(When the Folksinger David Swann asked us to write lyrics for a new song depicting the origins of Pickering’s name – the idea lingered. So later, when we began to dabble with writing Fairy Tales, this popped into my head.)
Once, long ago when the Earth was a wild and dangerous place, there lived a King called Peredurus. His realm covered deep forests to the West, fertile Wolds to the South, and pastures reaching the Eastern Salt Sea. All this he could see from his Citadel, a high-built settlement that stood on the Gateway to the mighty Moors of the North.
The King’s claim to this land was a ring, fashioned in ancient times by Druids from the mystical gold mines hidden deep in the mountains of the West. Throughout generations, this unadorned ring had been taken from the finger of the dead King and placed onto that of his firstborn son: thus giving him right to rule. And so it was, that one day when King Peredurus took a swim in the gushing River Costa, he nearly lost his life, but far worse – he did lose the Ring from his finger.
Before the King was sucked to the depths of the Costa, a maiden who was daughter of the Citadel’s miller, happen to be nearby. She was gathering herbs in the glades on the edge of the forest, when she heard frantic splashing and a cry for help. Running to the banks she looked in all directions for someone to help, but the man fighting to keep his head above the water, was alone.
The miller’s daughter waded into the water’s edge and shouted above the roar of the wake as it rolled and crashed around her feet. ‘Someone help!’ she called to the sky. ‘A man is drowning, can anyone hear me?’ But all she received in reply was a faint echo of her own feeble voice, crushed against the sound of the Costa’s fast currents as they smashed against rocks and spun into swirling eddies taking with them, the final cries of the drowning man.
Frantically, the miller’s daughter lifted the hem of her skirt and tied it firmly around her waist, thus allowing her legs freedom to wade into the treacherous turmoil that lay between the safety of the bank, and the whirlpool where she last saw the man go down.
It has to be remembered that in those far off times, it was unseemly for a maiden to show her ankle, and it was certainly not correct for her to lift her skirt to reveal her knees. But this brave young lass, the heroine of this story, thought the saving of a life was more important than silly society rules, so into the cruel cold depths – she dived.
Beneath the surface, the water was cloudy, for far below her, the man churned up sediment in his struggle to break free of the ripping currents. Using all the strength her delicate arms and legs could muster, she swam down into the swirling muddy depths, where, for the first time, she caught a brief glimpse of the drowning man. It was the King.
Like the rag doll of her childhood, the river rolled her Sovereign, sending him tumbling towards her, knocking her aside in its force before lifting them both and hurling them onto the bleached white pebbles of the Costa’s bank.
As our heroine coughed her lungs clear, she became aware that the prone figure lying on the water’s edge had not moved. She crawled towards him, cautious now in the knowledge that he truly was the King, fearful that someone of her standing, should know better than to touch him, let alone do what she knew she must – if she was to save his life.
With no time to spare for protocol, she took hold of the King’s shoulders, lifted them from the scree and rolled him face down. (Her father had taught her how to do this after one of his workers fell under the waterwheel that powered the Mill.) Inside her head, her Papa’s words took her through the stages, including his warning never to disclose what he did, lest he be named a warlock or something equally damning.
‘Pound ‘is back like this,’ he said, ‘that way all the water ‘e’s swallowed comes back, see?’ She did see and as she followed the words, brown water spewed from the King’s mouth and onto the white pebbles. Her father’s voice continued to instruct. ‘Then yer must turn him onto ‘is back, tilt ‘is ‘ead like this, an’ pinch his nose closed.’ The Miller’s daughter sat back on her heels, she couldn’t pinch the nose of the King. It would be called treason and for such an action, she would lose her head. But the King needed her and besides, the words of her father rambled on inside her head so she pinched the nose, took a deep breath and blew the air into the Royal mouth.
His chest rose, she waited for it to fall, it did: repeating the drill, she worked steadily until the King coughed and choked and spluttered himself into life once more. When she knew he could be left, she covered his naked body and ran to the Citadel shouting as loud as her breathless lungs allowed, calling for the keepers to open the gates, begging they send a litter to carry their King from the banks of the mighty Costa.
But when she returned with an army of men she found the King donning his clothes, shaking out each robe before wrapping it around his trembling body. Cursing, he swung around on their approach, accusing this man and that of stealing his birthright. But the men denied knowledge, instead they pointed to our heroine saying, ‘She must’ve done it.’
And this is how the Miller’s daughter was thrown into the dungeon, and ordered she stay there until she confessed and disclosed where she’d hidden the King’s right of rule – his Ancient Ancestral Ring.
Petulant, the King sulked for days in his chamber, ignoring pleas from his courtiers to have faith in the guards sent to search for the Ring.
‘Sire,’ they assured him, ‘it cannot be far, the wench’s muddy footprints tell us she came straight from your side to the gates. And afterward, she was in the guards’ sights all the time as she led them to you.’ Between themselves, the courtiers doubted the maiden stole the Ring, but, not wishing to fall out of favour with their ruler, they drew the only conclusion they could – she was the only person with the King.
On the days following, a hooded Druid from the West paid a visit to the Citadel. Druids were the most revered men in the entire Land, renowned for their knowledge of the Heavens and their profoundly moving poetry. This Druid priest was known by his ancestral lineage as Idris, Bard of the Snowcaps.
‘Have your King presented to me immediately,’ he told the guards upon riding through the gates, ‘and take care of my steed,’ he ordered the grooms of the Royal stables as he dismounted and marched towards the Great Hall. Refusing any food other than barley bread and drinking only water taken from the source of the Costa, he sat waiting under the ingle and stared into the flames of the grate until Peredurus appeared and knelt by the wise man’s side. ‘Your visit brings great honour to our Realm, Prince Idris.’
‘I was brought by a good man seeking justice for his daughter.’ Idris whispered, his eyes still focused on the flames. ‘It pains me to know this is how you repay someone who saved your life.’
Peredurus remained on his knees, head bend low, ‘I have no memory of being saved, I called for help, was sucked down and next I remember was waking alone on the river bank.’
‘The truth of how she saved you I have promised to keep secret, but believe me when I say your life would be forfeit had she not intervened.’ Prince Idris turned to the man knelt by his side and placed a hand upon his youthful head. ‘Release her. Have your ladies of the court bathe and oil her, she deserves your adoration not imprisonment – now stand, your royal knees are not meant for cold, stone floors.’
Peredurus saw no mirth in the Bard’s words. ‘But what of my Ring?’
Idris had to stoop to clear the mighty oak lintel of the inglenook. His great height was a throwback from his ancestors, where legend would have us believe, were giants. ‘Did you ask what of your Ring?’
‘Yes,’ said Peredurus not at all intimidated by the size of his visitor, ‘it is mine by right of my lineage, it has been in our family for centuries, it….’
‘Do not preach the history of your lineage to me.’ Roared the Bard. ‘It would serve you well to remember where the gold of your ring came from.’
‘Forgive me Prince Idris – I merely wanted to stress how much the loss of it has affected me.’
‘Hmm – then do as I say, release the maiden, treat her kindly and try to forget about your loss – if you are truly the rightful heir to this throne, then the Ring will find it’s way back to you.’ Idris walked to a side table, picked up his riding gloves, began to put them on.
Peredurus ran to his side, ‘You cannot go so soon, stay and eat with us.’
‘I came only to right a wrong.’
The young man bowed his head, ‘Forgive me, I have neglected my duties and feel ashamed. Like a spoilt child, thought of only my loss.’
Idris patted the King on the shoulder. ‘We all learn by knowing our failings. Your father was impetuous until your mother tamed him.’ Idris looked around the vast Hall. ‘I suggest you arrange a banquet, invite the lords of the realm, have minstrels fill the place with merriment and whilst preparations are underway, go catch game, find the biggest boar to roast, the largest geese, act like a King should but – before you do, release the girl.’ With that, Idris strode through the doors of the great Hall, mounted his horse and rode back to the snowcapped mountains, in his home in the West.
And so it was that the Hall came to life with jesters performing tricks, minstrels playing and goblets of wine handed to guests dressed in their finest attire. Soon they were seated around the banquet table, the King at the head, relating stories of the hunt to those within earshot when a pewter salver carried by two men was placed in front of him.
Delighted, the young King called for a toast. ‘This fine Pike did not want to be caught, it sprung out of my net twice before I finally pulled it in, though in truth, it took four of us to do it.’ He stood and raised his glass, ‘I give homage to this Pike, he fought well – three cheers for the grand master of the river.’
‘Homage to the Pike.’ Fellow hunters shouted as they held their goblets up to the giant fish served ready to eat.
As tradition demanded on such occasions, Peredurus made the first cut, lifting a slice of cooked fish to put on the platter of the guest immediately to his right. As the King reached toward the empty plate, something heavy fell from the chunk of fish and rolled across the table catching light from the candles lit above. All eyes watched in fascination as it rolled onto the floor circling to a halt at the feet of Peredurus.
‘….the Ring will find its own way back.’ The words of the Bard rang inside his head. He bent to pick it up, raising his hand to show everyone what he held between his finger and thumb.
It was at that moment the ladies of the court entered the Great Hall. Beneath their veils, they smiled demurely as all the lords stood to cheer for the return of the Ring, thinking as ladies do, the men were expressing their delight at the females’ entrance.
King Peredurus caught sight of them, and leaving the table to greet them, he paid particular attention to a beauty in their midst. ‘Is this who I think it is?’ he asked of the leading courtier who nodded, her eyes sparkling with the gaiety of the occasion. Peredurus took the hand of the beauty, separated her from the rest and got down on his knees. ‘Fair lady, please do me the honour of dancing with a fool such as I.’
And, as this maiden is our heroine in this story, she accepted by giving a graceful curtsey and saying, ‘Sire, I know nothing of dancing fine steps, but I do know when a King asks, only a fool would refuse.’
‘If you will rid a King of the fool, then he will teach you to dance.’ He took her hand in his, gave the nod for the minstrels up in the gallery to play, ‘Come my lords and ladies, join us in celebration, a Pike has returned my Ring, a maiden will share my throne.’
And so, as all stories are better for a happy ending, King Peredurus made our heroine his Queen and in celebration of that feast, he gave his Citadel a name. ‘Henceforth,’ he proclaimed, ‘this place shall be known as Pickering.’
(c) 2024 Pat Barnett.
