London Folk Tales (12 page)

As for the king, when the news came to him, he knew his own words had killed his best friend. He shut himself away, and fasted for forty days. Later he was absolved by the Pope. But many never forgave him, including his own son, who had felt more love from Thomas in one day, he said, than his father had given him all his life.

Thomas à Becket was hailed as a holy martyr, and the Pope had a requiem mass said for him. Within three years he was canonised, and became a patron saint of London on a par with St Paul. On London Bridge, where the beggars used to wait for him, a chapel was built in his memory, and all who came to London went there first to give thanks for a safe journey.

The old Roman road from London Bridge to Canterbury soon became known as the ‘Pilgrim's Way'. And St Thomas à Becket's tomb was covered with gold, silver, and jewels, and became famous for its many miracles. The blood from his head that spilt upon the floor was wiped up by the monks and laymen. One of these men took a bloodied cloth home to his sick wife, and she was instantly well again. Then the cloths were used for everyone, and the blood was watered down to make healing water, and hundreds reported cures from it. Adam the Forester was shot in the throat by a poacher, but drank the holy water of St Thomas and was healed. Hugh the cellarer was receiving the Last Rites, but the water restored him to life.

Many did not even need the water. Jordan of Plumstead, who had served Thomas in London, prayed to him to help his daughter who had wasted right away. St Thomas took pity on her, and she sat up in her bier whole and well. While William the carpenter, who cut his leg with an axe, dreamt of St Thomas and, when his bandages were taken off, found there was no wound there at all. To this day his healing powers are remembered in the naming of south London's St Thomas Hospital, close to the place where he once gave alms to all, after his sermons at Southwark Cathedral.

Nearby in Lambeth Palace, the London residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury, built soon after Thomas died, they put St Thomas' statue in the Water Tower. It was facing the river, so the ferrymen could salute him, which they did whenever they passed. Even today, though the statue is long gone, the boatmen doff their caps there.

Rags make paper

Paper makes money

Money makes rulers

Rulers make wars

Wars make want

Want makes beggars

Beggars make rags …

There was a time, and it wasn't my time, and it wasn't your time, but it was in hard and hungry times when London town had beggars whichever way you turned. Even if you wandered out to pleasant villages round about, such as Bethen Hall Green, to the east, with its ponds and mansion houses and trees, and sense of leisurely ease, there were still more seeking alms than there were almshouses to dispense them. Although the strong and handsome Edward ‘Longshanks' was on the throne, there had been many troubled years before when England had been split by civil war – barons against their liege lord, cousin against cousin, even godfathers in mortal combat with their own godsons. And afterwards, though peace had come, the country was still carrying its scars. So the lamed and maimed, the homeless, widowed, orphaned, old, and young, were beggars all, though they held nothing in common but their want.

Yet amongst the crowd some did stand out. And one such man lived quietly in Bethen Hall Green. He was old, blind, ragged and thin, he was certainly poor, and yet he had a gentleness about him that made people careful about how they spoke when he was about. Especially because he had a very beautiful daughter, with a clear sweet singing voice and a smile that melted everyone's heart. Her name was Bessie.

These two were always together, although it was clear sometimes that the old man was unhappy that his daughter should always be in such rough company. But whenever he suggested to her that she should try and find a better situation for herself, she would just laugh, and shake her head. For she could never leave him to fend for himself.

One day the old blind beggar heard the sound of something whining pitifully, and sent Bessie hurrying off to see what the trouble was. She soon found a poor bitch which had had a litter of puppies in the ditch, but being too weak and thin, she was unable to feed them. One of the pups was whimpering, and trying to clamber out. The girl picked it up and took it to her father, and he found a scrap of whey cheese he had been given, and fed the little creature crumb by crumb. From that day on, the puppy loved the old man so much that he followed him everywhere, and looked after him in every way he could. And because he was quick and clever, Bessie's father taught him all sorts of tricks, and that delighted passers-by, who would stop, and pay a coin or two to watch the fun. He was also presented with a bell, so that people would know when he was coming, and pay attention when he was crossing the road. In this way, the blind beggarman became well known, and people would watch out for him.

Seeing this, Bessie began to feel that the time had come when she might happily leave him more often on his own, so when he asked her again to try to find some other kind of occupation for herself, she agreed. But hoping to find honest work, she turned her back on London town and walked instead through marshy ground towards the North.

She had walked for a day or two, and was getting very tired, when, in the village of Romford, she came to a coaching inn named after the king. There she stopped to rest, and begged for a piece of bread to eat.

‘I have no coins to pay, but I'll work in exchange – a good full day,' she said. The innkeeper's wife took her at her word, but once she had seen how hard the girl worked, she said a half day was enough, and gave Bessie a good meal too.

At that Bessie felt bold enough to ask if she might stay on as a tavern wench, and the landlady agreed, for she knew so pretty a girl would help bring people in. Especially when she heard Bessie could sing. But she was a good woman at heart, and warned the girl that she might find some of the customers a little rough. At which young Bessie threw back her head and laughed.

‘My father is a London beggarman,' she said. ‘Although an honester one you will never find. So I have had practise aplenty in dealing with men of all kinds.'

So, Bessie stayed, and in no time the innkeeper's wife was treating her like a daughter. And the young men were coming like bees to blossom. And when they heard sweet Bessie sing they lost their hearts altogether. The good wife, taking the girl's affairs to heart, was careful to stress that she was not to be trifled with; ‘marriage or nothing,' she said. And seeing that amongst the suitors was a knight, a rich man's son, and a merchant who was also well-to-do, she also took Bessie aside. ‘Watch what you say my girl,' she said, ‘you could end up some rich man's bride.'

Imagine how dismayed she was when the girl received all offers with the same words, ‘First ask my father for consent. He's known at Bethen Hall Green. He is the blind beggar with the dog and bell, who daily sits begging for charity.'

‘That's it,' sighed the innkeeper's wife. ‘You won't see them for dust.' And indeed the merchant and the rich man's son, and many others too, were soon gone.

But the knight remained. ‘It is yourself, and not your purse I love,' he said. ‘I will gladly ask your father, if you will give me hope.'

‘More than that,' she said joyfully, ‘for if you wish, I will come now with you.' And so Bessie retraced her steps, but this time sat upon a horse, with her true love beside.

Gossip, however, goes faster than horse's hooves, and the knight's family were outraged to hear that he meant to marry a penniless beggar's daughter. When they arrived at Bethen Hall Green, Bessie's father was surrounded by the knight's brothers, armed and angry, and beggars from all over town who had gathered to take Bessie's part if need be.

They all stepped back to make a circle round the three, and Bessie helped her father to his feet. Knight faced beggar, and each held out their hand to the other.

‘But if it is money that you rate,' the blind man cried, ‘let us turn and turnabout, drop down an angel for the bride. My gold, I'm sure, will more than equal yours.'

For every coin the knight and his kinsmen threw down, the beggar tossed two more upon the ground. And on and on it went until the knight's gold was all spent, and the beggar's daughter's bridal gift was £30,000.

‘And now I'm free,' her father said, ‘by “Longshanks” leave to say. My daughter is far better born than many noble men. I lost my sight in battle, and my father in the same. Evesham was the battle, de Montfort was his name.'

So the truth came out, and all was reconciled on every side. Bessie fairly won her man, and he his honest bride.

And many a toast to both was drunk at the inn where they both met:

Then take her and make her your jewel so bright,

For many a lord this wedding would spite,

The most beautiful damsel that ever was seen,

The blind beggar's daughter of Bethen Hall Green.

If you fancy raising a glass too, on behalf of love, or luck, or ballads about them, you could always try the Blind Beggar's pub on Whitechapel Road. Though I don't think they accept angels any more.

 

 

 

 

There’s many a slip betwixt cup and lip.

Maybe that led to the tale of poor Dick.

For some say the story began with Sir William of Pauntley’s youngest son

Whose name was Richard Whittington.

However it started, however he came from Gloucestershire to London town, on the back of a horse or the flat of his foot, along the way, he lost half his name. Take the ‘rich’ from Richard, and you’re left with only ‘hard’ and that indeed is how his new life went. For London town was a hard place for a country boy to establish himself; whether he be an orphan, or just the youngest son, heir to nothing but hope.

As he grew closer to London, the road he was on met up with others, until it seemed that all the roads in the world were leading in the same direction. And more and more traffic joined him too, from every side, until he felt he was being carried along on a river of travellers of all kinds. There were carriages calling for room to pass, men on horseback, donkey carts, people driving cows and sheep, one woman leading a line of geese, children running here and there, beggars begging everywhere.

Dick didn’t know which way to look, until suddenly they emerged through woods onto open heath, and there beneath were the City walls and a great arched gate. High Gate – the north ‘door’ to London town.

People poured through like water flooding in, and as the road sloped down it seemed to him they were going faster and faster. So many buildings of every shape and size! In the end he just wanted to shut his eyes, and open them to find himself at home again. Churches, arches, markets, houses, halls, away in the distance he thought he spied St Paul’s. And the roads flowed into lanes, and alleys, and cuts and streets, some paved, too, though none with gold as he had been told they would be.

More swept along than choosing his own way, he found himself at last at London Bridge. There was a great stone tower at his end of it. And beyond that he could see shops built on the bridge, and houses too. There was even a chapel there, he knew, dedicated to St Thomas à Becket. He promised himself that as soon as he’d found his feet, he’d visit it.

But meanwhile he had to find the house where he was to stay, although how anything could be found in a city this size was beyond him.

Just then a young man not much older than him came strolling by. ‘Are you alright?’ he asked, with a smile. ‘You look a bit lost.’

‘Well yes I am,’ said Dick, surprised and delighted to find someone so friendly at just the right moment. ‘I’m looking for a house near London Stone.’

‘Well that’s the easiest place to find in the whole of London!’ laughed the boy. ‘You must be from far away if you don’t know where it is. Come on, I’ll take you, it’s only a step or two down the river.’

So off they went together at great speed, and in no time at all young Dick had told his new friend all about himself. In return he heard so much about London ways, all rattled off at such a pace, that his head was whirling and he was quite out of breath with trying to keep up with it all.

It was certainly a good deal more than a couple of steps, but at last his friend stopped abruptly at a crossroads, and, catching hold of Dick’s arm, he whirled him round about. ‘Here you are! London Stone!’ he cried, pointing to a huge slab, taller than a man. ‘Can’t miss it.’ And indeed you couldn’t, for it jutted so far into the street that barrows and carts had to trundle right round to pass.

‘Now I must be off!’ the young man said, and away he went with a cheery wave, before Dick had time to blink. ‘Oh thank you!’ he called. ‘I’m most obliged.’