Munley Priory: A Gothic Story

1

THE White Rose was one of those old, rambling country inns, the like of which may be found in any English village of suitable antiquity. Warped and battered, comprised of odd angles and uneven dimensions, yet possessing a certain rustic charm for all its wear and tear. The damp had been creeping in for years, making doors stick in their frames and curling the floorboards. In the first floor hallway, a bottle placed on its side against the east wall would roll all the way to the other end. Downstairs in the common room the ceiling sagged like an inverted parasol, and gave the impression that the building was slowly collapsing in on itself.

Work had ceased for the day, and here the common folk of Munley village were gathered for a mug of ale, a story, and perhaps a song or two, in a nightly ritual that had continued unbroken for centuries. With the refreshments served and the patrons having assumed their usual positions about the common room, a lively debate was now in progress—its purpose to determine the shape of the evening's entertainment.

'Just as long as there ain't no dancin'!' growled Old Carter, who sat smoking a long-stemmed pipe by the hearth. 'So ye can put that fiddle away now. I don't think me knees could take it.'

'I say we let the doctor choose,' said Thomas Green, a heavy-set man with a face like an overripe tomato. 'It ain't often he graces us with his company. Maybe he has a song or a tale of his own he'd like to share? What songs do they sing down in London, Dr Marlowe?'

'None suitable for such worthy company as this, I'm afraid!' Dr William Marlowe, a bespectacled, slightly-built gentleman of twenty-four years was an infrequent visitor to the White Rose, but after much persuasion had agreed to join his elderly manservant Eric for a watery pint. 'And I was always a terrible singer—somewhere between an alto and a rusted hinge. Not much good with tales either, but I am always happy to hear one. So let us have a story, if all are agreed? I understand my Eric is a veritable encyclopaedia of Yorkshire folklore.'

'Well, that were me father, if the truth be known,' Eric said, dipping his head modestly so that his bushy eyebrows shielded his gaze. 'I only parrot what he told me when I was a wee lad—as far as the tellin' goes he was the master.'

'A story, then,' said Green. 'What about the Witch o' Redmere? That's a good 'un.'

'We had the Pendle Witches last night,' said Carter. 'Can't have witches two nights in a row. We'll start attracting them.'

'The Lambton Worm?'

'I don't know it, other than the name,' said Eric. 'If ye want it ye'll have to tell it yerself.'

'Jack-in-Irons? The Green Man o' Coxton Wood?'

'How about the tale o' Mad Edmund?' suggested Wilkinson, one of the younger lads. 'We haven't had him for a while.'

A sudden silence followed the youth's request, and there was much shaking of grizzled heads.

'I don't think anybody wants to hear that one, lad,' Eric said, darkly.

'I do.' William was intrigued. 'Mad Edmund... this is a local legend, yes? I keep hearing the name. Isn't he the fellow who is supposed to haunt Munley Priory?'

'A legend... would that he were!' The old man crossed himself. 'Nay, sir. Mad Edmund's as real as you or I.'

'I find that difficult to believe.'

'You believe what you want, lad, but there's seven, eight newly-filled graves in the cemetery that say he's real,' Carter said, removing his pipe, 'as well as countless others over the years. Besides, I seen him. Nine foot tall he was, wearin' a great dark cape and hood. And his eyes... they shone like two lumps o' burnin' coal. Rooted me to the spot, they did—made me go all woozy. It were Him. Mad Edmund, son o' the Devil. I'm tellin' ye, I'd be dead now if me boy hadn't come out wi' that lantern and scared him off.'