Free North Yorkshire Folk Tales by Ingrid Barton Page A

had knives –’
    ‘– Sticking out!’ added the blacksmith.
    ‘All over your armour!’ finished the son. They looked at each other.
    ‘That’s it!’ they chorused.
    Making the spiked armour was not an easy task. It had to be carefully designed and made so that the spikes did not break off under pressure. The three spent long evening hours together, drawing plans and occasionally shouting at each other. Finally, the design was finished and the blacksmith and his son set about making it. Neighbours came around to complain that the continual clinking and clanking of hammers kept them awake at night, but when they were told the reason for the noise, they bit their lips and went home.
    At last all was ready and Sir Peter, looking a little like an armoured hedgehog, set off for the dragon’s hill on foot (for he did not wish to risk his warhorse), and accompanied only by his dog, Tip.
    It was just as well Sir Peter was fit, for it was a steep climb in all that steel, but at last he began to hear a sound that chilled his blood, brave though he was: the sound of breaking branches and a low deep hiss as if the very ground were hissing. Tip began barking, and, before Peter even caught a glimpse of what was coming, the dragon, which had been sleeping in the trees above him, dropped its coils over his head. He was completely wrapped in the hideous, writhing, yellow body for a moment and then, as the coils drew together for the final squeeze, a shudder ran through them. A terrible howling came from dragon’s mouth as it stabbed itself on the countless razor-sharp knives of Sir Peter’s armour. Swiftly it released him, twisting and curling and bleeding as it slipped away. In an instant, Peter was pursuing it, sword in hand, striking as hard as he could. The sword bit deep into the flesh and the howling redoubled. The dragon was badly hurt, but not yet beaten, and as Peter leapt after it, it turned and reared up like a great cobra to strike down this impudent dinner. This time Peter was faster and, with a mighty two-handed double stroke, he cut through its neck and saw the horrible head bounce on the ground and roll away. The body thrashed about on its own, smashing small trees, but Peter, sure that he had finally rid the land of the monster, leaned on his sword to get his breath. Not for long! As he watched, the head rolled back across the grass and with a sort of a leap joined itself onto its body again. In an instant, before Sir Peter’s horrified eyes, the dragon was once more reared up snarling and prepared to strike.
    Now Peter had a true fight on his hands. Again and again he cut the dragon into collops, only to see, again and again, the severed parts roll on the earth and then join up again. Now the knight was getting very tired. Fear gnawed at him. His tired brain could only think of one thing: how to stop the pieces of dragon joining together. His situation was getting desperate when he had a sudden flash of inspiration. He whistled for Tip, who, like any sensible dog, had stayed out of a battle too great for him, but who had showed his support by barking.

    ‘Take it away!’ Peter shouted, hitting a section of dragon towards Tip with his sword. Tip got the idea immediately and leapt forwards, seizing the bloody chunk. He raced off towards Nunnington and dropped it on holy ground near the church, then raced back to his master. It was a slow business, whittling the dragon down piece by piece. Both man and monster grew weaker, but still they tried to kill each other with all their remaining strength. Tip himself grew tired, dragging the heavy lumps all the way to Nunnington.
    At last, the head alone was left. Tip wearily took the great thing with its dimming eyes and protruding tongue, and dragged it slowly away.
    Sir Peter tore off his helm and sat down on the bloodstained ground. He was so tired he could scarcely lift his head. He was nearly asleep when, after a long time, Tip returned.
    ‘We did it together!’