Oxfordshire Folktales (12 page)

Will, Jack and Lewis were inseparable friends. They lived in Long Compton and went everywhere together. One night, they were out netting rabbits by Barton’s Grove. It was a full moon and it shone through the trees like a lantern, casting everything in silver and black. They ribbed each other about the many tales of witches who lived in the area; ‘There are enough witches in Long Compton to draw a load of hay up Long Compton Hill,’ they would cackle, trying to make each other scared, but they laughed it off – until they caught sight of a white hare. There. There it was! But as soon as it was pointed out, it dashed behind a hedge. Had they been seeing things? But then, there it was again – running in a circle by a gate. As they carried on, the hare seemed to be running in decreasing circles around them.

This unsettled them a little, though none of them wanted to admit it. They weren’t having much luck catching rabbits and now that the moon had set, it seemed very dark.

‘Shall we go back?’ suggested one and they all nodded, relieved somebody had said it. They slung their guns over their shoulders and started to head homewards.

While they followed the path home, which their feet knew well enough to find the way in the dark, they sensed movement behind them. They froze. At first, they did not want to turn, but then one by one they looked and there was the white hare. Whenever they moved, it moved too, clinging to them like a white shadow.

‘Run!’

As one they bolted, but the hare was fast.

They pegged it across Duffus Close, until they came to a cottage of one of them. They leapt across the garden wall into the back garden. The key was found under the pot but the boy struggled to make it fit the lock, he was shaking so. Just as the door was forced open and the three fell in, collapsing in a heap, they saw the white hare sitting on the garden wall. It watched them with its moon-mad eyes. Caught in its glare, the lads found themselves frozen to the spot as they heard a voice inside their heads telling them a chilling story:

I had always led a simple life, in harmony with the land, harming none – indeed folk would often come to me with their ailments and woes, just as often for a listening ear as a charm or potion. My herbal remedies were highly regarded in the district. No one knew more about the plants and secret ways of nature than Old Nan of Long Compton. They said I was as old as the hills, but though I had seen eight decades I wasn’t quite that ancient!

Then one September night, a local labourer, James, was returning home from the fields after having more than his share of the green wage – cider – mixed with a gallon of beer. Purely medicinal was his excuse, having recently been suffering from pains, cramps and swollen legs. He was cursing the air black and blue, blaming his aches upon the witches of Long Compton.

Well, that’s not a wise thing to curse in our neighbourhood, or any. An old lady overheard him and came out to ask him to quieten down. ‘What was all the commotion about, young James?’ James got uppity and saw me – for it was I, Old Nan, who had known him since he was a lad – as the chief cause of his woes. Losing his temper James slashed me over the head with his sickle, to ‘draw the blood above the breath’, as fools said, thinking that was the way to destroy a witch’s power. Well, his drunken blow hit home harder than perhaps he’d liked and poor Old Nan fell down dead.

And that is how folk found me – and James – who stuck by his madness that I’d been a witch who had harmed him. He made up some foolish tale about me preventing him from working with my art, though for what reason, he could not say. And worse, there were sixteen witches like that in the area who should be treated just the same. He was placed in the local jail until he sobered up and was then brought to justice, standing trial for my murder. In the dock, he stood sullen and silent. On his behalf, the barrister said he had acted in self-defence, believing himself to be under attack from the witches of Long Compton.

Hares have long ears, and a very pale one eavesdropped upon James’ discussion with the superintendent, hearing him say the water thereabouts was ‘full of witches’ and would get inside him. He cited the death of horses and cattle – he had seen them wither away before his eyes – who had fallen under the influence of the Evil Eye. Incredibly, he was not alone in these opinions; some of his neighbours shared his delusion. And the judge decided he would not hang for his crimes, because of his insanity. Instead, he would be detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Even in prison he did not feel safe from us witches – so powerful we must be! He refused to eat and drink and weakened away, and in his lonely cell he died.

Yet his deed was remembered – how James the labourer had cruelly killed an innocent old lady. Poor Old Nan! Such deeds are not forgotten. They live on after us. And since that time a white hare has been seen, especially on moon-kissed nights.

Remember Old Nan’s tale, and be kind to the elderly, young ‘uns – and mind what you go a-hunting on a full moon.

The voice stopped, the white hare blinked, and hopped back into the shadows.

From then on, Will, Jack and Lewis gave up hunting rabbits, hares, or anything with long-ears for that matter, and were very kind to the elders of the village!

Tom, Dick and Harry Dunsdon were bad lads. Perhaps it was where they lived – for Wychwood Forest was a notorious haunt for ne’er-do-wells. It seemed to have more than its fair share of maggoty apples – poachers, cut-purses, robbers, and cock-fighters. And yet the Dunsdons came from a respectable yeoman family at Fulbrook.

Perhaps it was simply boyish bravado, a bad influence, or a chance opportunity, but whatever made them break the law, they went from bad to worse. They moved to a little cottage at Icomb which had an underground passage to a cave, screened from the road by trees, where they kept their horses. From there they would secretly take their horses to be shod by a smith at Fifield – leaving them overnight and collecting them in the morning, throwing a few coins at the smith. They would plot their nefarious deeds at the Bird in Hand at Cap’s Lodge – a den of iniquity if ever there was one. Not far from it is Habbergallows Hill, where stood the gibbet oak – the lonely tree where several of their acquaintances swung in the wind. You would think this alone would have kept them on the straight and narrow, but alas it didn’t.

The Dunsdons’ career in crime started small-time, following farmers home from market and relieving them of their purses, the contents of which they’d often end up drinking at the Bird in Hand. But drunk on success, they grew bolder. They needed to do something that would make them stand out from the lower class of criminal; something that would secure their reputation as the ‘Kings of the Outlaws of Wychwood’. Then they got wind of the Oxford to Gloucester coach, which was carrying a coffer containing the princely sum of five hundred pounds. They lay in wait for the coach and, disguised with black scarves around their features, they boldly held it up; all swagger and bluster. Everything went to plan and they escaped with their booty. Hiding their horses in the secret cave at Icomb, they were never caught.

But it is often said that pride comes before a fall.

How could they top that?

Well, it seemed fickle fortune smiled.

They had heard of the riches of Tangley Manor – a carrot too fat to ignore – and one night, over a tankard or three, they planned their robbery. Unfortunately, this was overheard and the butler was tipped off. The butler in turn called the constables to the manor on the night of the planned robbery and they lay in wait behind the main door as Tom, Dick and Harry approached – thinking the Lord was away, leaving only his wife and children.

Slyly, Dick reached in through a slot used to spy on visitors. He had been told that the key hung on a string within reach of this. He groped about in the dark, sticking in his arm as far as it would reach. The constables were waiting and one of them quickly tied a rope around the trespassing limb – pulling it tight. Dick cried out, warning his brothers. The constable’s rattles went a-clacking, raising the alarm. Others came running along the passages of the house, and from around the outside – their boots crunching on the gravel. Dick tugged and tugged, but couldn’t pull his arm free. He knew there was only one thing for it. ‘Cut it off! Cut it off!’ His brothers hesitated, but there was no time to waste. One of them did the deed, accompanied by a sibling scream of agony, and the arm dropped down inside the front door, the rope still attached to it. For a moment it twitched, then lay still. The brothers escaped – Dick wailing and trailing blood. Tom and Harry managed to escape, but Dick was never seen again, so perhaps he bled to death before they could reach their horses and ride back to their secret cave.

Tom and Harry laid low for a while, in fear of their lives, or mourning their brother – or perhaps both. But the lure of breaking the law could not be resisted for long, and in 1784 they were finally caught when their bragging got the better of them.

They were at the Bird in Hand at the time of the Capp’s Lodge Fair day – they must have been doing some serious drinking for they started bragging loudly that they were the Highwaymen of Wychwood Forest and no one would ever catch them. The landlord, in jest, said he could take the pair of them himself. They goaded him, so he had a go – one of them fired a pistol but his apron-full of change saved the landlord’s life. The other men in the gambling house took umbrage at this – shooting the landlord was not on! They seized the drunken brothers and they were frogmarched to Gloucester, where they were tried and hung – their bodies brought back in an old farm cart to swing on the gibbet oak at Habbergallows, a warning to all.

And so Tom, Dick and Harry met their grisly end: the Highwaymen of Wychwood Forest, swinging high.

Perhaps the brothers – and wayward limbs – were finally reunited, riding their old haunts together: mad, bad and damned until the end of time; a lesson to the curious, that crime can pay, but it exacts a very high price.