THE CHIEFTAIN AND THE STAG

Mine was an unusual childhood, often solitary but never boring. Left to my own devices for much of the time, I became an avid wanderer and explorer. At night or on wet winter days I would read. And I spent every summer with my aunt who lived in part of an old farmhouse on the Devon/Somerset border in the west of England.

The Batherm Valley, for that's where the farm was, became my kingdom over the years and I knew every tree, rabbit hole and hedge of it. The farmhouse was a Devon long house, no one knew how old. Its name alone attested to centuries of occupation - Hayne Barton - Saxon for home farm.

Beside my aunt, in the greater portion of the house, lived the farmer and his wife, Mr. & Mrs. Headon. Mr. Headon was as timeless as the land he farmed. Heavy, iron shod boots, a sack tied round his waist for an apron and another on his shoulders if it rained. His accent was so thick and rich many could not understand him. He would have been at home and accepted in any of the centuries the farm had existed. He was a purebred Saxon as was Harry Smith, the man who helped him on the farm. How I loved those two, how much they taught me.

A way over the home field and at the foot of a steep slope was a stream, a tributary of the Batherm. This place was the center of my kingdom. (Known to Mr. Headon and Harry as "out over") I spent countless hours there amongst the wild mint, Meadow Sweet and Moon Daisies, sending flotillas of twig boats with leaf sails out on great voyages of discovery. Minnows and frogs would be captured and returned except for a few of the minnows that I transported to the big stone trough in the farmyard where they lived for years much to Mr. Headon's delight. Sometimes I would steal an egg from the henhouse and break it into the stream to watch the minnows feed. That stream, at best a yard across, has never left me. In its time it has been the Thames, the Rhine, the Amazon, the Mississippi, even the Yangtze-Kiang.

One hot day in August I was there. I was armed with a bow Harry had made for me a from a fine hazel. I had arrows too, also made of hazel, and with flights of pigeon feather. It was powerful and almost as big as I was. There was no doubt in my mind that I would hunt and provide food for everyone.

As I knelt on the bank of the stream peering into the depths of a pool I became aware of a slight noise and a presence behind me. I looked around slowly and there, not twenty yards away, was a huge red stag and his hinds standing perfectly still watching me. I felt for my bow. Here was the perfect chance. I would shoot the stag and carry it back to the farm. We would all feast on venison and the mighty head with great antlers would be mounted above my bed.

Illustration by Ron Cameron

Slowly I stood up, not taking my eyes from the huge beast, and notched an arrow to the string. The stag gazed steadily back at me, the hinds nibbled at the grass unconcerned.

I felt the power of the bow as I pulled it back. One shot was all I had, it had to count. Aiming for the center of the huge chest I tried to still my shaking and let the arrow fly.

What happened in those next split seconds I never knew. I heard a rattle and saw my arrow fall uselessly to the ground, deflected from a round shield held by a wild looking, richly dressed man seated on a shaggy pony. Behind him, similarly mounted, were a group of ladies. The man was laughing, his eyes twinkling. At his side was a beautiful sword in a richly decorated scabbard. "Stay your hand, young warrior," he said in a rich, deep voice thick with the burr of the West Country and so like that of Mr. Headon. "We came in peace. Let us cross your valley on our journey to the castle of Cadbury yonder." He pointed to the west. "My ladies and I mean no harm."

I lowered my bow and he smiled. "My thanks. You are brave for one so young. I would do well to have men such as you to ride with me." He spurred his pony and, with the ladies, galloped away up the slope. I must have blinked, for when next I looked, the stag and hinds were disappearing over the top of the rise and away.

I felt a sense of loss. My arrow lay in the grass near where the stag had been.

I was in a turmoil, confused. I ran as hard as I could back to the farm. There, in the yard, was Mr. Headon. I told him about the stag and hinds -not the rest of the story - and he listened patiently as he always did.

"The varmints come down off the moor this time of year 'cos of the fires. They'm dangerous, they big stags. Don't 'ee mess with them again. Damn varmints does no end of damage."
"They won"t do any damage. They were just passing through."
Mr. Headon looked at me. "How do 'ee know that?"
"He told ... "I stopped, "They just were..." I quickly changed the subject and asked, "Where's Cadbury?"
"Away over there." He pointed to the west and fixed me with one of his looks.
"Why?"
"No reason. Just wondered."

He was quiet for a while and got on with his work before stopping and leaning on his fork. "Did 'ee see summat else?"

"No. Just the deer. Why?"
"There's a story that Arthur rode through here with some of his ladies. He left them safe at Cadbury Castle then went on to fight his last battle somewhere down west and got himself killed."
"What happened to the ladies?" I knew the story of Arthur.
"I dunno. There's an old clump of trees up there called Arthur's Maidens. That's all I know. Now I got work to do. Don't 'ee go trying to catch more deer else you'll get hurt."

I still see Arthur. I know it was him, laughing and carrying that magnificent sword. I've sensed him a hundred times since in different places, but he has never spoken to me again as he did that time by the stream.

About Author
Ronald James was born in England in the Thames Valley and grew up there and in London. Much of his childhood when not at school was spent on a remote farm in the West of England where his lifelong involvment with the magic and history of rual England began.

Having made a career as a Fine Art Auctioneer in the United Kingdom, he is now living in the S.W. United States and has custom leather business specialising in unusual and historical items, especially those required by SCA members and re-enactors.

He is busy putting together conducted tours for small groups of lesser known historical sites in England with plans to commence in the next 18 months. For further information or comments e-mail ronaldjames@renstore.com.