighted at the victory of their guest. That he was telling nothing but the truth they could see, for his squire was leading a horse such as few of them had ever seen before – a magnificent creature it was, tall, spirited and utterly beautiful, fierce of eye and proud of neck, with long, silky, jet-black mane and tail. The saddle and the rest of its trappings were likewise black, and very rich and fine. It was, indeed, a worthy prize.
The Book of English Folk Tales Page 18
