They told her that she must dress immediately, and go with them at once to a coach that was waiting in the lane, to be taken to a lady who needed her attention in a house ‘not very far from here’.
She asked who the lady was, to whom she would be taken. In reply, the messengers said curtly that she was to ask no questions, or it would be the worse for her; and that to make sure she would tell no tales, she must consent to being blindfolded before leaving her cottage. If she would agree to this, she would be rewarded handsomely with a purse of gold before she returned.
She was afraid, but saw no way out of her dilemma. The offer of a rich reward tempted her, and in any case, being an intelligent woman whose natural feminine curiosity had by this time been thoroughly roused, she felt some wish to see the strange adventure through. Hastily donning her clothes, she allowed herself to be securely blindfolded, and then led between the two messengers to the waiting coach.
Her other senses informed her that the lumbering coach was one of the best of its kind, but as it rumbled on through the winter night, she lost all sense of direction or distance. After what seemed to her a long journey, the coach stopped, and she was helped out and taken inside a house.
‘Here is the staircase,’ said one of the men, as he placed her hand upon the banisters. She went up carefully, counting the steps as she went. Then she was taken into a room, where her blindfold was whipped off, and the men departed, carefully locking the door behind them as they went.
The midwife looked about her with wondering eyes. She was in a large room, most richly furnished, with windows heavily curtained in luxurious velvet, and rugs and coverlets such as she had never seen or even dreamt of before. In the middle of the room stood a huge four-poster bed, hung all about with curtains. On the bed lay her writhing patient – young, healthy, but like everyone else in the house that night, heavily masked, so that very little of her face was visible.
The midwife set to work, but as she moved to and fro to do what she could for the girl on the bed, the countrywoman made mental notes of anything she saw that could afterwards help her to identify the place; and at one point she took a chance to snip off a piece of velvet from the inside of one of the curtains, and tuck it away in her bosom. After a couple of hours, her skill succeeded in delivering the masked young mother of a fine healthy baby. Its cries rang loudly through the room, and she wrapped it up and laid it aside while she turned her attention to the exhausted young woman.
She had just put the baby into its mother’s arms, when she heard the key turn in the lock on the door, and in came a masked gentleman. He was tall and broad and most richly dressed in the latest fashion, and though his mask covered the upper half of his face, she had the impression that without it he must also be exceedingly handsome. Her common sense had by now reached the conclusion that the reason for all the secrecy was that the lovely child that had just come into the world was born out of wedlock. She guessed at once that the masked intruder was either the baby’s natural father or some protective relative of the girl who had just been delivered. So she stood discreetly aside to allow him to go to the bedside.
Without a word, he strode across the room, and lifted the helpless babe from its mother’s breast. Then drawing his sword, he ran the child through again and again, while the mother screamed and the midwife, sick with horror, swooned away and fell to the floor in a dead faint.
When she came round, she had been dumped on her own doorstep. As the memory of what she had seen came back to her with returning consciousness, she wondered for a moment whether it could all be a dreadful nightmare from which she would eventually awake. But the cold in her arms and legs was no nightmare, and as she struggled to sit up, her hand came into contact with a leather purse, filled, as she could feel, with coin. Once inside her cottage, she lost no time in opening the bag. The coins were of gold – more than she had ever earned in all her life before, or could hope to come by in future. She understood completely that these riches were the price of her silence, tonight and for as long as she lived. The temptation was too great for her. She hid the gold and held her tongue, and time went past.
It was only a matter of months, however, before the good woman was stricken down by one of the plagues that visited some places in the country year after year in the summer months. In her delirium she raved about the birth and death of the high-born baby, and recovering consciousness, believed herself to be on the very point of death. Wishing to cleanse her own soul from any taint of the murder, she made a full confession of all that had happened on the occasion of the birth on that dreadful night during the last winter.
Thereafter she quickly recovered, but it was too late to recant on her confession. Inquiries were made, and her memory tested for all the details she could call to mind. The trail led inexorably to Littlecote Manor, and the midwife was taken there. She counted the steps on the stairs, and they tallied with her memory. She recognized at once the oak-panelled room in which she had worked, and to prove it produced the snippet of velvet she had cut from the sumptuous curtains. There could be no doubt about it. Wild Darrell was arrested for the murder of the new-born child, and brought to court.
‘Plate sin with gold, and the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks,’ wrote the famous playwright, who lived at that time. Perhaps he had heard how Wild Darrell managed to save himself. The judge who was trying him was corrupt, avaricious and unscrupulous. Behind the back of the law a bargain was arranged. Darrell was found not guilty, and Littlecote Manor, with all its lands and all its furnishings, passed secretly into the hands of the judge, who later disposed of it much to his own benefit and satisfaction.
Then Wild Darrell was left without property, but refused nevertheless to quit the part of the country where his ancestors had been lords of the manor. He remained in the neighbourhood, living a life of wild excess and utter debauchery. But he was not a happy man.
At the height of his roistering, he would suddenly turn pale, stare ahead of him, and whip out his long rapier to strike madly at the thin air in front of him, though his drinking cronies would swear, over and over again, that there had been nothing there to strike at. Whenever this strange thing happened, he would drink and gamble more heavily than ever before.
So it went on till one moonlit night, they say, when he and some companions were riding over the downs. Suddenly, there arose before him in the air the tiny fragile ghost of a newborn baby, clearly outlined in the bright moonlight. It was floating before Darrell, as if coming towards him, when his horse caught sight of it. Whinnying with fright, the horse reared up on its hind legs – higher and higher as the tiny wraith floated nearer – until it fell over backwards with a terrible crash, taking its rider with it. He lay where he had fallen, with a broken neck.
And, even now, after more than four centuries. Wild Darrell still rides across the downs where he so well-deservedly met his end at last; and for many years after its birth, they say, the forlorn little wraith of the newborn infant was occasionally to be seen in the oak-panelled room where the murder took place, and where the unfortunate midwife witnessed the baby being impaled on the blade of Wild Darrell’s wicked rapier.
The Marriage of Sir Gawaine
Finally, another example of an ancient ballad, in which the rhyme and rhythm blend into the telling and add extra richness to the story.
Part the First
King Arthur lives in merry Carlisle,
And seemly is to see,
And there with him Queen Guinevere,
That bride so bright of blee.
And there with him Queen Guinevere,
That bride so bright in bower;
And all his barons about him stood
That were both stiff and stour.
The king a royal Christmas kept.
With mirth and princely cheer;
To him repaired many a knight
That came both far and near.
And when they were to dinner set
And cups went freely round
Before them came a fair damsel
And knelt upon the ground.
‘A boon, a boon, O King Arthur,
I beg a boon of thee;
Avenge me of a carlish knight,
Who hath shent my love and me.
In Tarn Wadling his castle stands
All on a hill so high.
And proudly rise the battlements.
And gay the streamers fly.
No gentle knight nor lady fair
May pass that castle wall.
But from that foul discourteous knight
Mishap will them befall.
He’s twice the size of common men.
With thews and sinews strong;
And on his back he bears a club
That is both thick and long.
This grim baron ’twas our hard hap
But yestermorn to see,
When to his bower he bore my love.
And sore misused me.
And when I told him, King Arthur
As little should him spare –
“Go tell,” said he, “that cuckold king
To meet me if he dare.”’
Up then started King Arthur,
And sware by hill and dale
He ne’er would quit that grim baron
Till he had made him quail.
‘Go, fetch my sword Excalibar,
Go, saddle me my steed!
Now by my fay, that grim baron
Shall rue this ruthful deed!’
And when he came to Tarn Wadling
Beneath the castle wall;
‘Come forth, come forth, thou proud baron.
Or yield thyself my thrall!’
On magic ground that castle stood.
And fenced with many a spell;
No valiant knight could tread thereon
But straight his courage fell.
Forth then rushed that carlish knight.
King Arthur felt the charm:
His sturdy sinews lost their strength,
Down sunk his feeble arm.
‘Now yield thee, yield thee, King Arthur
Now yield thee unto me:
Or fight with me, or lose thy land.
No better terms there be.
Unless thou swear upon the rood,
And promise on thy fay,
Here to return to Tarn Wadling,
Upon the new-year’s day:
And bring me word what thing it is
All women most desire:
This is thy ransom, Arthur,’ he says,
‘I’ll have no other hire.’
King Arthur then held up his hand,
And sware upon his fay.
Then took his leave of the grim baron.
And fast he rode away.
And he rode east, and he rode west,
And did of all inquire.
What thing it is all women crave.
And what they most desire.
Some told him riches, pomp, or state;
Some raiment fine and bright;
Some told him mirth; some flattery;
And some a jolly knight.
In letters all King Arthur wrote.
And sealed them with his ring
And still his mind was held in doubt
Each told a different thing.
As ruthful he rode over a moor,
He saw a lady set
Between an oak and a green holly,
All clad in red scarlet.
Her nose was crookt and turned outward,
Her chin stood all awry;
And where as should have been her mouth,
Lo! there was set her eye.
Her hairs like serpents clung about
Her cheeks of deadly hue;
A worse-formed lady than she was,
No man mote ever view.
To hail the king in seemly sort
This lady was full fain:
But King Arthur all sore amazed.
No answer made again.
‘What wight are thou,’ the lady said,
‘That wilt not speak to me?
Sir, I may chance to ease thy pain,
Though I be foul to see.’
‘If thou wilt ease my pain.’ he said,
‘And help me in my need,
Ask what thou wilt, thou grim lady,
And it shall by thy meed.’
‘O swear me this upon the rood.
And promise on thy fay;
And here the secret I will tell,
That shall thy ransom pay.’
King Arthur promised on his fay.
And sware upon the rood:
The secret then the lady told,
As lightly as she could.
‘Now this shall be my pay, sir king,
And this my guerdon be.
That some young fair and courtly knight,
Thou bring to marry me.’
Fast then pricked King Arthur
O’er hill, and dale, and down:
And soon he found the baron’s bower,
And soon the grim baron.
He bare his club upon his back,
He stood both stiff and strong;
And, when he had the letters read,
Away the letters flung.
‘Now yield thee, Arthur, and thy lands,
All forfeit unto me;
For this is not thy pay, sir king,
Nor may thy ransom be.’
‘Yet hold thy hand, thou proud baron,
I pray thee, hold thy hand;
And give me leave to speak once more
In rescue of my land.
This morn as I came over a moor,
I saw a lady set
Between an oak and a green holly,
All clad in red scarlet.
‘She says all women will have their will,
This is their chief desire;
Now yield, as thou art a baron true,
That I have paid mine hire.’
‘An early vengeance light on her!’
The carlish baron swore:
‘She was my sister told thee this,
And she’s a misshapen whore.
But here I will make mine avow,
To do her as ill a turn:
For an ever I may that foul thief get
In a fire I will her burn.’
Part the Second
Homeward pricked King Arthur,
And a weary man was he;
And soon he met Queen Guinevere,
That bride so bright of blee.
‘What news! what news! thou noble king,
How, Arthur, hast thou sped?
Where hast thou hung the carlish knight,
And where bestowed his head?’
‘The carlish knight is safe for me,
And free from mortal harm:
On magic ground his castle stands,
And fenced with many a charm.
To bow to him I was full fain,
And yield me to his hand:
And but for a loathly lady there
I should have lost my land.
And now this fills my heart with woe,
And sorrow of my life;
I swore a young and courtly knight
Should marry her to his wife.’
Then bespake him Sir Gawaine,
That was ever a gentle knight;
That loathly lady I will wed;
Therefore be merry and light.’
‘Now nay, now nay, good Sir Gawaine;
My sister’s son ye be;
This loathly lady’s all too grim,
And all too foul for ye.
Her nose is crookt, and turned outward;
Her chin stands all awry;
A worse formed lady than she was
Was never seen with eye.’
‘What though her chin stand all awry,
And she be foul to see;
I’ll marry her, uncle, for thy sake,
And I’ll thy ransom be.’
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br /> ‘Now thanks, now thanks, good Sir Gawaine;
And a blessing thee betide!
To-morrow we’ll have knights and squires,
And we’ll go fetch thy bride.
‘And we’ll have hawks and we’ll have hounds,
To cover our intent;
And we’ll away to the green forest,
As we a-hunting went.’
Sir Lancelot, Sir Stephen bold,
They rode with them that day;
And foremost of the company
There rode the steward Kay:
So did Sir Banier and Sir Bore,
And eke Sir Garratte keen;
Sir Tristram, too, that gentle knight,
To the forest fresh and green.
And when they came to the green forest,
Beneath a fair holly tree
There sate that lady in red scarlet
That unseemly was to see.
Sir Kay beheld that lady’s face,
And looked upon her sweere;
‘Whoever kisses that lady,’ he says,
‘Of his kiss he stands in fear.’
Sir Kay beheld that lady again,
And looked upon her snout;
‘Whoever kisses that lady,’ he says,
‘Of his kiss he stands in doubt.’
‘Peace, brother Kay,’ said Sir Gawaine,
‘And amend thee of thy life:
For there is a knight amongst us all
Must marry her to his wife.’
‘What, marry this foul queen?’ quoth Kay,
‘I’ the devil’s name anone!
Get me a wife wherever I may,
In sooth she shall be none.’
Then some took up their hawks in haste.
And some took up their hounds;
And said they would not marry her
For cities, nor for towns.
Then bespake him King Arthur,
And sware there by this day;
‘For a little foul sight and misliking,
Ye shall not say her nay.’
‘Peace, lordings, peace!’ Sir Gawaine said;
‘Nor make debate and strife;
This loathly lady I will take,
And marry her to my wife.’
‘Now thanks, now thanks, good Sir Gawaine,
And a blessing be thy meed!
For as I am thine own lady,
Thou never shalt rue this deed.’
Then up they took that loathly dame,
The Book of English Folk Tales Page 40
