Hampshire and Isle of Wight Folk Tales

by Michael O'Leary

  Nuns didn’t always become nuns through religious vocation; convents were places of social control. The daughters of nobility could be sent there until they were married off for political convenience, or, if they weren’t to be married, they could take holy orders and stay there. From outside they could be seen, by the controlling men, in an almost erotic way – as in this rather Freudian description of Romsey Abbey, by the obviously overheated and sweaty Archbishop Peckham in 1283:

  In a lily garden the Bridegroom is filled with delight, and finds pleasure in gathering lilies above all other flowers. It is therefore needful to enclose this garden by the defence of shrewd and sharp discipline, as the Paradise of God was enclosed by angelic care and the flaming sword, lest an entrance be opened to the serpent into the same, or to any sower of mischief, by which the pleasure of the Bridegroom should be turned to displeasure or less liking.

  So nunneries could be prisons, protecting women from the sowers of mischief. In Romsey, however, on occasion the nuns seemed to take control. In the fourteenth century, Abbess Alicia de Wyntereshulle was murdered by poison, and the subsequent investigation found the whole convent – abbess, nuns, officials and servants – guilty of scandalous living.

  In the fifteenth century, Abbess Elizabeth Broke confessed to perjury and committing adultery with one John Placy. She resigned, but was promptly re-elected. Later, enquiries found that she was more than friendly with the Reverend Bryce, the chaplain of the infirmary, and that the nuns slipped out at night and frequented the taverns, and that some of them slept in the less desirable houses of the town. It was also suggested that Abbess Elizabeth and Reverend Bryce had a daughter. None of this seemed to be an excuse to throw Elizabeth Broke out of her position, because she continued as abbess until her natural death.

  The story that has entered folklore, however, is of one of the early abbesses, Ethelfleda, and her life was entirely without moral stain – wasn’t it?

  ETHELFLEDA OF RUM’S EG

  Ethelfleda’s stepfather was Edgar the Peaceful. He was so peaceful that he murdered Ethelfleda’s father Ethelwold in Harewood Forest so that he could take his wife. This is a story we will come to shortly. Edgar married the newly made widow Elfrida and decided to dispose of her unwanted daughter by sending her to Romsey Abbey. The abbess was a saintly Irish woman called Morwenna, and she became like a mother to Ethelfleda. Ethelfleda, herself, soon became known for saintliness; it was said that her fingertips could give off light, so she could read the scriptures at night – and she seemed to be quite busy during the night.

  One day, her teacher went out into a plantation of saplings to cut switches. There was nothing this teacher liked more than beating the young women with switches, beating the fear of God into them. Ethelfleda miraculously saw through the stone wall of the abbey (cynics have said that she just followed the mistress) and she saw the sadistic woman cut the switches and hide them in her dress. When the teacher re-entered the building, Ethelfleda cast herself at her feet and cried, ‘Do not, mistress, beat us with the switches: we will sing and chant at your pleasure.’ The mistress thought that the Holy Spirit had told the girl, and thereafter lived in fear of the saintly Ethelfleda, never beating any of the young women again.

  Then the queen came to stay at Romsey, to be looked after by the nuns. The queen noticed that Ethelfleda had a habit of disappearing at night-time, so one night she decided to follow. In the darkness she lost sight of the young woman, but then in the moonlight she saw Ethelfleda standing naked by the crystal-clear waters of the River Test. There was no one else in sight – certainly not, how could there be? No one hastily disappearing into the undergrowth. Ethelfleda noticed the queen and leaped into the cold water, where she began chanting Davidian psalms. The queen fainted, and was later told that Ethelfleda was so saintly that she made a habit of standing in the freezing waters of the Test at night, singing praises to God. Thereafter the queen took Ethelfleda to be the holiest of holy women, which suited Ethelfleda just fine.

  After the death of Morwenna, though not directly after, Ethelfleda became abbess. She continued with her saintly habits. One time, a bailiff placed his rent money in the care of the abbess, and, oh dear me, it all disappeared. She bowed her head and apologised for the fact that her care and compassion for the poor was so great that she just had to spend it on them. She said that if he waited a while, she was sure it would be miraculously restored. Then it was restored – most of it, well, some of it, after a while.

  I believe that Romsey still has its strange goings-on, and wanderings at night, but I wouldn’t want to listen to tittle tattle, for isn’t gossip just something for idle minds?

  DEADMAN’S PLACK

  If we wander north of Romsey, we can follow the Test Valley. It’s a gorgeous wander up through King’s Somborne, Stockbridge and Chilbolton. To follow the River Test itself can be bewildering. Brian Vesey-Fitzgerald writes:

  The Test does all sorts of extraordinary things: it is now broad, quite a mighty river, it is now narrow, divides and divides again, is now two streams, now one, now three – so that I am never certain whether I am following the parent stream or some wayward child.

  If we continue northwards along the Test we come to Wherwell, and Harewood Forest. We have already heard about the murder of Ethelfleda’s father, Ethelwold, in this forest, and should you go walking there you might come across a monument called Deadman’s Plack. On the monument is the following inscription:

  About the year of our Lord DCCCCLXIII (ad 963) upon this spot beyond the time of memory called Deadman’s Plack, tradition reports that Edgar, surnamed the peaceable [sic], King of England, in the ardour of youth love and indignation, slew with his own hand his treacherous and ungrateful favourite Earl Athelwold, owner of this forest of Harewood, in resentment of the Earl’s having basely betrayed and perfidiously married his intended bride and beauteous Elfrida, daughter of Ordgar, Earl of Devonshire, afterwards wife of King Edgar, and by him mother of King Ethelred II, Queen Elfrida, after Edgar’s death, murdered his eldest son, King Edward the Martyr, and founded the Nunnery of Wor-well

  It portrays Edgar the Peaceful as a wronged hero, but all stories can be seen from different points of view. I’ll begin my ‘Once upon a time’ with Ordgar, Earl of Devonshire. Ordgar had a daughter called Elfrida, and she was renowned for her beauty. These feuding, Mafia-like, royal families bartered their daughters like commodities, and the women had to develop strong powers of cunning and manipulation if they themselves were to survive their own manipulation.

  King Edgar the Peaceful was a swaggerer, and to impress the men at court he cut a notch in his belt for every woman he had sex with. Given that he was king, it was a very dangerous thing to say no, even though he displayed all the charm of a Tamworth ginger pig. The king got to hear about Elfrida, and so he sent his friend Ethelwold down to darkest Devon to have a look for himself. Ethelwold was Ealdorman for Hampshire, a high-ranking official, and being Ealdorman for Hampshire was an important post, given that the king was in Winchester. Ethelwold was told that if Elfrida lived up to her reputation, he was to bring her back to the court.

  Ethelwold took the long road down to Devon – and when he met Elfrida he was smitten. Elfrida found herself being courted by the Ealdorman of Hampshire, and, given that he neglected to mention the original purpose of his mission, she thought she’d got a pretty good catch. Ethelwold sent word back to Winchester that Elfrida actually looked like a cross between a hobgoblin and a pigsie, and promptly married her himself.

  Ethelwold and Elfrida settled down in the now defunct manor of Easington-Dacre, on the wet and wild flank of Dartmoor, and Ethelwold was very happy. Elfrida, however, was tired of dark and dreary Devon and longed for the glamour of the court. Edgar had moved on to other conquests, but rumours started to reach Winchester that his friend, the Ealdorman of Hampshire, had acquired a beautiful wife, and Edgar began to wonder why he’d never returned. So he sent a messenger down to Easington-Dacre, and demanded the prese
nce of husband and wife at court. Now Ethelwold’s heart sank into his boots, and his neck began to itch, just along the chopping point. He entreated his beautiful wife to dress as badly as possible, in filthy old sacks, and to smear her face with cow dung and pig bristles.

  Once at the court in Winchester, Ethelwold and Edgar embraced, and drank from the drinking horn. Then the king said, ‘You must introduce me to your wife.’

  The woman who stepped forth into the presence of the king was no pigsie-bristle, but a beauty, attired in the most desirable and provocative way, and whose movements were so sinuous, that different parts of her anatomy seemed to be moving in different directions at the same time. The king’s eyes popped out of his head, and lust, combined with rage at Ethelwold’s deception, formed a most unpleasant cocktail in his mind.

  Edgar ‘dissembled his indignation’, as chronicler William of Malmesbury put it, and took Ethelwold hunting in Harewood Forest. Deep in the forest, he ran his former friend through with a javelin, and left him choking his life away amongst the trees. Maybe the hunting expedition was Elfrida’s idea, and she was certainly far too smart to become one of the king’s brief conquests. She knew how to manipulate a vainglorious man, and she married him and became queen. Her daughter, Ethelfleda, was packed off to the nunnery at Rum’s Eg, and Elfrida bore Edgar a son, Ethelred. Ethelred was not, however, next in line to be king, because Edgar already had a son called Edward.

  When he was thirty-three years old, Edgar died, choking on a fishbone whilst trying to scratch his pox scabs. It was now time for Elfrida to ensure that her son become king. She stabbed Edward to death at Corfe Castle in Dorset, whilst pretending to offer him a drink, thus ensuring that Ethelred became king (though he wasn’t quite ready). She then built an abbey at Wherwell and settled down very comfortably.

  One evening, though, she sat by the crystal-clear waters of the River Test. She’d had a few drinks, and was admiring her reflection in the water – for she had never lost her beauty, not least because the waters of the Test were always known as being good for the complexion. As she gazed at her own reflection, she saw a terrible reflection loom behind hers. It was a terrifying creature with the head of a cockerel and the body of a dragon – and the shock was so great that she tumbled into the river and drowned.

  It is said that the name Wherwell derives from Whore’s Well, and that the whore in question is Elfrida – because if a woman puts it about a bit she is called a whore, whereas if a man does so he can be called Edgar the Peaceful. Anyway, my dictionary of place names says that Wherwell means ‘bubbling streams’, and I’m sure the author has done his research in a proper, academic manner, rather than just listened to a lot of old stories, so I guess he knows. As for that creature that gave Elfrida such a shock, well, that must have been the Wherwell Cockatrice, and this leads us to the next story.

  THE WHERWELL COCKATRICE

  A hen laid her first egg. Oh – she was so proud – she clucked and chuckled, she puffed out her feathers and paraded round the yard, whilst the old, experienced hens watched her with bemusement. The River Test bubbled and rippled nearby, the bell from the abbey tolled across the water meadows, and the singing of the nuns drifted through the summer air.

  There is always something to spoil a sylvan scene, though; something dark that comes crawling into the beautiful picture. That which is dark is often formed by misfortune, and in this case an enormous female toad had herself lost her babies – though don’t toads always lose their eggs? That is, after they’ve survived the attentions of a heaving mass of toads, and broken free of the vice-like embrace of the male toad.

  This toad, however, watched the hen preening herself in front of the cynical old hens. The toad crept forward and started to push the egg. She pushed it across the meadow, through damp, toady places by the river, and down into the vaults of Wherwell Abbey. There she squatted, damply, over the egg until it hatched.

  When a toad hatches a hen’s egg there can be only one result. A cockatrice. Head of a cockerel, body of a dragon. It grew and grew in the darkness, whilst its doting stepmother brought it woodlice and slugs, maggots and worms. Then it ate its stepmother, and continued to grow. Finally, when it was the size of a calf, it crawled up the steps and out into the wide world. The wide Wherwell world. As the sunlight tormented its sensitive skin, screaming nuns ran before it – so it ate one. To escape the hateful sun, it crawled towards the riverbank until it found a damp hole big enough to squat in.

  Every so often, always growing, it would crawl forth and eat cattle, and sheep, and goats – and sometimes people, though they weren’t very nourishing. In the evening, it took to crawling up a very strong tree, swallowing the occasional passing bird, and watching the world with a baleful eye. Knights from all over Hampshire, and even Berkshire and Sussex, came to slay the cockatrice, but it would just give them a withering look, and a reptilian tongue would dart out from its avian beak, and that would be the end of them.

  Finally, a cockatrice slayer arrived from faraway Sussex. He was Egbyrt Green, from Dragon’s Green, first cousin to Jim Pulk the Lyminster dragon slayer, and he had guile as well as guts. He waited till the cockatrice had lowered itself into its damp hole next to the river, and then he crept forward and lowered a polished mirror down the hole. The cockatrice awoke, to find that it was gazing at its own reflection, and, with a terrible squawk, it set about the monster. All night it fought itself, till, battered and exhausted, it lay down, gasping for breath. Then Egbyrt Green climbed down into the hole, and cut off the cockatrice’s head. For his work, he was awarded four acres of land in Harewood Forest, and to this day it is known as Green’s Copse.

  Now, some people have said that the cockatrice was hatched from a duck’s egg, but they really need to look at their biology books. If the cockatrice had emerged from a duck’s egg it would have had the head of a drake – this story was probably invented to explain the peculiar aversion Wherwell people used to have for duck eggs. The cockatrice was immortalised in a peculiar weathervane that was placed upon the church in the days when people accepted the presence of grotesques and monstrous weathervanes sharing their worship, because they couldn’t afford to take a sentimental view of life. In later times, the weathervane was deemed unsuitable for a place of worship, taken down, and put on a barn. It has since found its way to Andover Museum, and, if you don’t believe my story, you can go there and see for yourself!

  THE RAREY BIRD

  I did hear another version of the Wherwell Cockatrice story. I’d been telling stories in Andover shopping centre, and afterwards I went for a pint. A man who had heard me tell stories leaned on the bar next to me. He told me that he came from Wherwell, but had lived in Andover for years now, because country people can’t afford to live in the country any more. He was pulling my leg with the story, but I liked it.

  He said that the cockatrice wasn’t aggressive at all, it was friendly and affectionate. The only problem was that it didn’t stop growing. As it was so unique, indeed rare, people called it the Rarey Bird. It grew and grew and the good nuns of Wherwell Abbey kept feeding it, but finally they knew it was going to eat them all out of house and home; the only thing left to do was to dispose of it. So they took it down to one of the Test Valley quarries, and, with tree trunks as levers, prepared to lever it over the edge of a cliff. As they did so, it turned round and gazed at the nuns in an admonishing way, and, with a tear rolling down its beak, it started to sing: ‘It’s a long way to tip a Rarey.’

  THE DETECTORIST’S STORY

  Andover is a strange town. In 1949, Brian Vesey-Fitzgerald wrote that:

  Andover is not a beautiful place. It is modern. I have no objection to modernity, but in parts of Andover the present-day builder has been given a free hand and the result is just hideous … I have no doubt that the result of his labours will shortly fall down.

  Perhaps the results of these labours have fallen down, but the buildings erected in the 1980s are not much better. Yet some of these estates bor
der right onto the country, and it’s possible to step straight out into beautiful Hampshire countryside, an area stuffed full of archaeology; so much so that Andover has its own specialist museum of the Iron Age.

  Andover also has some very odd things, like a massive army surplus store, where you don’t just buy articles of clothing, you can buy old jeeps. One time, I was wandering through it when I came across a bloke I’d met before, when I’d been telling stories for bikers’ children at a motorcycle rally. I’m always a little suspicious of blokes who wear military gear, but who aren’t in the army; however, we got talking. He lived an interesting life, one that tended to be somewhat on the periphery of the law. It was a country sort of a life, but, if he went trout fishing in the Test, he wasn’t the sort of man to trouble himself with a permit, and if he went shooting pheasants, he probably wouldn’t be asking the landowner’s permission. He was also a metal-detectorist. I rather imagine that he was the sort of detectorist who would drive archaeologists mad – cutting clumsily through archaeological sites for ‘treasure’, and never handing any findings over to the landowner or the state. Anyway, knowing my love of stories, and possibly wanting to show me that ‘I didn’t really know nothing’, he told me a story. It fitted with much that I knew about the Test Valley, and it fits in here.