Part 3

This Sir Peter Loschi, whose aid was so frequently and fervently invoked, was the owner of a castle and certain broad acres in the vicinity. He was a Celt of unadulterated blood, although his name has nothing Celtic about it. Single names were then only used, with the exception of an addition of some personal characteristic or locality, for distinction sake when there were two persons bearing the same, and we may suppose that the two names of Peter and Loschi originally formed one word, which has become altered and corrupted in passing from generation to generation, in a similar manner to that of George Zavier, which became transmuted through Georgy Zavier, etc., to eventually Corky Shaver. Be that as it may, he was the last male of a long line of ancient British knights and warriors, and was himself not inferior to any of his ancestors in military skill and almost reckless daring, having fought with distinction against the wild hordes of Picts and Scots, who came down from their desolate northern mountains to make raids on the more fertile lands of the Britons south of the Border, and against the piratical Saxons and Angles who were endeavouring to get a foothold on the island. He was one of King Arthur's Knights of the Round Table, and was often at the Court of Queen Guinevere at Caerleon, consorting with his brother knights in the mutual recital of their adventures, in friendly tilting matches, and in dallying with the fair ladies of the Court, one of whom he had chosen as the mistress of his heart, and whose favour he wore in front of his helmet at many a passage of arms in the courtyard of a castle or in the field of a tournament. Occasionally he went forth for periods of six or twelve months as a knight-errant, for the purpose of redressing wrongs, slaying enchanters, etc., and was known as the Knight of the Sable Plume, from that ornamental appendage of his casque. The cognisance that he bore on his shield was a chevron arg. between three plumes sable, on ground or; and many a doughty deed had he performed, young as he still was, under this cognisance.

He did not spend much time at his ancestral home in Ryedale, being so much occupied at Court and in the quest of adventures as a knight-errant, only going there occasionally to regulate matters relating to his household and estates, look after his vassals and retainers, and make arrangements for the well-being of the villagers. He had now been absent about three years, having, at the instance of his ladye-love at Caerleon, donned his armour, taken his lance in hand, and gone for that space of time to protect the impotent, redress the injured and oppressed, and slay giants and sorcerers, as a test of his valour, at the end of which said period, if he had acquitted himself as a preux-chevalier, she might possibly consent to become the mistress of Ryedale Castle. The period was now drawing to a close, and he had performed many a valorous deed; he had slain a gigantic Saxon in single combat; he had recovered the standard of King Arthur from some half-dozen Picts, who had seized it after killing the bearer of it; he had rescued a damsel from the hands of an enchanter; another from the fangs and claws of a lion, and a third from a giant who was dragging her along by the hair of her head; he had killed a dragon, a griffin, and a hippogriff, had done many another wondrous and valorous deed, and was now going back to Caerleon to claim the hand of the lady at whose behest he had performed all these marvellous achievements, little dreaming all the time that his own people in Ryedale were in sore need of his stalwart arm and trusty sword.

As the knight had been northward, it was necessary to pass through what is now Yorkshire on his way to Caerleon, and he deemed it expedient to call at his Ryedale Castle to see how matters had been going on there during his long absence. It was about a month after the first appearance of the "worm," when the villagers were beginning to experience the truth of the saying that "hope deferred maketh the heart sick," having lost many members of their community through the propensity of the serpent for human flesh, and no Sir Peter coming to deliver them from the ravages of the monster, when the figure of a horseman, with a nodding black plume, was seen "pricking o'er the plain," who was immediately recognised as the veritable Sir Peter Loschi, which gave rise to an exhilarating shout of welcome from the villagers, who cried, "Now shall we be delivered from the ravenous worm." Sir Peter rode on to his castle, where the first being to welcome him was a favourite mastiff, who came gambolling about him with the most affectionate demonstrations of rejoicing at seeing his master once more. The following morning a deputation of the villagers waited upon him, explained their troubles in respect to the worm, and prayed for his assistance in ridding them of the monster. He inquired into the particulars, and having been accustomed in his travels to several encounters with noxious animals of this character, he readily understood what he would have to deal with, and promised his aid, but added that as some preparations would be necessary, the enemy being of an exceptional description, he would not be able to undertake it within a month, and that they must endure it the best they could in the interval.

Sir Peter got a sight of the serpent, and a formidable monster he appeared to be, more terrible than any he had previously met with; and he saw that it behoved him to make special provision for the combat. He pondered the matter over for a few days, and then mounted his steed and rode to Sheffield, where he employed certain cunning artificers to make him a complete suit of armour studded with razor blades. Although razors are alluded to by Homer, and have been used by the Chinese for unknown centuries, it is doubtful whether they were a staple manufacture on the banks of the Sheaf and the Rivelin in the sixth century. It is true that Chaucer speaks of a "Sheffield whittle," but this was eight centuries afterwards, and it is equally to be doubted whether Sheffield, even as a village, existed at that time; but anachronisms are of small moment in legends, and we are required to accept it as a fact, that the knight had his novel suit of armour fabricated in the valley of the Sheaf.

When it was completed, he returned with it to Ryedale, and gladly was he welcomed by the villagers, as the serpent had been committing more ravages amongst the population. He had a sword, a Damascus blade of wonderful keenness, which possessed certain magical properties, similar to those of King Arthur's famous Excaliber; and one morning, after donning his armour, he took the sword in his hand and went forth to the combat. His dog accompanied him, and it was with difficulty that he was prevented from leaping up in caressing gambols against the sharp razor blades.

The serpent had its den in the side of a wooded eminence near East Newton, by Stonegrave, which has since then gone by the name of Loschy Hill, in memory of the great fight between the Knight and the Dragon. Sir Peter, who was on foot, strode along boldly towards the hill, followed by his dog, which seemed to be perfectly aware that some exciting sport was before them, as he rushed about hither and thither, sniffing the air, as if his keen scent gave him intimation that game of an unusual character was not far off, and he barked and growled, as if in defiance of the foe; whilst the villagers stood afar off, with eager countenances, to watch the progress of the combat. As the knight came nearer, he became aware of a pestiferous odour that seemed to contaminate the air; and the dog scented and sniffed, and gave vent to more prolonged growlings and louder barking, and seemed to tremble with excitement in anticipation of the coming fray.

The serpent had not yet breakfasted, and seeing the man and dog approach, darted from his den and made for the dog, with which he thought to stay his appetite as a first mouthful, but the dog was too nimble and eluded his attack, leaping upon one of the curves of its body and biting it with mad excitement; whilst the knight struck it a blow with his sword which almost cut off its head, but the wound healed up instantly, and the serpent coiled itself round his body, in order to crush the life out of him, and then devour him at its leisure. It had not, in doing so, taken into account the razor blades, which cut its body in a multitude of gashes, and caused the blood to stream down on the earth; but this was not of much consequence, as it immediately uncoiled and rolled itself on the earth, when all the wounds closed up. Foiled in this attack, the monster then began to vomit out a poisonous vapour, so horrible and overcoming that the knight seemed ready to sink under its influence, but rallying his energies, he aimed a blow which cut the serpent in two, but the severed parts joined again immediately. All this time the monster was hissing in a fearful manner, and breathing out poison, and the knight began to fear he must succumb and become its prey; but determined not to give in so long as he could continue the fight, he aimed another blow with his sword and severed a portion of the tail end, although feeling persuaded that it would become reunited as before; but his dog, evidently a sagacious animal, having witnessed the former reunion, seized it in its teeth and ran off with it to a neighbouring hill, then returned and carried away other portions as they were cut off successively. The serpent writhed with pain, but afraid, or seeing the uselessness of attacking the razor-armed man, made many attempts to seize the dog, but in vain, as he was too agile to be caught; therefore he depended more on the venom of his breath at this juncture, which he continued to pour forth, and which he knew must eventually overpower his enemy. The dog had returned from his third or fourth journey and came up to his master, wagging his tail in seeming congratulation of the cleverness with which they were gradually accomplishing the destruction of the foe, when the serpent made a spring upon him, but at the same instant the knight's magic sword descended upon his neck and severed the head from the body, which the dog at once seized and carried off to a distance, placing it on a hill near where Nunnington Church now stands.

The monster was now dead which had caused so much terror and desolation, and the villagers shouted with joy as they saw the head carried past by the dog. Meanwhile the knight stood by the remaining portion of the body as it lay prone on the earth, quivering with the remains of its vitality. He was exhausted with his exertions, but more by the poisonous exhalation which the body still gave forth, but in rapidly diminishing volume. He was recovering from its effects and was waiting awhile to gain sufficient energy to leave the scene of his triumph, when the dog returned, but apparently in a very languid condition; still, however, evincing marks of satisfaction and pleasure at the conquest he and his master had achieved. The knight stooped down to pat caressingly his faithful companion, who, in return, reached up and licked his face. Unfortunately, in carrying away the head, the seat of the venom, the dog had imbibed the poison, and in licking his master's face had imparted the virus to him, and a few minutes were sufficient to produce its fatal effects, the knight and his dog falling to the earth together, and when the villagers came up they found both dead.

Although the villagers were rejoiced at the death of the serpent, their lamentations were equally great over the fate of the knight, who had sacrificed his life for their deliverance; and for many a month and year did they cherish his memory and mourn his death.

In Nunnington Church there is a monument of a knight, a recumbent effigy, with a dog crouching at his feet; and this, tradition says, is the tomb of the valorous Sir Peter Loschi and his equally valorous dog, who were buried together, and the monument erected in grateful memory of their achievement.

The Devil's Arrows.

One of the most interesting localities in broad Yorkshire, rich in historic lore and fruitful in legend, is that which comprehends within its limits the twin towns of Aldborough and Boroughbridge, on the river Ure. Their history extends back to the Celtic and Roman times, when Aldborough or Iseur, the Isurium of the Romans, was the capital of the Brigantian Celts, and near by ran northward from York a great Roman road, which crossed the Ure by a ford, which was supplanted after the Conquest by a wooden bridge, which gave rise to a great convergence of roads at this point, and the growth of a town, which obtained the name of Boroughbridge, _i.e._, the borough by the bridge.

This spot, says Dr. Stukeley, was in the British time "the scene of the great Panegyre of the Druids, the midsummer meeting of all the country round, to celebrate the great quarterly sacrifice, accompanied with sports, games, races, and all kinds of exercises, with universal festivity. This was like the Olympian and Nemean meetings and games among the Grecians."

Between the two towns there stands protruding from the earth three rough-hewn and weather-worn obelisks of rag-stone or mill-stone grit, which could not have been brought from a distance of less than seven miles, and gave rise to a sense of wonder how such stupendous masses could have been brought hither and placed upright in position by the Celts with their utter lack of mechanical appliances. The northernmost rises eighteen feet, the southernmost twenty-two and a half feet, and the centre one also twenty-two and a half feet above the ground, and from an excavation made under the latter, it was found to have an entire length of thirty feet six inches. The estimated weight of the northernmost is thirty-six tons, and of the other two thirty tons each. Originally there were four stones, which were seen by Leland in Henry VIII.'s time; but one of them fell or was removed for the sake of the materials--useful for road repairing--in the seventeenth century. Camden imagined them to be factitious compositions of sand, lime, and small pebbles cemented together; but there is no doubt they were quarried at Plumpton, the rock there corresponding exactly with their grit. The Romans made use of them as metæ, the turning point in their chariot races. There have been varying and differing conjectures by antiquaries as to their origin and purpose, but all agree as to their remote antiquity, dating back certainly 1800 years, the most probable conjecture as to their purpose being that they were connected in some way with Druidical worship. They go by the name of "The Devil's Arrows," and tradition gives an account of their origin altogether different from antiquarian conjectures, and much more in accordance with their popular designation. Thus runs the legend:--

It was soon after the Crucifixion that certain Apostles of the Cross, headed by Joseph of Arimathea, found their way from Palestine to the remote and benighted isle of Britain, in obedience to the Divine command to go forth and preach the Gospel to every creature. After their disembarkation they proceeded inland until they came to Glastonbury; and ascending the hill there, Joseph struck his walking staff in the earth and proclaimed that there should be established the first Christian church of Britain, and in confirmation thereof his staff miraculously took root, put forth branches, and although it was midwinter--Christmas Day--budded and blossomed into a rose, as its successors here continued to do on every successive Christmas Day. The Apostles preached to the barbarian people, made some converts, and erected a temporary wooden church for the performance of divine service, which was the precursor of the magnificent Abbey that afterwards rose on the site, and flourished in great prosperity until its extinction under the sacrilegious hand of Henry the Eighth.

When the new faith had taken root at Glastonbury, the Apostles divided themselves into bands of two or three, and departed north, south, east, and west, to proclaim the glad tidings in other parts of the island. One of these bands, going northwards, preached to the Cornabii and the Coritani of Mid-Britain, and then passed onward to the Brigantes, the greatest and most warlike of the kingdoms of Britain. They travelled on foot, staff in hand, and subsisted on the charity of the people; but had often to endure great hardships, having often to pass through scantily peopled districts, where wild fruits were their only food, the water of the wayside brooks their drink, and their sleeping couches the heather of the moor or the turf under the canopy of a forest tree. But all these discomforts they endured with cheerfulness, besides perils from wolves, wild boars, and other denizens of the woodlands, feeling assured that their Master would reward them a thousand-fold for their sufferings in His service.

On entering the Brigantian kingdom they learned that the capital city was Iseur, some considerable distance northward, and thither they bent their way in the hope of enlightening the King in spiritual matters as a means of facilitating the conversion of his people. With wearied steps they passed from village to village, through forests and swamps, and over black moorlands, fording the rivers where practicable, or where they were too deep for so doing going along the bank until they met with a fisherman or villager to ferry them across in his coracle; and in due course, after many days of toilsome journeying, came to the city of Iseur.

The city stood in a forest clearing, surrounded by a stockade of felled trees, with an entrenchment for protection against enemies, and for the security of their flocks and herds against the attacks of wild beasts. In the centre stood the King's Palace, a tolerably spacious edifice built of unhewn blocks of stone, placed in cyclopean fashion without mortar; and scattered around were the mud-built and straw-thatched dwellings of the people. There was no temple of their deity, the gods of the Britons disdaining mortal-built places of worship. But adjacent was a separate forest clearing, with a circling of huge forest oaks, on which grew the sacred mistletoe, which constituted a temple not built with hands; and in which was a pool of water, indispensable in the ceremonials of their religion, where the beaver abounded, and was used as an emblem of the flood, of which the Britons had a tradition; and here were constructed the wickerwork forms of gigantic human beings, which at certain seasons were filled with men, women, and children, and burnt to propitiate the wrath of their god.

They proceeded to the palace of the King and asked for an audience, which was granted them after some demur; the King feeling uncertain, from the description his attendants gave of their foreign aspect, outlandish dresses, and imperfect utterance of the British language, whether they might not be enemies, assassins, or sorcerers come hither to take his life or subject him to some other evil. He received them seated on a sort of throne, clad in a white, coarsely woven tunic of wool reaching half way down his thighs, and leaving the lower limbs altogether uncovered, and over his shoulders a wolf-skin mantle, whilst he supported his dignity by holding in his right hand a long bronze-headed spear, with a richly-carved shaft. By his side sat his Queen, and at his feet gambolled three or four children, whilst around him stood representatives of the Druidical hierarchy--the Druids proper or high priests, the Eubates or soothsayers, and the Bards who chanted anthems to the glory of their god and recited odes in praise of the warriors and great men of their race.

The King inquired of the strangers who they were and what was their purpose in thus coming to his court. The Apostles replied that they were people of a far distant land, near the sunrising, and had come hither to show them their errors in worshipping false gods, and point out to them the true object of worship, the one only God, the Maker of heaven and earth, and the awarder of happiness or misery in the future life beyond the grave. A murmur of dissatisfaction arose at this announcement amongst the Druids, who whispered amongst themselves that it was fitting such blasphemers should be offered up as sacrifices to their god.

"Truly," said the King, "you have come on a strange errand; we are firm believers in and devout worshippers of the one Supreme God, as you pretend to be. Do we not yearly offer up on His altars hundreds of human victims to propitiate His good-will? What more would you have? We believe what you do, and a great deal more, for we have a host of minor deities whom we pay adoration to. Methinks you had better return to your own country and not trouble us with your hallucinations, so as to cause a schism in the faith. We are content with our own belief, which teaches us that when we die the souls of those who have done justly will pass gradually into a higher and higher sphere, until at length, when perfectly purified, it will become absorbed in the essence of the Deity, or become an inferior god; whilst those of the wicked will be transformed to the bodies of inferior and unclean animals, and eventually be annihilated."

The Apostles upon this explained briefly the principles of the Christian religion, the fall of man and his loss of the divine favour, his necessary condemnation to temporal and eternal death, and the redemptorial scheme, in which God himself, or rather his Son, who was identical with himself, suffered death on the cross, taking upon himself, in lieu of man, the threatened penalty.

"Is your God dead, then?" inquired the King; "or is it possible for God to die. If so, our faith is better than yours, for our God is immortal."

The Apostles then entered into an elaborate disquisition on the subtleties of the necessity and nature of the Divine scheme for the salvation of the human race, but the reasonings were too abstruse for the King's comprehension, as, indeed, were they for the more cultured minds of the Druids; therefore the King declined any further discourse on the subject, adding that he was perfectly willing that they should be courteously treated and have fair play, as they had come so far with the intent, as it seemed to them, of doing him and his people a service; therefore he would appoint a day on which they should have a full and fair discussion with the Druids on the merits of the respective faiths, and in the meantime they should be hospitably entertained at his cost, and with this the audience terminated.