Read Online Oxfordshire Folktales by Kevan Manwaring - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kevan Manwaring
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shall destroy each other until nothing is left. Only the love of Spirit maintains this Matter, the flesh of the Earth. And we are part of it.’ As the priest spoke, the cup started to mend itself. ‘Both kings have equal claim, and shall be equal stewards of this land. Long have their people lived here. Who owns the land? Any who work upon it, who worship upon it, who give their loyalty and love it.’ The cup mended some more. ‘Live together in peace – may you come here to trade goods and tales. Come drink the Dragon Cup and forge the sword of peace.’ The final fragment fell into place. The cup was mended. The priest held it aloft, to the gasps and murmurs of those gathered. ‘Three untruths break it; three truths mend it. I have spoken, and the spirit of the one true God is through me!’
The two kings came forward, with their royal bodyguards. They took turns to examine the cup and were impressed. The priest poured some wine into the cups ‘To Peace.’
Beorna slowly raised it and drank. Looking at his enemy with a level, penetrating gaze, he spoke the words like a challenge, daring him to defy them: ‘To Peace.’
Finally, the Mercian king did the same. ‘To Peace.’
The Bear-Chieftain addressed both armies. ‘A great miracle has been performed here this day. Let a temple be raised on this spot to house your spirit, and this cup. Let it be remembered, so none may forgot its healing magic.’
Time flows on. Kings and knaves turn to dust. But sometimes a trace of their lives remain. Beorna’s name endured; the place by the banks of the river Brue became known as the ‘fort of the warriors of the Bear’ – Bicester – and if you go to the church of St Edburg’s you’ll see, in two of the windows, the Dragon Cup.
This tale was inspired by the stained-glass windows in the ancient church of St Edburg, two of which depict the ‘Dragon Cup’. I used this motif in imagining a kind of ‘creation myth’ for Bicester, based upon the historical evidence of its earliest inhabitants. Sometimes a ‘story of place’ is enshrined in a name, when all other evidence has vanished – and so the ‘fort of the warriors of the bear’, or the ‘tribe of the warriors of Beorna’, seemed too enticing to turn down. The Pingle can still be seen, demarcating the lovely old town from the ‘designer village’ which has spawned on Bicester’s edge. Different forces besiege the town these days. What would Beorna think of it all?
The motif of the ‘four-squared cup of truth’ comes from Celtic tradition (I first came across it in John and Caitlin Matthews’ Celtic Wisdom Tarot).
Eleven
F RIDESWIDE AND THE T REACLE W ELL
Frideswide was renowned for her beauty, but she had hoped to escape the unwanted attention of men when she took the veil –retreating from the world behind the walls of the convent at Oxford.
Alas, this was not to be, for word of her legendary beauty reached the ears of Aelfgar, King of Mercia. The fact she was a nun did not put him off. He set out to behold her beauty himself. He camped outside the convent with his rough and ready army, and waited. It was clear that the slavering bunch of heathens would not restrain themselves for long – not with such rich pickings at hand. Rather than risk bringing ruin upon the convent, Frideswide fled. Scenting the thrill of the hunt, Aelfgar pursued her with renewed vigour – alone – into the wild wood which grew beyond the water meadows.
Heart thudding in her chest, Frideswide darted through the trees like a deer pursued by a pack of hounds; until she found her way blocked by a thickly flowing stream. She cried out in dismay. As her pursuer approached, she fell to her knees to pray.
Aelfgar snorted like a boar, stroking his beard as he approached. He had run his quarry to ground.
‘Odin’s blood, woman! I am not used to being denied. You gave me a hearty chase, but now – where is my reward?’ Suddenly, a blinding pain shot through
The two kings came forward, with their royal bodyguards. They took turns to examine the cup and were impressed. The priest poured some wine into the cups ‘To Peace.’
Beorna slowly raised it and drank. Looking at his enemy with a level, penetrating gaze, he spoke the words like a challenge, daring him to defy them: ‘To Peace.’
Finally, the Mercian king did the same. ‘To Peace.’
The Bear-Chieftain addressed both armies. ‘A great miracle has been performed here this day. Let a temple be raised on this spot to house your spirit, and this cup. Let it be remembered, so none may forgot its healing magic.’
Time flows on. Kings and knaves turn to dust. But sometimes a trace of their lives remain. Beorna’s name endured; the place by the banks of the river Brue became known as the ‘fort of the warriors of the Bear’ – Bicester – and if you go to the church of St Edburg’s you’ll see, in two of the windows, the Dragon Cup.
This tale was inspired by the stained-glass windows in the ancient church of St Edburg, two of which depict the ‘Dragon Cup’. I used this motif in imagining a kind of ‘creation myth’ for Bicester, based upon the historical evidence of its earliest inhabitants. Sometimes a ‘story of place’ is enshrined in a name, when all other evidence has vanished – and so the ‘fort of the warriors of the bear’, or the ‘tribe of the warriors of Beorna’, seemed too enticing to turn down. The Pingle can still be seen, demarcating the lovely old town from the ‘designer village’ which has spawned on Bicester’s edge. Different forces besiege the town these days. What would Beorna think of it all?
The motif of the ‘four-squared cup of truth’ comes from Celtic tradition (I first came across it in John and Caitlin Matthews’ Celtic Wisdom Tarot).
Eleven
F RIDESWIDE AND THE T REACLE W ELL
Frideswide was renowned for her beauty, but she had hoped to escape the unwanted attention of men when she took the veil –retreating from the world behind the walls of the convent at Oxford.
Alas, this was not to be, for word of her legendary beauty reached the ears of Aelfgar, King of Mercia. The fact she was a nun did not put him off. He set out to behold her beauty himself. He camped outside the convent with his rough and ready army, and waited. It was clear that the slavering bunch of heathens would not restrain themselves for long – not with such rich pickings at hand. Rather than risk bringing ruin upon the convent, Frideswide fled. Scenting the thrill of the hunt, Aelfgar pursued her with renewed vigour – alone – into the wild wood which grew beyond the water meadows.
Heart thudding in her chest, Frideswide darted through the trees like a deer pursued by a pack of hounds; until she found her way blocked by a thickly flowing stream. She cried out in dismay. As her pursuer approached, she fell to her knees to pray.
Aelfgar snorted like a boar, stroking his beard as he approached. He had run his quarry to ground.
‘Odin’s blood, woman! I am not used to being denied. You gave me a hearty chase, but now – where is my reward?’ Suddenly, a blinding pain shot through
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