London Folk Tales (17 page)

with this ring of mine I send proof I am

your loving cousin

Sir J. Berry

Then, giving Rebecca the sealed letter to deliver for him, Sir Berry hired a coach and coachmen to take her to his cousin, and sent her off to certain death.

The journey to the North was long, the roads were rough, and times had changed since the promise of peace and stability brought by James. Charles was on the throne now, and there were open arguments between the King and City guilds, and Parliament too. While the king’s men were occupied, keeping an eye on the south, the King’s Highway was left to look after itself. Highwaymen and brigands were quick to take control of roads; cutpurses and thieves closed in on coaching inns. One night Rebecca’s bags were rifled while she slept, though the looters found nothing but the letter from Sir Berry, with the ring tied round it. The seal looked important, so they broke it open, and their leader, who had learnt his letters, read it out loud. But when they heard what it said, and they saw how sweet she looked, they were all so indignant that they made a scribe revise it, and carefully wash a few letters away.

This beautiful girl is going to bring joy to my son and myself. Guard her carefully and as soon as you may have her married to John

with this ring of mine.

your loving cousin

Sir J. Berry

So when at last Rebecca arrived, and delivered the letter and ring to Sir Berry’s cousin and his wife, she was welcomed with open arms, and soon made to feel part of the family.

Meanwhile, young John Berry had joined King Charles’ cavalry. As the civil strife worsened he was sent here and there, to gather or give support as needed. Finding himself not far from his father’s cousins, he decided to pay them a visit. What was his delight to find Rebecca staying there, and then to his amazement he was shown his father’s letter. He wrote at once to thank him, and to make sure that he would be coming to the wedding, preparations for which were begun at once.

Trouble on the roads made communications bad, and Sir Berry did not receive the letter for some time. When he did, he could not understand how things could have gone so awry, but, hoping to prevent the worst from happening, he called for his coach and four, ordering his coachman to drive him with all haste to the North.

The journey passed this time without trouble on the road, but Sir Berry was too late. The church bells were ringing, the floor was strewn with flowers, and the ring was already on the finger of the bride when he arrived. But even when his cousin – waving the fateful letter – congratulated him on finding a daughter who’d ‘bring as much joy’ as Rebecca, John’s angry father refused to accept that the deed was done. Pushing past well-wishers, he caught hold of the bride and, taking her to his coach, he bundled her inside. ‘I regret to tell you,’ he said, ‘but your mother has died.’ Then he called to the coachman to turn about, and return to London again.

Rebecca sat in silent shock, huddled in her cloak, almost all she’d had time to snatch as she was hurried out. The journey took fewer days, for they only stopped to allow the horses to be changed. And the coachman too, when he got so tired he fell asleep and slipped off his seat. But all the way Sir Berry sat glaring, refusing to explain.

So, at last, they arrived at London town, but instead of turning eastwards they drove on south, heading for London Bridge. The morning was just dawning when the coach finally stopped. Sir Berry got down and, helping her out, he led Rebecca onto the bridge. Past the stalls and houses, where hardly a soul was stirring, to the gap where they could see directly down on to the river. The tide was turning and the Thames was high, a seething mass of black murderous water swirling swiftly by.

‘Why are we here?’ Rebecca asked. ‘What has this to do with my mother?’ When Sir Berry didn’t answer, she looked up into his face, and the rage she saw in his eyes made her suddenly afraid.

‘Your mother died many years ago,’ he said, ‘when you were born. She told me you must marry my son. She was wrong. You will never be his wife. Give me back my ring that you stole from me, through him!’

She bowed her head, and slipped it slowly from her finger, holding it warm for a moment before she handed it over. ‘Take back your ring,’ she said, ‘but you can never break the love I have with John.’

He pulled her closer to the river’s edge. Holding the ring high, he flung it far out into the water, and they both watched it sink. ‘Now I do swear,’ Sir Berry cried, ‘that if I ever see your hand once more, without that wedding ring upon it, I will throw you too into the Thames, as tide is high again.’ And then he was gone, Rebecca left alone.

She did not go home. She felt she could not let her foster parents know – after all they had done and hoped for – how badly things had gone wrong. But her feet led her eastwards, knowing no other way to go, and she followed the river aimlessly along the north side. Passing Billingsgate, and the fish market as it was beginning to stir, she came at last to a tavern overlooking the Isle of Dogs, and there she stopped and rested in the shelter of the door.

Little did she guess it was a smugglers’ meeting place. ‘The Devil’s Tavern’, it was called by all around. An inn where people ‘watched the wall’ and did not look at who came past, and asked no questions about what was rolled in barrels, in or out. But where else could a young girl in a bridal dress, with only a cloak and a handful of coins, hope to hide with no one to pry? There were private rooms aplenty where she could stay if she could pay. And when her money ran out, she asked if there was work. The cook, whose heart was as warm as the fine French brandy that the tavern somehow always had in plentiful supply, gave her a chance as a kitchen maid.

The tavern keeper was well repaid, however, for taking her on, for despite her looks they soon found that she worked as fast as any seasoned fish wife, not only cutting, gutting and cleaning fish, but also cooking it, and other dishes too. She could make good solid meals to satisfy a working man, and yet she also knew, from her time in the North, how to create the most delicate titbit, to please the palate of the highest gentle born. It soon became a fashion, even for the royal court, to stop at the tavern and feast away their cares.

Meanwhile, John had followed his father back to London as quickly as he could, wondering what had happened to his bride. What was his horror to hear from his father that Rebecca had slipped into the river and died. On her way to her sick mother, Sir Berry explained, she had tried to ford the Lea when the tide was too high. John was inconsolable. He couldn’t sleep, and wouldn’t eat. He almost lost all will for life. But as the time passed, civil war broke out in earnest. Now there was nothing for him to do but fight.

Years passed. Then one day Rebecca was asked by the cook to go to Billingsgate market and pick out the best from the fresh catches there, for she was to help prepare a feast for some very important guests. Returning loaded with the finest fish to be found, Rebecca began to cut and gut the biggest one of the batch. In its stomach something was shining. It was a ring. A wedding ring. And as she pulled it out, she saw it was her own. Slowly she slipped it onto her finger and for a moment stood there motionless, savouring the feel of it there, back where it belonged.

Then she got on with her task, preparing the fish dish for the feast. It was a wedding party, she heard now, so she decorated the plate with flowers. That evening, her work done, she heard the guests arrive, and peeped out as they went past to see what they looked like. First to come was a white-haired man, with his back to her, talking to someone. But then he turned, and she saw to her shock that he was old Sir Berry. And the man he was talking to – oh! He looked thin and gaunt, to her loving eyes, and one cheek was scared with a long thin line. But yet he was still her John. ‘He’s the one getting married,’ said the cook, who’d also come for a quick look. ‘He doesn’t look happy though, does he?’ And indeed he seemed as sad and pale as if he was at his own funeral.

Rebecca went and washed her face, and did the best she could with her dress. The wedding guests were seated now, and waiting for the feast. Picking up the great fish dish that she’d prepared so carefully, Rebecca walked into the room with her head held high. Even in her serving clothes, she was beautiful. But that was not what caught the bridegroom’s eye. It was something to do with the way she moved. He gave a start; he felt his whole heart jump. Then she looked straight into his face and he was sure. Her blue, blue eyes held his against all possibilities. It could not be, and yet he knew it was.

Sir Berry saw his son leaping to his feet, and, looking at Rebecca, he recognised her too. He opened his mouth to speak, but she stopped in front of him, and putting down the fish, she held up her left hand. ‘I have something to show you,’ she said, and pointed to the ring. Her wedding ring. His signet ring.

And in that moment at long last, Sir Berry knew that he was beaten. ‘What fate has set down,’ he said, ‘I see now cannot be undone. Here is Rebecca, my son’s true bride. What God has joined together, we cannot then divide.’

And John? He was still staring. Hoping, yet afraid that he could not believe his eyes. ‘I thought you were lost,’ he said to her. ‘They told me you were drowned.’

Rebecca laughed, and took his hand. ‘My love, I am a child of the water. The river would never let me down.’

The monument of Dame Rebecca Berry, widow of Sir John, is at St Dunstan and All Saints church, Stepney. It is in the shape of a shield, with a coat of arms above, which shows three fish, and what appears to be a ring. Below is an inscription:

As fair a mind

As e’er yet lodg’d in womankind.

So she was dress’d whose humble life

Was free from pride, was free from strife.

Still the same humble she appears

The same in youth, the same in years,

The same in low and high estate.

Stephen Bunce was a real gentleman of the road. It was almost a pleasure to have to deliver your purse to him; he robbed with such politeness and lightness of touch. And he was so quick thinking and witty too. He nearly made you laugh at your own sad plight. And he certainly had everyone else laughing when they heard about the tricks he played.

But like anyone, he had his ups and downs of course. Sometimes he was in pocket and riding high, and sometimes he had to walk the length and breadth of Epping Forest on foot. Once he was doing that with a friend. Maybe she was a lady friend and he had started out with other things on his mind. But there in front of them was an old man walking slow and steady along the path, leading a donkey on a longish rope behind him. Too good an opportunity to miss.

Stephen winked at his friend, and they both crept up close, as quiet as could be. Then Stephen carefully slipped the halter off the donkey, and fitted it on to his own head, falling straight into the same easy ambling way of walking as the donkey. Meanwhile, his friend took the animal and slipped away through the trees with it, going to the market by a roundabout route.

Stephen kept going until they were safely away, and then he stumbled slightly, jerking on the rope. The old man looked round, and nearly fell over backwards in surprise when he saw that instead of a donkey he was leading a man.

‘What on earth are you doing there?’ he asked.

‘Oh master,’ sighed Stephen, on an almost braying mournful note. ‘You don’t want to know. It’s too bad to tell.’

By now, of course, the old man was beside himself with curiosity. ‘I insist on an explanation,’ he said.

‘Then we’d better sit down,’ said Stephen. ‘For it is a sorry tale indeed.’ He settled himself with a sigh, leaning back against a tree, and after a moment, the old man followed suit. ‘It’s like this,’ Stephen went on in a confessional whisper. ‘You see, I was a man too, before. But not a very good one. In fact, a very bad one indeed. I committed a sin. So bad I was punished. Just like that! I was turned into a donkey.’

‘A donkey?’

‘Yes. As you saw for yourself.’

By now the old man could hardly believe his ears. But it was true, he had seen the donkey. In fact, he had been making it work all year long. ‘What sin was it?’ he asked, all agog.

‘I don’t like to say,’ said Stephen hanging his head.

‘But you must! I might need to know myself!’

So Stephen leant slowly forward and whispered something into the old man’s ear. What exactly it was, nobody knows, for no one else was there to hear. But the old man’s eyes went as round as a silver shilling. ‘You poor, poor fellow,’ he said. ‘Well take that halter off your head. You have certainly been punished enough. Just make sure you don’t do it again.’

‘I blame the drink. I’d had too much,’ admitted Stephen shamefacedly. ‘But now you’ve given me a second chance, I swear I’ll never touch a drop again.’

The two men parted like good friends, and went their separate ways. The old man returned home with nothing in his pocket; Stephen went to share out the money from the donkey. He didn’t make very much. It wasn’t a particularly good beast. The man who bought it sold it on almost at once.