My Ladye Hath a Sable Coach

THE GHOST OF MARY HOWARD,

MURDEROUS DENIZEN OF FITZFORD HOUSE

Devon Fields by Emma Hunter. A Miniature in Oils.

Think of Devonshire, and a series of images come immediately to mind. This is Ambrosia country, painted green with peaceful rolling hills, pleasant farms and cosy cottages. The coast is dotted with picturesque fishing villages, beautiful beaches and smart resorts. It is beautiful, in a gentle, safe, very English kind of way.

But then along comes Dartmoor, which is anything but these things. Filled with darkly brooding landscapes, magnificent tors and barren wastes, it is a place of melodrama and mystery. A place where it is all too possible to believe in things that should not be.

Pewtor at Sunset

Dartmoor's most famous ghost story involves a much-maligned noblewoman, one who lived during the restoration of the monarchy. Lady Mary Howard, daughter of the dissolute Sir John Fitz, had a difficult life. Indeed, she was only nine when her father committed suicide.

Few in Tavistock mourned his passing, for John was bad to the bone. Having inherited vast estates on the border of Devon and Cornwall, he made the most of living above the law. Having already murdered one man during a drunken squabble, his best friend Sir Nicholas Slanning, he killed a second near London before stabbing himself in the chest.

As was the way in those days, Mary was taken from her remaining family and made a ward of court. In all essence, she was sold to the highest bidder, that they might marry her estates and claim them for their own. As such, she found herself wed at the tender age of twelve to the Earl of Northumberland's brother. There was of course no love involved in the arrangement. The Earl had bought the role of "protector" of the girl due to her great wealth. His brother owing Earl Percy vast sums of money, he was ensuring a way of having the debts repaid.

In fact, the husband died without Mary ever seeing him again. Still a child, their marriage happily unconsummated, she heard the news from afar that he had passed away. It was to be the first of four marriages, only one of which was actually made for love. Although one of these unions ended with divorce, the other three concluded with poor Mary being widowed.

The Much-Maligned Mary Howard

Such misfortune might have made local people pity her, but they did not. The Fitz name had been blackened irrevocably by her father's actions and now people suspected the same of her.

"Afterall, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree," they would whisper. "Three husbands dead....and now also a child in the grave. Perhaps Mary inherited murderous passions alongside her parent's wealth."

All of which explains her presence as a most terrible apparition.

Each night, Mary's corpse leaves Fitzford Gatehouse in Tavistock. Her carriage is composed of the bones of her murdered husbands and children. It is pulled by skeletal stallions, whipped into a frenzy by a headless horseman.

Any who witness it race towards another family possession, the ruined castle at Okehampton, are cursed to die themselves. But why, you might ask, must Mary's ghost make this nightly journey?

It is punishment for her earthly crimes. She is condemned to enact a fruitless task, to pluck bare the castle mound of grass, one blade at a time, before sunrise. Only when the chore is complete will her soul know eternal rest, but it is of course a quite impossible mission. She therefore repeats the journey each night, as she has for the past 346 years. It is a journey she is doomed to repeat until the end of time.

My Ladye hath a sable coach,

And horses tow and four;

My ladye hath a black blood-hound

That runneth on before.

My ladye's coach hath nodding plumes,

The driver hath no head;

My ladye is an ashen white,

As one that long is dead.

The Gatehouse...All That Remains of the Fitzford Estate

Okehampton Castle Ruins

A Postscript to this Tale...

There are two interesting footnotes to this story. The first involves my time managing The Royal Standard public house in Mary Tavy. The moorland village lies astride the former King's Highway, the one-time coaching route linking Tavistock to Okehampton. Should the tale of Marys spectral coach be true, she might be seen from the pub's windows late at night.

Of course, I never saw anything of the sort but the building was haunted by a ghostly woman. Not only I saw her, so did my daughter Charlotte, a barmaid named Katrina and an old flame of mine, Jennifer from Manchester. The impression I got each time was fleeting: more a hint of a woman, than a woman herself. The one thing I did notice was that she was clothed in gold dress, possibly a ball gown. Why such an elegant personage should haunt a tin miner's drinking house is unknown.

One of my regulars, the resident of a neighbouring cottage, told me the pub was known to be haunted in this way. She said it was believed that the ghost was Lady Tavistock. In other words, none other than the infamous Mary Howard!

Before ever I'd taken the pub on, I began writing a book called The Children of Powerful Men. It is a Celtic crime novel, set upon Dartmoor and the romantic Cornish coast, and it features an array of characters from both the history and folklore of the area. By serendipity, fate or coincidence, Sir John Fitz, his victim Nicholas Slanning, and poor Mary's mother Brigit all play prominent roles. Should you wish to give it a go, it is available on Kindle at The Children of Powerful Men

A Quick Half and a Trio of Haunted Pubs

Over the Tamar and into Cornwall, for there is a curious tale to relate about The Tree Inn at Stratton. Long before Bude became a hip surf resort, neighbouring Stratton was an important stop on the coaching route now grandly termed the Atlantic Highway. Its moment making headlines occurred a long time ago, during the English Civil War. For when Charlie’s fun-loving cavaliers planned 1643’s Battle of Stratton, the village inn was their choice of H.Q.

The Tree Inn at Stratton

Sir Bevil Grenville

The royalist troops were led by Sir Bevil Grenville, described as the only man who knew how to handle the Cornishmen. Loving Bevil as only the most loyal soldiers can, they were happy to march into battle against apparently overwhelming odds. That was certainly the case during his attack on Ralph Hopton’s parliamentarians, a skirmish none but himself expected to win.

By his side was Anthony Payne. Standing at 7ft 4in, he was the last of the Cornish giants. After the war, he retired to live at The Tree, dying peacefully in 1691. His coffin was so large, it had to be lowered through a hole made in the roof.

Courtyard at The Tree Inn

I visited this lovely, historic pub six years ago, to drop off beer from the brewery I worked at. Whilst there, I may have been tempted to try a swift half myself…the old memory isn’t as strong as it used to be! However, what I do recall is the interesting tale the then landlady told me about the back bar. It was, she assured me, haunted!

An Ulsterman had the pub at the time, a great, fat fellow; I can’t seem to remember his name. Anyway, it doesn't matter, for it was his wife’s mother who’d seen the ghost, not him. The ghost was an old woman, sat on a chair by the fireplace. In fact, not only did his mother-in-law see the ghost, she even talked to it. Many a conversation she enjoyed with the spectral punter, even though no one else ever heard so much as a whisper from it.

The White Hart Hotel in Okehampton

A similar tale was told at The White Hart in Okehampton. This coaching inn, on the fringes of Dartmoor, must once have offered a very welcome sight to those travelling on inclement evenings, for it provided warmth and shelter of the kind unheard of upon the moor. Yet the tale told was not about the clatter of ghostly hooves, and neither did it involve the spirit of anyone who stayed there long ago. Rather, it was another old lady, one who asked the most prosaic of questions about room rates and the like.

The manager called the young receptionist to his side and dressed her down for not coming to help in the busy bar.

“But I couldn’t leave my post,” she protested. “I was dealing with a customer.”

“What customer?” he scoffed. “There was nobody there.”

“Oh, but there was sir,” she insisted. “An old lady. You must’ve seen her.”

She claimed to have been kept occupied with a veritable barrage of enquiries.

To settle the argument, the manager inspected footage from the CCTV cameras. Nothing was seen save the pretty young receptionist…who chatted merrily away at what appeared to be an empty space!

Chillaton, with the Chichester Arms

Both inns are under new ownership and remain as busy as ever. Sadly, another of the pubs I sold beer to, The Chichester Arms in Chillaton, is no more. It has gone the way of so many atmospheric country pubs, neglected by the village it once served so proudly. Boarded up, it offers just a hint of the great times local people must once have enjoyed there. Occasions so enjoyable that one visitor refused to allow even death to prevent him returning each night.

The Chichester Arms

The name of Charlie, he went by, and every night after closing time he played a trick or two on The Chichester’s last landlady. She told me that he would unlock all the doors whilst she slept, and unplug both the television and Sky box. Each morning, she would wake up to see the wires laid neatly beside each other.

One night, he took his mischief further. The landlady awoke to smell the unmistakeable aroma of cooking fat reach her upstairs rooms. Rushing down to the pub kitchen, she found the commercial fryers switched on.

To my great amusement, she then related to me how she’d chastised the errant spook for his behaviour. Wagging her finger in the air, and adopting the kind of tone one normally uses when addressing an ill-behaved dog, she told Charlie that she didn’t mind him unlocking the front doors, but switching on the fryers was, “stupid and dangerous.”

The dressing down apparently worked, for she told me Charlie never pulled that trick again. Suitably chastened, he reined in his sense of humour and limited his pranks to unlocking doors and loosening cables once more.

The Witch Bride of Stowford

(A Work of the Imagination, Inspired by a Walk There on Satuday, 20th October 2018)

Stowford is a small village, no more than a hamlet really, not far from Launceston and the border with Cornwall. These days, the grange and manor farms offer no more than hints of the past, what with their barns and stone outbuildings turned into homes for the elderly and well-heeled, but it was once a thriving agricultural community. One that was surprisingly prosperous for its tiny size and remote location.

More than one visitor noted the remarkable affluence of the place. The farms looked handsome and comfortable, exceedingly so. The farmhouses themselves were grand, the cottages offered their labourers comfortable, and there was a surfeit of carts and wagons for bringing produce to market. Harvests were always bountiful, which went some way to explaining how the village prospered whilst all around struggled for a livelihood.

Perhaps most outsiders were not observant enough to notice the strange, dead, stump of a tree standing in a field near the barton. And if they did, they weren't curious enough to remark upon its existence, for it would've struck them as nothing more odd than an old oak probably hit by lightning. In fact, the bleached, limbless entity was far more important than that to the people of Stowford. It was their witch oak. Around whose skeletal trunk were performed the rituals they held responsible for their wealth.

Upon the eve of each cardinal date those villagers met, to enact the kind of rites once celebrated by all in this pagan isle. Witnessed by the rector of St John the Baptist church, they returned to their race's pre-Christian heritage. Although proud of their devotion to the old ways, grateful for the harvests they felt sure were due to heathen acts, they knew to keep their actions secret and hidden from outsiders. In those days of religious zealotry, inquisitions and witchcraft trials, it wouldn't have done to admit to practicing traditional beliefs.

It happened that a young maiden was required for the quarterly rituals, a virgin of impeccable standing in the community. In the year of our lord,1776, that village girl was one Annie Woolacombe, who could trace her bloodline back to beyond the Conquest. Beautiful and fair, she was, with long flaxen hair and a pale heart-shaped face. A body as ripe as summer fruit. Many a farming lad desired her, but Annie was too good for them. Nature had bestowed upon her such good looks as attracted the eye of a far more noble kind of suitor.

Enter Thomas Harris, heir to a great mid-Devonshire estate. Courted Annie he did, swept her from her feet with tales of wealth and comfort in his stately pile near Lyfton. The maiden's family begged her not to fall for Harris, because they knew her importance to the community. Should she marry, they would be left without a witch bride to conduct their ceremonies, and that threatened poverty and want for all. There was not as yet another girl old enough to replace her. Wait a while, they pleaded, until your cousin Mary is old enough to take your place. She is 13 now, t'will only be another three years before she is able to succeed you. Then you can join this rich gentleman in marriage.

Annie would not be told. She meant to wed her noble beau and would not be defied. And so, on the third Saturday in October, a carriage left her father's farm on the outskirts of the village. Its cargo was the most beautiful girl the village had ever seen, its destination St John the Baptist church, where her handsome groom awaited.

When she arrived, just as the church clock struck three, young Annie's heart was broken. Her husband-to-be was not there.

The rector claimed he had suffered last minute nerves, and fled with a change of mind. Her bridesmaids confirmed the tale, all present in the congregation likewise. But if that was so, why, Annie asked, did he leave strange tokens of his being there behind him? Items of the unfortunate man's clothing were found in the churchyard, as though torn in a struggle. The stone by the gate bore fresh blood upon its surface.

Returning home, the girl used her unholy powers to ask the spirits what had really become of Thomas Harris and the answer was pretty much as expected. Determined not to lose their virgin witch bride to married life, the villagers had conspired to murder him!

What happened next is disputed by historians and folklorists. The former, prosaic in their teaching, stubborn in their refusal to see beyond science, say an illness of some kind struck the village. That it was confined to Stowford's boundaries, not even crossing the lane into neighbouring Portgate, is explained by the suggestion that folk did not in those days mix with those from outside their community.

Of course folklorists, and those of a more imaginative bent, tell a very different tale. They say Annie invoked demons to avenge her murdered groom. They say that the villagers, all of whom conspired to do away with him, received the most terrible retribution for their sins.

Whoever is right, what is true for sure, is that the tiny community of Stowford remains haunted by the witch bride. Upon the third Saturday of each October, the clatter of ghostly wheels can be heard travelling down the lanes to its lovely church; also the sound of neighing, as a spectral horse leads the wagon to a wedding that never occurred.

The scent of fresh flowers, perhaps the tragic bride's bouquet, catches the air. The old standing stone beside the churchyard gate is stained an impossible red.

Of course, the inhabitants of modern day Stowford are oblivious to all this. Numbed by televised sport and reality shows, obsessed with such frightful anxieties as Brexit and talk of war with Russia, they do not sense the very obvious presence surrounding them. But it is there and, maybe if you are sensitive to such things, you will feel it too.

 

The Myth of Three Rivers

There is a river that rises in the verdant countryside of the southwest, that twists and turns with each and every contour of the land, fingers exploring the valley’s moist folds, restlessly persisting in its journey, seeking the ocean’s loving embrace.

The Tamar at Cotehele Quay, copyright Emma Hunter

This is the Tamar, whose ancient flow divides two very different worlds: the Celtic and the Saxon.

The river forms the natural border between Devon, prosperous, pretty, safe, and Cornwall, land of mist and mystery, memorably described as a Celtic finger pointing towards the sea.

All rivers are lovely, yet the Tamar is fairer than most. On a prosaic level, this has led to its valley being made an AONB, just one step down from a national park. But in the world of myth and folklore, fantasy and imagination, the river’s beauty is explained in more magical ways. Here is the legend of Tamara, Tawrage and Tavy.

A water nymph, as pretty as you please, Tamara won the heart of two brothers, giants she was forbidden from consorting with. Natives of the moor, they went by the names Tawrage and Tavy, and they set about wooing her. Enjoying the chase, she teased the love-struck giants by appearing in their midst, then disappearing again in an ongoing game of hide and seek. But one day, she fell asleep and was cornered by her suitors. She awoke to hear them declare their undying affections.

Tamara enjoyed the attention. Accustomed as she’d been to living underground in a dark cave, the coquette learnt at first hand how exquisite a first romance can be. The giants promised her anything within their power, if only the beautiful nymph would consent to be theirs. They meant her no harm and Tamara was smitten.

Yet an angry father stood in the way of her happiness. A Cornish gnome, he detested all things that dwelt above ground, so when he learnt of the courting, he was furious. Casting a spell on the brothers, he sent them into a deep, enchanted sleep. He then told Tamara to return with him to their home, never to venture into the sunlight again.

Being young and headstrong, his daughter refused his commands. She wanted to remain in the beautiful countryside, and with her suitors, whose reawakening she demanded. Angered by her defiance, the gnome cast another spell, turning his daughter into a river that would flow for always through the land.

And so the River Tamar was born.

After a while, the gnome’s sleeping spells wore off. Tavy woke first and, distraught by the nymph’s disappearance, he broke down in tears. Becoming himself a river, he searches still for his one lost love, unaware that each time he flows into her at Bere Ferrers, he consummates their friendship.

For his brother Tawrage, the outcome was even more tragic. He begged a passing enchanter to turn him likewise but, having lost sight of Tamara, he set a course north, in the opposite direction, Thus the River Taw sails away from his would-be lover and enters the sea on a distant shore near Barnstaple.

A Seafaring Spirit

"There is a statue near the gatehouse of Francis Drake, pirate and slave trader and national hero. Here is your English legend, a man as happy to murder and pillage as he was to defend his country from foreign invaders. This is your hero, a man who stole negroes from Africa and shipped them over to the hot lands of the Spanish Main to work like beasts in fields of sugarcane and tobacco. Celebrate him. Cast his memory in bronze so he can be venerated for ever more."

The Children of Powerful Men, by Lawrence McNeela

Sir Francis Drake, Elizabethan Hero and Privateer

Sir Francis Drake was born on a farm just outside Tavistock in rural west Devon. The exact date of his birth isn’t clear but is generally believed to be 1540. At the age of 55, in the year of our lord 1596, he died of dysentery whilst anchored off the coast of Panama. Buried at sea, his ghost is said to haunt a number of places in his homeland.

 

Buckland Abbey, Devon Home of Sir Francis Drake

There are few figures in English history as controversial as Drake. On the one hand, he is a man whose genius for naval conflict saved his nation from the Spanish Armada, whose skills as a sailor took the tiny Golden Hind around the globe. But on the other, he was a slave trader, murderer and pirate. A man so wicked, even his fellow countrymen feared he was in league with the Devil.

Generations of English schoolboys grew up with tales of his heroism ringing in their ears. I can remember my own fascination with the legend of bowls on Plymouth Hoe, the thrill I received when seeing a replica of his famous ship on a primary school visit to London.

Of course, the Spanish talk about the man in a very different way.

El Draque, they call him: The Dragon. And well-earnt it is, this epithet, for he burnt the coastal city of Vigo to the ground in 1585, plundered Santiago in the Cape Verdes and ransacked Santo Domingo. His almost insatiable greed is evident from the huge ransoms he demanded in return for leaving these communities standing. The fact that, at Santiago, he even stole the cathedral’s bronze bells!

Drake’s Drum

It’s claimed that Drake, shortly before he succumbed to illness, ordered his war drum returned to home, Buckland Abbey in Devon. He gave the command that it be beat when England was next in peril, promising to return from the grave to fight once more.

Mysteriously, there are those who say they’ve heard the drum sound on a number of occasions since, as though it were struck by ghostly hands. It was heard when the Mayflower left nearby Plymouth, when the captured Napoleon Bonaparte was brought ashore as a prisoner and, most tellingly, when World Wars One and Two commenced. During the latter conflict, it was spirited away from Buckland Abbey for safekeeping, on the face of it a wise decision given the danger Plymouth faced from the Luftwaffe. However, there were those who thought the two events keenly related.

An old legend warned the city would fall if the drum ever left its Abbey home. Suddenly, and with this having recently occurred, Plymouth’s historic centre was turned into rubble by Nazi bombs. Heeding the threat, the drum was returned and the blitz soon ceased. Of course, the deployment of radar and fighter squadrons from the new RAF Harrowbeer might have been responsible for that.

Ghostly Sightings

A man in league with the Devil can expect no rest, and Drake’s ghost is said to haunt a number of places. One is The Ship Inn on St Martin’s Lane in Exeter. An old, probably forged, letter proved a connection betwixt salty pub and seadog. According to one legend, the landlady of The Ship actually barred Drake because he could be a nuisance when drunk. His spirit now haunts the place, in apparent defiance of her instructions.

He is also seen at Nutwell Court, a country house standing on the east bank of the Exe estuary at Lympstone. Interestingly, one of his descendants is said to haunt the road outside, having been thrown from his horse during an ill-advised race to a local alehouse.

His unhappy spirit is thought trapped by some within Buckland Abbey, but it’s also known to stalk the wilds of Dartmoor of a night. Fleeing the black hunt, pursued by a pack of spectral wisht hounds, Drake races across the tors to avoid giving up the eternal soul he promised the evil one in return for his famed seafaring prowess.

The Most Haunted Pub In England

There is a very nice pub at Lydford, The Castle Inn. Indeed, there are a good few hostelries in this part of Devon, nowadays catering largely to tourists, but once the haunt of thirsty farm labourers. However, it is fair to say that no others are quite like...

THE HIGHWAYMAN INN at SOURTON

During the crazy, psychedelic Sixties, a Welshman named Buster created from the dull fabric of a Dartmoor roadside pub something weird and very wonderful. That he succeeded is clear from the 

porch, which is the carriage of an old Launceston to Tavistock stagecoach.

Once inside, the visitor's senses are assailed by a cornucopia of strange artefacts and curiosities, which are best described as Tolkein-esque. Even the ladies toilets are incredible, having been shortlisted for Loo of the Year! The Galleon Bar is the most remarkable room of all, being decorated to resemble the below decks quarters of an old sailing ship. And it is here that things turn very creepy indeed.

The Wishing Tree

The Author Enjoys A Beer At The Highwayman Inn

The Highwayman Inn is said to be haunted by a number of ghosts. One is very possibly a cavalier who died at the nearby Battle of Sourton Down, a Civil War skirmish that took place during the April of 1643. Known as Samuel, he is dressed in green and wears a hat with a large feather in it.

Other ghostly sightings include a seadog named Captain Grenville, a mysterious figure who walked one night into the pub, then promptly disappeared without paying for his ale, and a lady of ill repute. In other words, not all that different to many other pubs in the Plymouth area, except that these punters don't belong to the world of the living.

Oddly Enough, Not The Strangest Visitor To The Inn

Back to the Galleon Bar, which contains a door salvaged from the ill-fated Diana, a Hull whaler from the Victorian age. Trapped in Newfoundland ice, the Diana lost 13 members of her crew in the winter of 1868. When she finally limped back to Britain, she ran aground.

Psychics claim the strange noises heard in the room are due to the presence of this door, which somehow continues to hold the souls of the poor unfortunates who died all that time ago. Whatever the truth, I visited with my daughters a few year's back and found the place very unsettling.

The Haunted "Galleon Bar"

There is a strange atmosphere in the Galleon Bar. It is empty, yet alert, waiting for something to happen. One feels on edge here, uncomfortable. The room is beautifully decorated, fascinatingly so, yet something inside you screams at you to leave. It is as though a very old, and very unwelcoming presence does not want you remaining there.

Charlotte and Erin also claimed to hear things. One said she thought she heard waves crashing, another said she smelt the sea. Of course, that might just have been children's imagination, stirred by the room's dramatic theme. Or it might have been something a lot more sinister, as the Diana sails once more on a voyage towards her doom.

The Black Pig at Lydford

Hangin' Judge Jeffreys, the very name was enough to strike fear within the hearts of the most hardened criminals. And no wonder, for the man responsible for the Bloody Assizes believed in justice at its very harshest. Perhaps that is why, although he was never known to have sat in trial at Lydford, his ghost is said to haunt this pretty village a few miles from Brentor.

Casual visitors could never imagine its importance in days gone by. Yet the tiny community was described as Devon's second largest during the reign of the last Saxon king - only Exeter had a greater population. The vast wealth generated by Dartmoor's tin mines meant the village had its own law courts and prison. It's hard to believe now, but it once returned tax receipts as great as the City of London.

So harsh were the verdicts handed down to alleged miscreants, often before they'd had their guilt proved before a visiting judge, that Lydford Law became synonymous with miscarriages of justice. The Tavistock poet William Browne, writing in the 17th century, described it thus:-

I oft have heard of Lydford Law,

That in the morn they hang and draw,

And sit in judgement after...

An old Norman keep, built upon the site of the Saxon earthworks meant to protect the village, found use as Dartmoor's gaol. Here, any unfortunate enough to have earnt the mine-owning aristocracy's ire, were imprisoned. Browne's words were clear enough in providing an insight into conditions there.

They have a castle on a hill,

I took it for an old windmill,

The vanes blown off by weather.

To lie therein one night, is guessed,

Twere better to be stoned or pressed,

Or hanged, now choose you whether.

Lydford Castle is now in the care of English Heritage and is free to visit. It is an ominous place and there are many who say they feel the misery of ancient inmates trapped within its high stone walls when they look around. A place once considered amongst "the most heinous, contagious and detestable places within the realm", it is hardly surprising that the sensitive should find it unpleasant.

It is perhaps also unsurprising that the ghost said to haunt Lydford Castle is Hangin' Judge Jeffreys, whose cruelty prevents him from moving on in peace to the afterlife. What is more odd, and indeed inexplicable, is that he should take the form of a black pig. Yet that is what people say hereabouts, and hence we have the tale of the black pig at Lydford.