Inside the Cardinal's Hat, Norwich!No Tale to Tell
Adapted from an Irish Story
The nights are drawing in and so its time for all storytellers out there to turn their attentions to those darker Devilish tales. Tales like this one, although all you storytellers spare a thought for all those who do not have a story; men like the Pedlar you'll meet below who didn't have a tale to tell....
Once long ago there was Pedlar who went from town to town, village to village and house to house selling his wares, crying, what do you lack, what do you lack, what will you buy from the pack on my back... wherever he went. And one day he came to Norwich walking here and there, there and here, from Ber street to Bishopsgate bridge, from Westwick Street to Whitefriars and on the market place as well, selling his wares.
But times were hard in the City. It was winter, food was short, prices were high and plague was rife and carts loaded with bodies were carted to mass graves to be buried with out care or much in the way of prayer. Whilst others suspected of the great pestilence were nailed up in their houses to await their doom. And so it was the Pedlar did little trade and with little coin in his pouch and winters icy grip reaching deep inside him, he went from inn to alehouse seeking a cheap bed for the night. And after many wrong words his search brought him to the Cardinals Hat, an inn well known for harboring all manner of rogues and knaves . A house of ill rule if ever there was one! The landlord was a giant of a man, red faced and roaring but with smile in his eyes that put the Pedlar at his ease.
He told the Landlord of his needs and the landlord smiled, he sat the Pedlar down and fed him upon hot soup and ale heated with a poker fetched from the fire. He offered the Pedlar a bed free of charge for the night, for all the landlord wanted in return was a story. A story from the Pedlar. But the Pedlar did not have a story. Why even my own story is of little worth, says he, I was born, I was raised and I took to the road like my father and his father before him, and so I have no tale to tell. But the landlord merely laughed. He patted the Pedlar upon the back, lit a candle and led him to a room. Have the bed anyway, says he as he bowed to the Pedlar and bid him goodnight.
Well the Pedlar was well pleased with his room and the bed was the softest he had ever slept in and soon he was drifting off to sleep. But there was a noise, feint at first, a tap, tap, tapping upon the window pane. The Pedlar peered over the covers and saw nowt and so thought it must be a branch from a tree swaying in the wind, for the weather had worsened and there was snow on the way. And the Pedlar thought the tap, tap, tapping so annoying, he would sleep very little that night. He rose from his bed, he padded to the window and opened it to see what he could see. He peered into the darkness but could see no tree nearby, he saw nothing.... Save only a hand attached to the ragged remnants of an arm.... A hand pointing at him. The hand grabbed the Pedlar taking hold of his throat it dragged him through the window, the nails tearing at the flesh of his neck and now another and another hand, many hands took hold of the Pedlar taking his hair, his arms, his feet, dragging him to a churchyard nearby.
And there in the churchyard was pit half dug with a great pile of bodies mouldering nearby. A spade leant against a nearby tree and hanging from its branches was a winding sheet flapping in the breeze. A winding sheet waiting a body to wrap tight. The hands pointed into the pit and a voice that came from void said, Dig. And other voices they too whispered, dig, dig, dig, as the hands pushed the Pedlar into the unfinished grave. To say the Pedlar was scared could not do his feelings full justice, for he was terrified and he knew that the winding sheet flapping on the tree was his, but still he dug. Seeing no way out he dug and he dug and he dug his sobs mingling with the melancholic cawing of crows; crows who sat upon the tree and cackled like old crones, laughing at the poor Pedlar forced to dig his own grave.
The Pedlar dug for what seemed an age whilst the snow fell heavily, making the sides of the pit cold and slippery to the touch. The Pedlar stop crying, resigned now to his fete. But the crows they too had ceased their scathing mocking calls and the whispering cries of, dig, dig, dig, they were no more. The Pedlar set the spade across the top of the hole and pulled himself up, eyes half closed terrified of what he might see. But he saw nowt except the thick snow laden clouds passing across the moon. The hands were gone. The Pedlar slowly pulled himself from the grave and crept through the graveyard making his way towards the gate set in the churchyard wall in front of the porch. Closer and closer he crept as silently and as slowly as he could. Feeling for the gravestones he got closer and closer... But a hand from nowhere took hold of his leg, then another and another. The Pedlar screamed tearing the hands from his body . He threw himself through the gate running as fast as he could towards the Inn, not looking back he leapt onto a cart that sat beneath the open window of his chamber and from the cart he leap towards the window, hooking his fingers over the ledge, pulling himself up. Heaving his aching body into the room, he slammed the window shut, he crawled into the corner of the room and curled up like a frightened child...
And that is how he remained for the rest of the night. Sitting with head between his knees and arms wrapped about him, rocking backwards and forwards until the sun began to rise, the cock crowed and there was a knock at his door that set him jumping again. The Pedlar got to his feet and slowly, very slowly he opened the door just enough to peep through and there was the innkeeper before him. The Pedlar broke down and sobbing he told the red faced man all that had happened in the graveyard, of the crooked crows, hurtful hands and the winding sheet waiting for him. And the Innkeeper looked at the Pedlar still with a smile in his eyes, except now it was a wicked smile. His face that too was much redder than before and now the Pedlar saw that he had hooves for shoes, hairy legs for trousers and a tale that lish lashed, lash lished behind him. For the Innkeeper was the Devil himself, the biggest rogue, the biggest knave of them all. Last night when you came to my Inn, says the Devil to the Pedlar. You told me that you did not have a tale to tell. Well, says the Devil to the Pedlar, well says he.... You have now!
