North Yorkshire Folk Tales (22 page)

She puts her hand into the cavity of the fish’s stomach. That’s a bit odd, she thinks. What is this hard lump? She looks at what she has drawn out. At first she cannot see what it is, but when she has swished it in a bowl of clean water she gasps. It is a heavy silver ring; the very one the knight threw into the sea. Slowly a rare smile dawns on her pale face. Thinking hard, she places the ring on her own finger.

The banquet, when it finally happens, sounds, to those in the kitchen, to be a great success. The servants can hear the ooos and aahs of delight as each course is brought in. ‘It’s time to take in the fish!’ says the cook. ‘It looks good but I hope you haven’t forgotten the salt, girl!’ Alice smiles nervously and clasps her hands together as the serving man picks up the beautifully decorated dish and carries it into the hall balanced on the tips of his fingers. For a few minutes, there is silence as it is carved and distributed to the guests, and then there is a storm of clapping and delighted comments. The little foot-page runs in.

‘Oh! Alice!’ he shouts excitedly. ‘They love it! They’re demanding to see the person who cooked it!’

‘Humph!’ says the cook. ‘Go on then, girl!’

Alice looks at her dirty hands and grubby dress. ‘Stall them for a moment while I tidy myself up!’ she gasps. Then she runs up to her room, changes into the new dress and quickly brushes her hair. In five minutes she is down again, shyly pushing open the door of the great hall.

As she enters all the ladies say, ‘Oh! How sweet!’ and all the gentlemen stroke their beards and try to look particularly manly – all except two. The Knight of York utters a terrible oath and leaps to his feet. His son also leaps to his feet but with hope in his eyes. ‘You!’ they both say. Then the knight vaults over the table and, drawing his sword, rushes towards Alice with a terrible look of fury on his face.

Alice does not move. Instead she holds up her hand so that he can see the silver ring shining on her hand. He stops as if he has been stabbed, and his mouth opens and shuts stupidly, rather as though he were a large fish himself. He cannot think of a single thing to say, but Gregor can. He too vaults over the table and folds his wife in his arms. ‘My Alice!’ he exclaims. ‘My own Gregor!’ she replies. ‘Aaah!’ say all the ladies, wiping their eyes. The men all shuffle their feet and start talking loudly about hunting.

And so it is that the son of the Knight of York does indeed stay married to a pauper called Alice Sidebottom, and in the end the knight has to accept it. (He eventually becomes quite fond of her.)

After all, he was the one silly enough to want to know the future in the first place, and who among us is clever enough to escape the fate foretold by the
Book of Fate
?

(This tale is one of the oldest of the Robin Hood stories, and as it involves St Mary’s Abbey in York I have included it here.)

‘Will you not sit down to your meat, Robin?’ said Will Scarlett.

‘No, by Christ! Not until we have welcomed some unexpected guest. You, Much and Little John must go and wait by Watling Street. Bring me a traveller or I swear we’ll all go hungry today!’

Grumbling, the three men took their bows, slung their sheaves of arrows on their backs and stomped off through the forest to the high road.

‘Fancies himself King Arthur!’ muttered Much the Miller’s Son. ‘I’m starving!’

Little John thumped him on the shoulder. ‘We’re outlaws, man! We have to earn our living.’ They peered gloomily along the empty road.

It could not have been more than a quarter of an hour – though to hungry men it seemed longer – before the sound of approaching hooves could be heard.

‘Hush!’ hissed Will Scarlett. ‘I think dinner’s about to arrive!’ The three men hid swiftly.

‘Sounds like a knight’s horse!’ said Much. ‘A very old one, though.’

Through the trees they glimpsed the traveller. He was indeed a knight, but the most miserable-looking knight you can imagine. His tired old horse shambled along with a drooping head. Its bridle was mended with rope and the stuffing was coming out of its saddle. The man who rode it was scarcely better for his head too hung low and his clothes were dirty and torn. His rusty sword showed through the holes in its sheath; his boots were scuffed and muddy. Altogether he was a picture of misery.

The outlaws looked at each other and shrugged. He was a knight and therefore he must be rich – richer than them at any rate. Little John stepped out into the knight’s path, holding his bow before him with an arrow half drawn.

‘Hold! Sir Knight!’ he said.

‘What?’ The knight came out of his gloomy reverie with a jump. His horse stopped and began grazing.

‘Welcome, Sir Knight. Our master Robin Hood would be very happy if you would do him the honour of dining with him.’

The knight stared blankly at the three outlaws. ‘Would you mind repeating that?’

Little John repeated the invitation very slowly.

‘Oh – Robin Hood – I see. Do I have any choice in the matter?’

The three escorted the knight through the woods. Soon the rich smell of cooking meat reached their nostrils. The knight began to cheer up a little. As they got closer to the camp he saw broad tables set out under huge oak trees. They were covered with snowy linen and spread with all sorts of good things. Venison there was, of course, pork too and a baron of beef, all well garnished with dishes of vegetables. There was bread and butter, cheese and honey, all of the very best. The knight’s face lit up.

‘Your master Robin must be a rich man,’ he said. ‘This is a spread fit for a king!’

As he spoke, an archer dressed in a simple Lincoln green tunic approached and bowed to him. He had lively bright blue eyes and a brown, somewhat weather-beaten, face.

‘Please alight from your horse, honoured guest,’ he said. ‘I am Robin Hood and it is my pleasure to welcome you to my table.’

Soon the knight was sitting at his ease with a laden trencher and a goblet of good wine in his fist. He had not eaten for a long time so for a while there was little talk. Robin observed his guest as he ate. The man seemed starving. That he really was a knight was certain, but that he was down on his luck was sure too.

When the knight’s hunger was a little abated, Robin asked him his name and where he came from. The knight looked up from a dish of warden pears, took another mouthful of wine and said, ‘My name is Richard at the Lee and I hold lands in Wyresdale. Thank you for a most unlooked for and delicious dinner, Master Robin! If ever I can repay you, I will.’

‘Ah, now. Talking of repayment. It is our custom to feast our guests well, but we also expect them to pay for what you must admit is a very generous entertainment.’

Sir Richard’s face, which until that moment had looked almost cheerful, fell.

‘Alas!’ he said. ‘I don’t have any money worth talking of. Just ten shillings in my saddlebag. Go and see if you don’t believe me.’

Robin nodded to Much who went to get the knight’s moneybag. When he came back he tipped out its contents onto the table and everyone could see that the knight had spoken the truth.

‘How do you come to be in this sad state?’ asked Robin. The knight looked around at all the outlaws who were sitting expectantly, leaning with their elbows on the tables: they loved a good story.

‘Good yeomen, my tale is a sad one. I have but one son; a fine young man, strong, well educated and bred to be a knight. He wished to improve our family fortunes by making a name for himself at tournaments, so, although I was not very rich I laid out money on the very best horse and armour I could afford. Unfortunately in his very first melée he had the misfortune to kill the son of a great Lancastrian lord.’ The outlaws shook their heads and murmured sympathetically. They knew what it was to fall foul of the great.

‘And so this lord wanted compensation?’ asked Robin.

‘He did indeed, far more than I could pay. What could I do? My son would languish in a Lancastrian gaol until I paid up, so I borrowed the £400 from the Abbot of St Mary’s Abbey in York, thinking that he was a Christian soul who would understand my problem. However, he demanded that, as a pledge, I mortgage my lands to him, to be redeemed in a year’s time. That year is up tomorrow; scrimp and save as I have I have not been able to get so much money together in such a short time. That ten shillings is all I have collected. My son is free, but he will lose his inheritance tomorrow unless I can persuade the abbot to extend the loan. Knowing the abbot as I now do, I have little hope of that. Alas! What is a knight without lands? Nothing better than a common soldier!’

Robin Hood listened carefully to the story. Then he clapped his visitor on the back. ‘What do you think, friends?’ he asked his outlaws. ‘Shall we help this good knight?’

‘Aye!’ they shouted with one voice.

Robin turned to his guest. ‘Sir Richard, cheer up! I shall lend you the money you need.’ Sir Richard gasped; he could not believe his ears! ‘That is more than generous! But how do you know I will ever be able to repay you? Must I now mortgage my lands to you?’

Robin laughed. ‘What would I do with lands when I have all the forest?’ he said. ‘No I need no surety – or rather, let us say that Our Lady will be your surety. I have never known her to fail me. Can you repay me in another year?’

The knight nodded, dumbly.

‘Then all I need is your word as a knight that you will do so.’

‘It is given!’

‘Good. Now, we cannot have you visiting the great Abbot of St Mary’s dressed like that and riding such a sorry nag. I’ll give you a better horse and clothes fit for a gentleman!’

Robin was as good as his word. By the afternoon, the knight, looking much happier than when he had arrived, was trotting down Watling Street on a fine dapple-grey horse. He was dressed in good broadcloth lined with silk and Little John ran beside him as a servant to see that all went well. The only thing the knight kept of his old clothes was his worn and patched cloak.

By that evening, they reached York and put up at the Black Swan. The next morning, hiding his fine new clothes beneath his old cloak, Sir Richard went to keep his noon appointment with the abbot.

The abbey of St Mary had become vast and wealthy over the years. Many of the monks were lazy and haughty and of all these the abbot was the worst: a huge fat man with a fur-lined gown over his monk’s robe who dined like a prince every day.

On this day, he was seated next to the High Justice of England whom he had invited to witness Sir Richard’s expected failure to redeem his mortgage. The two men were old cronies and, having drunk deeply, were laughing and joking at Sir Richard’s expense.

‘Looked like a beaten dog!’ chortled the abbot. ‘I knew immediately he’d never be able to pay so I didn’t hesitate!’

‘You’re such a bad man!’ giggled the high justice. ‘They’re very fine lands, I hear. A nice plum to fall into your hands! I hope you won’t forget the service I’m doing you!’

The prior, who was dining with them, ventured to hope that Sir Richard might yet be able to pay. ‘After all we know he’s a good man.’ The other two laughed even louder at that and the abbot was forced to wipe his eyes on a corner of the tablecloth.

Meanwhile Sir Richard was being dealt with less than politely by the abbot’s servants, who knew all about his problems. Seeing his patched cloak, they at first pretended to think he was a beggar and kept him waiting for a long time before they would let him in. It was only when Little John threatened to knock their heads off that they finally opened the door.

‘Sir Richard Lackland to see your lordship!’ announced a smiling wag. Sir Richard slowly walked up the long refectory. The abbot leaned back in his carved chair and beckoned him forward with an insulting wave of his hand. ‘Ah! Sir Richard,’ he said, ‘you needn’t have bothered wearing your Sunday best! Have you come to pay me back my money?’

Sir Richard knelt before him with lowered head. The abbot and the high justice exchanged triumphant glances. ‘My lord, I have not yet been able to amass such a large sum. I have come to beg for your well-known mercy and kindness. Please allow me another year –’ He got no further.