Oxfordshire Folktales (4 page)

It is lonely being a dragon in England. Most of your kin have been killed off by knights eager to prove themselves and win the hands of maidens. Many a local hero wants to make his name for being a dragon-slayer and many a sleepy village boasts at having defeated a dragon – which remains on in names such as the village of Worminghall. A sensitive dragon could be easily upset by the many images of dragon-slaying depicted in churches and civic windows – a legion of St Michaels slaying numerous cousins; or a squadron of St Patricks casting out Irish relatives. The most famous dragon-slaying saint is, of course, St George himself – England’s patron saint – who was born in what is now modern day central Turkey. It seems unlikely that this Turkish knight ended up on the gentle Downs of Oxfordshire, but that is what we are expected to believe with regards to Dragon Hill, the low conical mound overlooked by the White Horse of Uffington. Where wayward dragons linger surely errant knights can too. Suspend your disbelief and listen to the tale of George and the Dragon…

* * *

Jorgio was a pork butcher from Cappadocia – a town where nothing ever seemed to happen. Every day he would make sausages and he would chop them up; make and chop; make and chop. And he was fed up. He knew he was destined for greater things – but he wasn’t exactly sure what.

Then one day, when he was mincing beef, it came to him; he would become a dragon-slayer! The fact that he didn’t know the first thing about slaying dragons, or even where to find them, was a mere detail. He would work it out as he went along. And so, to the amazement and amusement of his friends and family, he sold up his butcher’s business, bought a suit of armour and a spear, and set off – in search of adventure.

As he stopped at the famous ‘fairy chimneys’ of his homeland to break his fast with … sausage … he wondered if he had done the right thing. Still, he girded his loins for a long ride. ‘Come on, old girl. Giddy up!’

Well, it just so happened at this time – as so often happens in these stories – that a town became afflicted with a ‘dragon-infestation’. The town was in Libya, Northern Africa, and there’s some would say it was because of their ‘desert-heathen’ ways that they were afflicted so – yet it might just have been bad luck. Whatever the cause, the fact was they were forced to sacrifice sheep to placate the serpent; yet its appetite was ravenous and they were soon running out of livestock. This could not carry on! Desperate times call for desperate measures. It was decided lots would be drawn, and a human sacrifice chosen from amongst the citizens of the realm each full moon to keep the dragon happy. Yet, as you can imagine, such a state of affairs did not make the townsfolk happy, as mother was forced to say goodbye to daughter; father to son. It was hard for the dwindling populace, living under the shadow of the dragon.

The Princess of the realm thought this was awfully unfair, because the Royal family were exempt from the lottery. Her fair brow crinkling into a frown, one day the princess said, ‘Papa, why is it only the poor people of the realm get to put their names in the lots? Isn’t that awfully unfair?’

‘My child, how naïve you are! That’s the way of things and be grateful that it’s not your pretty little neck on the line.’

But the Princess, Virtuous by name, virtuous by nature, insisted on having her name placed with the rest – she slipped it in secretly – and to everyone’s horror, as luck would have it, her name was chosen! And there was nothing the King could do about it, without causing a riot.

To her credit, the Princess did not complain – she accepted her fate, and so found herself on the dragon mound, tied to a stake, awaiting her fate. ‘Oh bother!’ she said, pouting her pretty lips.

Just then, Jorgio rode into town. It had taken him a long time to find a town terrorised by a living, breathing dragon – there seemed to be a terrible shortage of them; indeed, they could be considered an endangered species – but that did not matter to Jorgio. For him, it was an appointment with destiny.

He rode up to the foot of the hill, dismounted and tethered his whickering horse at a safe distance. He then took his spear and set to work. He climbed the hill and declaimed: ‘Have no fear, Princess, I am here, Jorgio the Dragon-Slayer!’ He thrust his spear into the hill and stood guard.

She looked him up and down sceptically. ‘Have you killed many dragons before?’

‘No, this is my first…’ the knight replied, glad his helmet hid his burning cheeks.

‘Hmm,’ pouted the Princess petulantly. She did not reckon on her chances much.

As the day turned to night, dusk came – the time when the dragon emerged to feed. And sure enough it did – sliding out of the hole at the bottom of the hill, and slithering around and around until it rose up before … a knight in shining armour standing between it and dinner! It was furious. Rearing up, it attacked; snapping and hissing at the knight, who ducked this way and that, jabbing with his spear. It was all fangs, wings and hot-breath and Jorgio had a hard time fending it off, his spear not having much effect. He couldn’t keep this up! What was he to do?

Suddenly, the Princess piped up: ‘Oh, brave knight, my garter! Take my garter!’

‘My lady, we haven’t the time for that now. Can’t you see I’m busy?’

‘No, you silly man! My garter has magical powers – use it to defeat the dragon!’

‘Why didn’t you say so before?’

‘A girl’s got to have some secrets…’

So, Jorgio quickly slipped the garter from her leg and, using it like a lassoo, caught the dragon around the neck. Instantly, it went docile and lay down at the Princess’ feet like a pet dog.

The dragon defeated, Jorgio untied the Princess and received a lovely peck on the cheek for his efforts.

‘My hero!’

Bowing low, which is hard to do in armour, Jorgio said: ‘At your service, my Lady.’

Then, together, they led the dragon down the hill like a dog on a lead. They walked into the town with it, gathering people on the way, until they arrived at the town square. There, Jorgio addressed the crowd – by now the whole population was there.

‘Good people! You need fear no longer. The dragon has been defeated – by the Sword of the Lord.’

A small boy said, ‘But it’s not dead!’

‘The dragon has been defeated, as you can see before you.’

‘Yes, by the power of my garter!’ muttered the Princess.

Losing patience, Jorgio cut off the head of the dragon.

‘The dragon has been defeated … by the Sword of the Lord!’ He lifted the bloody head before them and they all fell to their knees, and it was said they all converted to the one true faith there and then.

And thus the legend of the dragon-slayer, the good Christian knight, was born. Jorgio’s fame spread across the Middle East as he converted more and more souls.

What became of the Princess, those ancient and forgetful storytellers do not record.

Yet it seems the dragon was to have the last laugh, or roar – for Jorgio was captured in Palestine by the Serpent King, Gevya Garsa, and was unfortunately executed, suffering the triple-death of the martyr: he was forced to walk in red-hot iron shoes; then broken on a wheel; and, finally, immersed in quicklime (for good measure).

Yet, where his broken body was cast, in Lydda, a shrine was raised. Here, his memory was worshipped. And centuries later it was this very shrine that the Crusaders came across on their way to the Holy Land. It had already been a long, difficult and costly war – they needed something to shore up their flagging campaign, so the Crusaders adopted the dragon-slayer – now a saint – carrying his image into battle, wearing his colours of white and red in the Gulf.

And though the Crusade was not entirely successful, the Crusaders brought back the icon of Saint George, as he became known, and carried on his legend.

His popularity grew and it was decided in
AD
1222, at the Council of Oxford, to make his feast day, April 23rd, a national celebration. But it wasn’t until the fourteenth century, nearly a thousand years after his death in Lydda, in
AD
303, that he was made patron saint of England – when the Order of the Garter was formed in his memory.

And so, to this day, we celebrate that pork butcher from Cappadocia – our very own Turkish knight; and in these multi-cultural times, that’s no bad thing.

So, let’s hear it for Saint George! ‘Cry God for Harry, England and Saint George!’ as Shakespeare – whose birth and death day just so happens to be the 23rd of April, Saint George’s Day – has Henry V cry at Agincourt.

And if you go to Uffington you’ll see the low conical mound known as Dragon Hill, where it was said the blood of the dragon was spilled (somehow transferred from Libya …). And to this day, no grass grows upon it – so there must be a grain of truth in it, surely? And if that’s not fanciful enough some folk believe the White Horse itself is not a horse, but a dragon, cut to commemorate the victory of our ‘English dragon-slayer’. Take a walk upon these romantic hills and decide for yourself – for dragons will live in England as long as folk believe in them. Perhaps you’d like to adopt one, or start a sanctuary?