Dame Hildegard Titweavil

Who`s that then? I hear you ask.

Well, no one in particular apart from the fact that she was the woman who eventually gave rise to the “Somerset Reapers”, a small band of ne`er do wells and sheep rustlers whose sole intent in life was to cause the downfall of the local gentry.

Now, it`s a little known fact but the main income in medieval Somerset, England, was the pittance gained from the dark art of “blood letting”. A trait passed down from the old ones to the young ones who then became old themselves and so on and so on. The main reason for blood letting in those dark dank, unfurnished days believe it or not, was to keep the population below the legitimate tax threshold. Yes indeed, the more men in the village, the more tax you paid to the local squire.

Well, a typical day in Yellpington was on the cards that bitterly cold frosty morn. Three local youth`s with nothing but a bowl of gruel between them had been selected by the local elders to be summarily pitchforked at seven bells. The feasting slabs had been placed adjacent to the stables, the local anti social development group had pitched their recruitment tent alongside and the stage was set for yet another glorious afternoon out with the kids. But alas, it was not to be. Instead, it went a little like this...........

Greetings and Blessings all ye of Yellpington in the manor of Titweavil, Oh Yay! Oh Yay! shouted the local crier Horatio Gwarbulus Mingtoad, a man of enormous proportions and an avid graffiti artist anxious to make a name for himself.

Bring me thine ears all ye of little knowledge and mediocrity of existence, for I have tales to tell.

Now, having been bereft of all written communication with the outside world for many years, the fact that the town crier had something to announce was an event in itself, ne`er to be missed.

Crier, tell thy tale or be silent will ye, came a request from the extremes of yon` pig pen, a warm and airy place occasionally frequented by the village leper.

`Tis nothing more than a miracle I tell ye, nothing more. I bring you word from the blackened hag herself....... a distinct intake of breath was heard from the gathered masses.........She has put her eye on all of ye...........another distinct etc etc...........Displeased his she, the blackened hag.

Now the Blackened hag was in fact an illiterate lovechild of the Squire Titweavil. Unfortunately, most of the village were descendants of the Titweavils to some degree and suffered from the afflictions present in such times. Many had distinct growth hormone deficiencies, lazy eyes and club feet. All in all, a typical rural community. Anyway, back to it.........

She hath placed her eye on ye of Yellpington. Never before hath an event been witnesseth so grave, so heanus in content. A brief silence followed before the puncline was spit out.... Someone hath stolen the casket of MIA! The crowd looked around at each other, shrugs their shoulders and begins to panic. Ye all must forfeit a bushel of nettles and three piglets to quench the wrath of the hag.............or ye be blackened by the knight of Terminus whose dispensing of her wrath is swift and unyielding!

The crier then takes a deep breath before continuing, his unfortunate bulk beginning to buckle at the knees due to him being stood for more than 5 minutes and weighing 29 stone...........

Well what`s the miracle ye spake of,  before ye cursed us with this vile burden.......came a voice from the open air privvy.......

Aye the miracle, `tis a miracle indeed.......for I hath been given a momentus accolade. I am now in a position of employment as the official bringer of tidings and knowledge!

 The crowd turned to each other and shrugged before returning back into their relative hovels without a word.

Mingtoad stood awhile conversing with the sheep and trees before disappearing behind a local open drain. His presence, delivery and content needed work, he knew that.

Well events ran much according to expectations from then on. The squire got his come uppance at the hands of his dear wife, who by then had taken on the title of “The Howling Moth” a mark of affection granted by the lunatics` and mortally inbred society.

The reapers were known throughout the county of Somerset, and many wary travellers fell foul of their wicked and non too Christian ways. The criminal activities of petty thievery and the dropping of breeches were rife. The outbreak of war with the Devils of Devon, another criminal faction, resulted in many lives being lost, and so more and more fresh faces appeared from all corners of the sacred isle. Men and women of various tongues and persuasions were accommodated and infiltrated by the criminal activities of Yellpington.

Some men and women prospered in this turmoil. One of the most celebrated being Captain Robert Cramlington Fistbury Smythe. An entrepreneur of momentus standing. Responsible for the introduction of brothels and houses of mixed excitement, his influence within the farming fraternity led to the introduction of many well known ailments encountered my man, and beast.

The Moth became stronger and stronger with many followers. Some say she even had an audience with King Henry. An attempt to flounder such outrageous rumours was made by the King`s own Royal regiment, only to flounder itself, when the entire brigade was enticed and duly ruddered, by the staff and utensils of one of Captain Roberts` local “happy houses”.

The parchment on which this tale was inscribed had been torn at this point unfortunately, and remnants of a brown solution tainted the bottom edge..........