Oxfordshire Folktales (20 page)

Then he said, ‘Wife, be satisfied now that you are Pope. There is nothing else that you can become.’

‘I have to think about that,’ said the woman.

Then they both went to bed, but she was not satisfied. Her desires would not let her sleep. She kept thinking about what she wanted to become next.

The man slept well and soundly for he had run about a lot during the day, but the woman could not sleep at all; she tossed and turned from one side to the other all night long, always thinking about what she could become next – but she failed to think of anything.

Then, when the sun was about to rise and she saw the early light of dawn, she sat up in bed and watched through the window as the sun came up.

‘Aha!’ she thought. ‘Could not I cause the sun and the moon to rise?’

‘Husband,’ she said, poking him in the ribs with her elbow, ‘wake up and go back to the fish. I want to become God!’

The man, who was still mostly asleep, was so startled that he fell out of bed. He thought that he had misunderstood her, so, rubbing his eyes, he said, ‘Wife, what did you say?’

‘Husband,’ she said, ‘I cannot stand it when I see the sun and the moon rising and I cannot cause them to do so. I will not have a single hour of peace until I myself can cause them to rise.’

She looked at him so gruesomely that he shuddered.

‘Go there immediately. I want to become God!’

‘Oh, wife,’ said the man, falling on his knees before her, ‘the fish cannot do that! He can make you emperor and Pope, but I beg you, be satisfied and remain Pope!’

Anger fell over her. Her hair flew wildly about her head. Tearing at her bodice she kicked him with her foot and shouted, ‘I cannot stand it! I cannot stand it any longer! Go there immediately; otherwise I’ll condemn your soul to eternal punishment!’

He put on his trousers and ran off like a madman.

Outside such a storm was raging that he could hardly stand on his feet. Houses and trees were blowing over. The hills of the Cotswolds were shaking and honey-coloured rocks were rolling from the banks into the river. The sky was as black as pitch; there was thunder and lightning. On the edge of the water he cried:

Little Man, Little Man, O hear me!

Big fish, little fish, swimming so free.

My wife, my strife, O hard-nosed Jill,

Wants not, wants not, what I will.

Up popped the Fish Prince. ‘What does she want then?’

‘Oh,’ he lamented, ‘mercy on our souls! She wants to become God.’

The fish swished his tail. ‘Go home, go home and you’ll see what her wish has brought her. I can give you no more. Goodbye!’

The fisherman returned home, expecting to see the Pope’s palace or something even more extravagant. Instead, he was stunned to see the shack they used to live in. He went inside and saw his wife sitting there in rags, for once speechless.

‘Ah, home at last!’ the fisherman smiled. He joined his wife, sitting down with a sigh.

And they are sitting there even today.

Lord Lovell fled the battle. The King had defeated the rebel army at Stoke and he was on the losing side. He narrowly escaped the rout with his life. The armies were cap-a-pie behind him; a seething melee of pikes, swords and bodies. It was turning into a massacre.

The screams of the dying were drowned out by the blood pounding in his ears, the thud of hooves beneath him, as Lovell galloped from the battlefield. Ahead lay the River Trent. At his back were Royalist soldiers. His fate at their hands did not bear thinking about – the Tower; a swift blow from the executioner’s axe, if he was lucky. Lovell plunged his horse into the river and it flailed wildly. Underneath his heavy armour it struggled to keep its head above the strong current. It panicked, eyes rolling, legs thrashing. An arrow from the riverbank pierced its neck and, gurgling blood, it sank into the water, cold as death. His lifeless steed started to drag Lovell down as well, his boot caught in the stirrup. Frantically he struggled free, taking his knife to the leather strap. With a grunt he broke free but now the weight of the armour dragged him down. His chest felt like it would burst as he pulled himself free from his metal skin. Then, mercifully, he was able to swim to the surface. He burst into the light, blinking, breathless – alive, but for how long? He would have been a sitting duck then if not for the river’s current, which had pulled him some distance downstream. He appeared among the rushes on the far bank, hidden from his enemy – who saw Lovell’s horse floating by and grunted with satisfaction before turning back.

Gasping and spluttering, Lovell pulled himself onto the shore, looking more like a drowned rat than a Lord. Yet he had escaped with his life. He shivered uncontrollably. Being alive was painful! He had to keep moving. Wearily, he dragged himself up and headed on through the woods, providing his flight with merciful cover – the green shadows swallowed him.

After many days of hiding and running, he made it back to Minster Lovell, the family home, ensconced in sylvan splendour next to the Windrush. Here he commanded his servants – who were relieved to see him but terrified of the repercussions – to hide him in a secret room he had installed in the cellar with all that he needed to be comfortable: candles, flint and tinder, a chamber pot, a blanket, a good book, plus pen, ink and paper, to write his account. His faithful servant – a retainer of the family of many years loyal service – was given the key, locking his lord in but agreeing to bring him food and empty his chamber pot, until Lovell could make good his escape.

The Lord relaxed. It seemed he was safe. He had built the secret vault to be well hidden and nigh on impregnable. The walls were solid stone, the door heavy-beamed and bolted with iron. There was one tiny air vent, but it was well-camouflaged and let in only the faintest suggestion of light.

He passed the time by reading and writing – one day, his account might save his life. He had time to reflect on the events that had led to this ‘belly of the whale’. Once, the Lovells had been in the King’s favour and granted the fine house with its extensive parkland, which was formerly part of the Royal Forest of Wychwood. During the War of the Roses, the Lovells loyally supported the King and the Lancastrians, but when he succeeded his favour, he turned to York. This seemed to pay off when Richard, Duke of Gloucester, was made king after the murder of his nephews in the Tower of London. Lovell was made viscount and bestowed with further honours: Chief Butler of England. He didn’t care about the cruel rhymes the riff-raff shared:

The catte, the ratte and Lovell the dogge

Rylyth all England under the Hogge.

But, it all backfired with the death of the King at the Battle of Bosworth and the crowning of Henry Tudor. Then there was the terrified fleeing to France; the return, two years later, to support a rebellion headed by Lambert Simnel, the Young Pretender; the devastating defeat at Stoke and now here he was – hiding in the cellar of his own house.

Where was that servant? His food had run out hours ago and he was starving! And the place was reeking with his full chamber pot and body odour. He hadn’t had a proper wash in days. How low he had fallen, the Chief Butler of England! He called out for his servant, but received no reply.

He called out again and again until his voice was raw.

Desperate hours followed. He paced the room back and forth until he lost the energy. He drank the last of his water and grew weaker still. He licked the walls for moisture but that just made him retch. He slept fitfully and had feverish dreams in which his life played out before him in a grotesque pantomime. Figures from the past came back to mock him. Where had he gone wrong? His last candle guttered out and he was left in darkness, trapped, in his own house: buried alive. With his remaining strength he sat back in his chair.

Years later, in 1708, workmen discovered a secret vault while laying the foundations of a new chimney. Nervously, they knocked out the bricks and thrust a torch into the dark space. They were greeted with a grisly visage. A skeleton sat at a table, on which was placed a book, pen and papers. A decaying cap lay on the floor bearing the Lovell insignia of the hound.

There was a sudden inrush of air and the whole thing turned to dust before their eyes.

What had happened to the faithful servant – had he betrayed his master, or had something else prevented him from returning?

The dead keep their secrets.

We hope.

Anne Green was a maid, but no maiden. This was plain to all with eyes to see that morning – green as her maiden name she was; but a maiden no more she was, as her body undeniably told her. She clutched her stomach and groaned, ‘I am with child.’