Oxfordshire Folktales Read Free Page A

time.
    The drumming stopped and the priest said a few words, blessing the Scouring in the name of the Lord; and then they set to work, removing any weeds that had grown in the chalk over the last few years. It was said if the Horse grew too hairy, the harvest would falter: ‘No grain in the barn; no butter for the bairn.’ And so the villagers took the Scouring seriously – as long as the White Horse shone down upon them ‘luck would fill the Vale’. So the old ones said, and so the young ‘uns followed. And so it always had been – longer than any could remember.
    As Betty pulled out the tufts, a laugh caught her attention; it was John, the blacksmith’s son, with his dark lick of hair. He gave her a wink, and she blushed even more.
    They spent the rest of the Scouring coyly flirting with each other. It was like playing in the smithy – Betty knew it was perilous and she could easily get her fingers burnt, but she could not resist. There was something about the day, the time of year, and the time of her life. Like the verdant land around her, she felt like she was … waking up.
    The June sun was burning away the mist to reveal fields brimming with new growth. With so many hands at work, the Scouring was soon complete. A festival breakfast awaited them – warm bread and strong cheese, spring onions and last year’s apple chutney – which they took on the flanks of the hill. A cool jug of cider was passed around and for the first time, handed to Betty, who warily took a sip and coughed. John laughed his easy laugh, accepted it from her and downed a draught, wiping the back of his hand with a smack of his lips. They smiled at each other as someone struck up a fiddle.
    ‘Come on!’ John led them, laughing, to the delights of the fair.

    * * *

    What a day it had been! They were deliciously weary from it now – all the delights they had seen and savoured, the rickety fairground rides, the side-stalls, the sugary treats, the buzz of conversation, the dancing and foolery. With a satisfied sigh, they wandered away from the fair, which was now being packed away.
    The villagers lingered on the hillside, savouring the last golden drops of the day.
    A little awkward, the young couple held hands and walked away from the crowd.
    From the ramparts of the ‘castle’ – the earthwork above the Horse – they watched the sun set. Below, the Horse gleamed in the silver light of the moon which rose as the sun fell.
    Around them they sensed the gaggles of villagers, making merry. Louder than all, they could hear old Lob, the local teller in his flow now he was lubricated with cider. He was declaiming on his favourite subject of horse lore: ‘If mares slipped their foals, a black donkey would be run with them to cure evil; if a donkey was unavailable then a goat could be used the same way!’ Laughter carried across the hillside.
    ‘What about different coloured horses, Lob – what do you make of that?’ someone piped up, with a nudge and a wink to a friend.
    ‘A good horse is never a bad colour.’ Sounds of affirmation, though one scratched his head.
    ‘A horse with a white flash on its forehead is lucky, as is a white-footed one, but if it has four white feet they should be avoided, it’ll be unlucky with a surly humour.’
    Someone commented, ‘We’d best be careful then, with the White Horse so close!’ Lob rubbished this idea.
    ‘Of all the horses, a pure white horse is the most auspicious – but its magic is strong, and so it is wise to cross ‘uns fingers, and keep ‘em crossed ‘til ye see a dog.’ Nearby a dog barked, and everyone laughed with relief.
    Snuggled on his coat, John and Betty lay in the twilight, holding one another. Betty tingled all over. This was the first time she’d been close to a man. The first time she had slept outdoors. But since half the village was there, it felt safe and acceptable to do so. It was common for them to sleep out on Horse Fair Hill on this special night. Many