Read Online North Yorkshire Folk Tales by Ingrid Barton - Free Book Online
Authors: Ingrid Barton
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giant. ‘And tell them also what will happen to them if they fail to turn up. Be inventive!’
That evening, as the giant sat gloomily by the fire, he realised that something was missing. Wolfhead was not there, thumping his tail and looking fondly up into his master’s face. He went to stand at the door of his keep and scanned the forest below. ‘Wolfhead!’ he roared. ‘Come here this instant!’
There was a slight rustling of the bushes at the edge of the forest. The giant looked closer and saw that Wolfhead was crouching there, cowering. He whistled but the dog did not move. ‘Damn your hide, come here!’ Wolfhead stayed where he was.
The giant’s cudgel was, as usual, in his hand. In a moment of fury, he threw it with all his might, and in a second, the only friend he had ever had was dead.
The month given to the peasants was up. The following day was set for the meeting. The old servant had returned exhausted. He saw that Wolfhead was no longer around, but he did not dare ask questions. He guessed that the hound was dead when the swine no longer appeared two by two in the morning. His master sat by the fire muttering darkly to himself, ‘He asked for it! Disobey me and die!’
The old servant trembled for the fate of the men of Wensleydale.
Perhaps there were some wise peasants who did not obey the giant’s summons, but they were few and far between. The meeting place at the cliff on Pen Hill was filled with men, from old grandsires to half-grown boys. They had all brought their bows as requested and no doubt would have been pleased to use them on the giant if only they had had a brave enough leader, but the fear for their families kept them all cowards.
The giant stood huge and threatening on the brow of the hill. He surveyed the gathering with a sneer. In his hand was an arrow. He held it up.
‘You see this?’ he said. ‘What is it?’ There was a stunned silence. The answer was so obvious that no one knew what to say. They suspected a trap.
‘What is it, you curs?’
One brave man put his hand up. ‘It’s an arrow, Master.’
‘Well done, you old fool! Yes, it’s an arrow. The question is: who does it belong to?’
The peasants looked at one another. If they knew, they were not saying.
‘I ask because I found it – in the heart of ONE OF MY BOARS ! Give up the bowman or beware my wrath! I’m only going to ask you once!’
A little ripple of movement ran over the assembled men, but still they said nothing.
The giant stared at them for a moment, his face reddening with anger. Who did these slaves think they were? First the girl, then the dog, now this! He was the son of Thor the Thunderer! He would have blood for their disobedience!
‘Very well, if that’s the game you wish to play. You won’t tell me now while your children live, so perhaps you will tell me when they’re dying! Every man must come back here tomorrow bringing with him his youngest child. One child each or I kill all of you! Think about it tonight. Now GO !’
Shaken and sullen, the men turned and retreated down the hill. As they went they passed an old beggar man standing beside the path. He wore a ragged grey cloak and leaned on a staff. His hat was pulled down on one side to hide a missing eye. He nodded at the passing peasants but they were too humiliated to respond or meet his piercing gaze.
‘Who is that man?’ the giant asked his servant.
‘I don’t know his name, my lord. I’ve seen him around from time to time in the Dale, but never spoken to him.’
‘He has an insolent look. Tell him to take himself off!’ As the giant spoke, the old man stirred and moved towards him.
‘What do you want?’ the giant demanded.
‘To get a good look at you,’ replied the old man offensively.
The giant could see no fear in the one flashing eye that gazed sideways up at him. It made him uneasy.
‘Well, now you’ve seen me, so you can take your dirty carcass off.’
‘What do you intend to do to the
That evening, as the giant sat gloomily by the fire, he realised that something was missing. Wolfhead was not there, thumping his tail and looking fondly up into his master’s face. He went to stand at the door of his keep and scanned the forest below. ‘Wolfhead!’ he roared. ‘Come here this instant!’
There was a slight rustling of the bushes at the edge of the forest. The giant looked closer and saw that Wolfhead was crouching there, cowering. He whistled but the dog did not move. ‘Damn your hide, come here!’ Wolfhead stayed where he was.
The giant’s cudgel was, as usual, in his hand. In a moment of fury, he threw it with all his might, and in a second, the only friend he had ever had was dead.
The month given to the peasants was up. The following day was set for the meeting. The old servant had returned exhausted. He saw that Wolfhead was no longer around, but he did not dare ask questions. He guessed that the hound was dead when the swine no longer appeared two by two in the morning. His master sat by the fire muttering darkly to himself, ‘He asked for it! Disobey me and die!’
The old servant trembled for the fate of the men of Wensleydale.
Perhaps there were some wise peasants who did not obey the giant’s summons, but they were few and far between. The meeting place at the cliff on Pen Hill was filled with men, from old grandsires to half-grown boys. They had all brought their bows as requested and no doubt would have been pleased to use them on the giant if only they had had a brave enough leader, but the fear for their families kept them all cowards.
The giant stood huge and threatening on the brow of the hill. He surveyed the gathering with a sneer. In his hand was an arrow. He held it up.
‘You see this?’ he said. ‘What is it?’ There was a stunned silence. The answer was so obvious that no one knew what to say. They suspected a trap.
‘What is it, you curs?’
One brave man put his hand up. ‘It’s an arrow, Master.’
‘Well done, you old fool! Yes, it’s an arrow. The question is: who does it belong to?’
The peasants looked at one another. If they knew, they were not saying.
‘I ask because I found it – in the heart of ONE OF MY BOARS ! Give up the bowman or beware my wrath! I’m only going to ask you once!’
A little ripple of movement ran over the assembled men, but still they said nothing.
The giant stared at them for a moment, his face reddening with anger. Who did these slaves think they were? First the girl, then the dog, now this! He was the son of Thor the Thunderer! He would have blood for their disobedience!
‘Very well, if that’s the game you wish to play. You won’t tell me now while your children live, so perhaps you will tell me when they’re dying! Every man must come back here tomorrow bringing with him his youngest child. One child each or I kill all of you! Think about it tonight. Now GO !’
Shaken and sullen, the men turned and retreated down the hill. As they went they passed an old beggar man standing beside the path. He wore a ragged grey cloak and leaned on a staff. His hat was pulled down on one side to hide a missing eye. He nodded at the passing peasants but they were too humiliated to respond or meet his piercing gaze.
‘Who is that man?’ the giant asked his servant.
‘I don’t know his name, my lord. I’ve seen him around from time to time in the Dale, but never spoken to him.’
‘He has an insolent look. Tell him to take himself off!’ As the giant spoke, the old man stirred and moved towards him.
‘What do you want?’ the giant demanded.
‘To get a good look at you,’ replied the old man offensively.
The giant could see no fear in the one flashing eye that gazed sideways up at him. It made him uneasy.
‘Well, now you’ve seen me, so you can take your dirty carcass off.’
‘What do you intend to do to the
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