North Yorkshire Folk Tales (5 page)

John was Duke of Lancaster, and among his many other possessions, owned the Forest of Knaresborough. One windy autumn day when he was hunting there with his men, he came across Lame Haverah hopping along on his crutches. Almost automatically, the duke stopped to give alms to the poor man, but to his surprise Haverah seized his outstretched hand and, kneeling on the ground, begged him for a boon. The huntsmen moved to drive off this upstart, but Duke John stopped them.

‘What is it you want? If it is in my power I will grant it,’ he said, thinking that it would be some small thing – food, perhaps – suitable to what he imagined were the needs of a poor cripple. He was taken aback when the young man said, ‘Grant me some land, my lord!’

The duke’s men shook their heads and murmured at this effrontery, but the sheer nerve of the man amused the great lord.

‘What is your name?’

‘Haverah, if it please you, my lord.’

‘Very well, Haverah,’ said Lord John. ‘Listen to what I vow! I, John of Gaunt, Do give and grant, To thee Haverah, As much of my ground, As thou canst hop around, In a long summer’s day! Next St Bartholomew’s Day I will return and we shall see how well you can hop!’ Lord John said, whilst thinking to himself that ‘He’ll at least get enough for a little house and vegetable plot, and we’ll all have a good laugh at his antics as well!’

Haverah thanked him effusively with tears in his eyes and hopped away to plan how to make the most of his good fortune.

There were no gyms or personal trainers in those days (at least not for anyone lower than the rank of knight), but in the months that followed Haverah tried as hard as he could to prepare himself for the ordeal. His wooden crutches were just a stick of wood and a rough crosspiece to fit under his shoulder. The crutches gave him blisters on his hands and in his armpits. Haverah scoured the forest for two branches that forked comfortably at the end and wadded them well with sheep’s wool gathered from the hedges and made into pads by his mother. He strengthened his arms by pulling himself up on doorframes or beams. By the following June, he was as ready as he would ever be.

His whole village turned out just before dawn on St Bartholomew’s Day (24 June). The news had spread to other villages and, even though it was so early, there was a sizeable crowd to witness the extraordinary event. Duke John, as he had promised, was there with some of his friends. He also brought plenty of food and servants to serve it.

The day dawned bright and hot and as soon as the sun began to peep over the hills, Haverah began his hop, swinging along on the new crutches.

Those watching were amazed at how swiftly he moved, covering the ground almost as fast as an able-bodied man could run. The villagers, always on the side of the underdog, cheered him on; Duke John’s friends began to lay bets on how long he would last.

‘Surely he can’t keep that up,’ muttered Duke John, looking worried.

By midday, Haverah was panting and the sweat was dripping into his eyes, but he did not stop to wipe it away. He was still moving fast and had already covered a surprisingly large distance.

Duke John’s friends were slapping the great lord’s back and laughing at him instead of Haverah now. He emptied his goblet of wine gloomily. ‘He’s sped his bolt,’ he said. ‘He can’t last much longer.’

The duke was wrong. Though the pain of his shoulders and hands was almost unbearable, though his legs burned like fire and his breath came in great gasps, Haverah kept going all afternoon and into the early evening. The sun was sinking low as, surrounded by cheering villagers – some of whom had run all the way with him – Haverah staggered towards the place where he had started. As the sun slipped beneath the horizon, he collapsed on the ground. He was too exhausted to laugh, but he smiled.

‘So how much land are you really going to give him?’ drawled one of Duke John’s friends. ‘Surely not the whole amount? It’s big enough to make a knight a fine deer park!’

‘I’m a knight and I made him a promise! We have our standards, damn it!’ growled the duke. ‘Well, let him have the land. He’s earned it – but let us never speak of this matter again!’ So they never did.

Thus Haverah acquired the great parcel of land now called Haverah Park, and it brought him and his mother enough money to live as wealthy people for the rest of their lives.

These days Robin Hood is usually connected with Sherwood Forest, but in older stories he is more often to be found in Barnsdale, West Yorkshire. However, as the number of wells, stones and caves (not to mention Robin Hood’s Bay near Whitby) named after him shows, there were also occasions when he ventured into the North and East Ridings.

Imagine the greenwood: a forest of huge craggy oak trees. Imagine them covered in the pale-green leaves of spring. Imagine deer stealthily appearing and disappearing among their shadows or standing still with one foot delicately raised. See there, a large buck silently crosses a grassy track; its hide flashing a rich brown in a little pool of sunlight. Listen, there is a whirring sound, the buck leaps and falls dead with an arrow in its heart. There are hunters in the greenwood.

Far down the track, two men come loping towards its body.

‘That was a mighty shot, John!’ says Robin Hood. ‘I don’t remember ever seeing a better!’ Little John smiles.

‘It was a fair shot,’ he agrees, ‘but I know a man who could easily better it. A friar, no less – a curtal friar.’ Robin is immediately interested.

‘A friar who can shoot! That would be a sight to see. I thought that they just went around begging, seducing women and filling their big bellies.’

‘I don’t know about the wives, but he certainly has the belly. He’s a brawler too and as good with the quarterstaff as he is with the bow.’

‘Sounds just like the sort of man we could use,’ says Robin. ‘Friars ramble about all over the country. Where can he be found?’

‘At the moment he’s staying with the monks at Fountains Abbey. Whether he’d be interested in joining us, I don’t know. Let’s get this deer back to camp and then go and see!’

Friar Tuck is strolling by the River Skell digesting a venison pasty. He is a fine figure of a man; with a large paunch, certainly, but well-muscled and sturdy with mischievous eyes. He is twirling a long staff and humming a popular tune. Suddenly, from the grass in front of him, a man in Lincoln green rises up.

‘Good morrow, Friar!’ says the man. ‘I wonder whether you could help me.’

‘Certainly, my son,’ says the friar jovially. ‘Trouble with your love life?’

Robin smiles. ‘No, something much easier to solve. I need to get to the other side of the river without wetting my feet. Will you oblige me by carrying me over?’

The friar raises his eyebrows and considers the man in front of him. ‘Why, certainly,’ he says. ‘Jump aboard!’ He kilts up his robe. Robin jumps onto his back and hangs on round his neck. Carefully leaning on his staff the friar descends waist-deep into the river and wades across, making light of his heavy burden. At the other side, he sets Robin down.

‘Just before you go –’ he says as Robin seems about to turn away. ‘I’m now on the wrong side of the river. As you can see, the monastery is on the other side. One good turn deserves another, my son. It’s only fair that you carry me back!’

Robin considers the bulky friar with alarm. ‘But my shoes …’

‘Worldly vanity, my son. You can always take them off.’

Robin does not want to seem a weakling, so he bends forward. ‘Certainly I will carry you, good father. Hop up!’

Hopping is not what the friar is built to do, but he clambers onto Robin’s back. Robin staggers, hardly able to stand, but he slithers down into the unpleasantly cold water. The friar seems determined to annoy him. He spurs him on with kicks and cries of ‘Gee up Bayard!’

If it were not for Robin’s own staff, he probably would not be able to get across, but he makes it and heaves himself up onto the bank. He shakes the friar off.

‘Well done old nag!’ laughs the friar, slapping him heavily on the back. ‘You’d make a fine plough stot!’ He turns to go.

‘Just a moment, Father!’ Robin thumps his quarterstaff menacingly.

‘Yes, my son? Do you want me to pray for you?’ Robin grinds his teeth.

‘No, thank you. But as you see it is I who am now on the wrong side of the river. Be so good as to carry me back!’ He stares at the friar in a less than friendly manner.

‘Wrong side? Oh yes, so you are. Well, my son, we must remedy that immediately. Up you get!’

Once again, Robin gets on the friar’s back and he wades into the river. This time it is Robin who shouts ‘Gee up!’ He is enjoying himself!

In the middle of the river his mount stops. ‘Get on, Dobbin!’

With a wild neigh, the friar bucks him off into the river. Robin goes under and comes up angry and spitting. He is even more angry when he sees his hat gaily floating away down the river and he hears the friar’s loud laughter.

‘Right!’ he growls, making a hasty grab for his quarterstaff before it follows his hat. He struggles up the bank, water pouring off him.

‘I’m waiting for you, my son!’ chortles the friar, twirling his staff so fast that it is just a blur.

They come together with a great crash; their quarterstaffs flash and whirl through the air like lightning, splinters and chips of wood fly from them. The woods of Fountains Abbey resound with the noise and disturbed birds flap away. Occasionally there is a thump and a grunt as a blow strikes home.

Little John has been right about the friar’s skill. Both men are well matched: Robin is quicker on his feet, but the friar has the advantage of extra weight in his blows and soon weight begins to tell. They draw back now to regain their breath, leaning panting on their staffs. Robin knows that it is only a matter of time before the friar beats him. He is only just able to deflect strikes that would crack his skull if they landed.

‘Friar!’ he calls. ‘Grant me a request! Let me just blow three blasts on my horn!’

The friar laughs. ‘Blow till your eyes pop out! Much good may it do you!’

Robin blows three blasts and before the valley has ceased echoing, fifty men in Lincoln green come running from their hiding places in trees and bushes. They all have bows with arrows on the string.

‘O ho! That’s how it is, is it?’ exclaims the friar. ‘In that case grant me a request! Let me whistle three times!’

‘Whistle till your cheeks burst!’

The friar puts his fingers to his lips and whistles. From the abbey grounds on the third whistle come fifty great dogs, baying as they run. They charge down upon the outlaws who immediately begin to shoot at them.

Now here is a strange sight! The dogs are so clever that they dodge the arrows and bring them back to the friar in their mouths. The outlaws are amazed. Soon they will have no more arrows.

‘Stop! Enough!’ shouts Robin, laughing in spite of himself. ‘My men need their arrows! What a man you are, Friar! My respect to you!’

The friar mops his sweating face with his robe. ‘It was a good fight,’ he says. ‘My guess is that you are Robin Hood! I was hoping to stumble across you.’ Robin bows. ‘I am indeed and I would like to offer you a place in my band if you would like it. I’ve never seen such a fighter – and I’m sure the dogs would come in handy.’