Acharming pastoral scene might have been witnessed in the picturesque valley of Ryedale, northward of Malton, and not far distant from the spot where, in after ages, sprung up the towers of Byland Abbey, one fair midsummer eve in the earlier half of the sixth century—a scene that would have gladdened the heart of a painter, and made him eager to transfer it to canvas, to display it on the walls of the next Royal Academy Exhibition, had painters and Royal Academy Exhibitions been then in vogue. It was in a village near the banks of the Rye—the precursor of what is now called Nunnington; what was its Celtic name we are informed not, but it was a Celtic village, and inhabited by Celtic people, who had been Christianised, and taught the usages and habits of civilized life during the supremacy of the Romans in the island, who had now departed to defend the capital of the world against the incursions of the hordes of barbarians who were thundering at its gates, leaving the Britons, enervated by civilisation and its attendant luxuries, a prey to the Picts and Scots and the Teutonic pirates who infested the surrounding seas.

It was an age of chivalry and romance; the half real, half mythical Arthur ruled over the land, and made head against the Scots and the Teutons, defeating both in several battles. He instituted the chivalric Order of Knights of the Round Table—whose members were patterns of valour and exemplars in religion, and who went forth as knights-errant to correct abuses, protect the fairer and weaker sex, chastise oppressors, release those who were under spells of enchantment, and do battle with giants, ogres, malicious dwarfs, and enchanters, also with dragons, hippogriffs, wyverns, serpents, and other similarly obnoxious creatures. Who hath not read of their marvellous adventures and valorous exploits in the quest of the Sang-real, the histories of Sir Launcelot and Sir Tristram, La Morte d'Arthur, and the Idylls of the King? Witches and warlocks, sorcerers and ogres, tyrants and oppressors, then abounded in the land, and beauteous damsels, the victims of their cruelty and lust, so that there was plenty of work, to say nothing of the reptiles of the forests, for the entire army of valiant knights who went forth from Caerleon on the Usk in quest of adventures, inspired by the approving smile of Queen Guinevere and of the fair ladies in whose honour they placed lance in rest, and whose supremacy of beauty they vowed to maintain in many a joust and tournament.

The village lay in a spot where nature had spread out some of her loveliest features of valley, upland, and meandering river of silvery sheen running through the midst; whilst trees of luxuriant foliage, in groups and thickets of forest land, enshrined the whole as a fitting framework for the sylvan picture. Farmsteads were scattered about, and a cluster of humbler cottages, the habitations of the serf class of farm labourers constituted the village.

As we have seen, it was Midsummer Eve, a day of festival and rejoicing which had been observed from time immemorial, for now the sun approached the nearest to the zenith with its fructifying beams, and in celebration of the event a huge bonfire had been built up on an eminence outside the village; whilst around it, hand in hand, danced the youths and maidens with much glee and merriment, with boisterous mirth, and many a joke and song, and moreover with no lack of flirtation between the lads and lasses, who footed it merrily, and became more and more vigorous in the dances as the flames mounted higher and higher. Although they knew it not, this village carnival was a survival of the paganism of the past, when the remote ancestors of the existing generation worshipped Baal, the great Sun God. It had come down through centuries of homage to the creature instead of the Creator, and having been regarded as a great holiday, did not suffer extinction at the advent of Christianity, but was permitted to be retained in that capacity, without any reference to religious ceremonial, which in course of time was entirely forgotten. And it is a remarkable instance of the vitality of ancient customs to observe that in some parts of Yorkshire, in Holderness to wit, "Beal fires" are lighted on Midsummer Eve, even to the present day.

The elders of the village were seated about in groups on the turf, watching the upblazing of the fire, casting approving smiles on the joyous gambols and incipient match-making of their progeny, and talking of their own juvenile days, when they were equally happy partners in the circling dance. The blue sky overhead was cloudless, and in the western horizon the setting sun shot forth beams of golden light; and all was hilarity and happiness. A queen of the festival had been chosen—the most beautiful maiden of the village, a sweet girl of eighteen, with brilliant complexion, melting blue eyes, and flowing curls of flaxen hue. A platform of boughs had been improvised upon which to carry her on the shoulders of a half-dozen young bachelors back to the village with songs of triumph, and the procession had just been arranged, when a loud hissing sound was heard to issue from the neighbouring forest, a sound which in these days would have been attributed to a passing railway train; but which then sounded strange and unearthly, and spread consternation among the merrymakers, who turned and looked with panic-stricken countenances in the direction from whence the sound came.

The first impulse of the crowd was to fly to their homes, from the unknown object of dread, but curiosity prompted a counter-impulse, a desire to see what gave rise to the fear-inspiring sound. Nor had they long to wait, for a few minutes after a monstrous reptile, with the body of a serpent and the head of a dragon, its mouth seeming, to their excited imaginations, to breathe out flame, issued from the wood and came across the open space with fearful but graceful undulations towards the terrified villagers. The air appeared to become charged, too, with a pestiferous influence, issuing from the nostrils of the monster, which increased in intensity the nearer it came. With shrieks and wild cries, those who had been dancing so merrily but a few minutes before took to their heels to find refuge in their cottages, exclaiming, "Oh, that Sir Peter Loschi were here to deliver us from the monster!" All reached their habitations and barred their doors; all save one, the beautiful young queen of the festival, the pride of the village—the beloved of every one—who, fascinated like a bird by the eyes of the reptile, had stood gazing upon it so long that she was quite in the rear of the fugitives, and was overtaken by the serpent, who immediately coiled the foremost part of its body round her, and in this fashion carried her back into the forest. As she did not reappear, it was concluded that she had been devoured; and day after day one young damsel after another disappeared after going to the spring for water, or on other open-air errands, all of whom, it was doubted not, had furnished meals for the monster. Indeed, at times he was seen carrying them off as he had done the poor little queen, until at length the village seemed to be becoming depopulated of its maidenhood. The men at times went armed with bludgeons to attack the serpent in his cave on the hill side, but were ever driven back by the poisonous exhalations of the animal's breath, which seemed to render them faint and powerless; and two or three of the bolder spirits who approached the nearest to the den died under its influence. And the people continued to cry, "Oh, Sir Peter Loschi, why do you tarry?"—for in him lay all their hope of deliverance.

This Sir Peter Loschi, whose aid was so frequently and fervently invoked, was the owner of a castle and certain broad acres in the vicinity. He was a Celt of unadulterated blood, although his name has nothing Celtic about it. Single names were then only used, with the exception of an addition of some personal characteristic or locality, for distinction sake when there were two persons bearing the same, and we may suppose that the two names of Peter and Loschi originally formed one word, which has become altered and corrupted in passing from generation to generation, in a similar manner to that of George Zavier, which became transmuted through Georgy Zavier, etc., to eventually Corky Shaver. Be that as it may, he was the last male of a long line of ancient British knights and warriors, and was himself not inferior to any of his ancestors in military skill and almost reckless daring, having fought with distinction against the wild hordes of Picts and Scots, who came down from their desolate northern mountains to make raids on the more fertile lands of the Britons south of the Border, and against the piratical Saxons and Angles who were endeavouring to get a foothold on the island. He was one of King Arthur's Knights of the Round Table, and was often at the Court of Queen Guinevere at Caerleon, consorting with his brother knights in the mutual recital of their adventures, in friendly tilting matches, and in dallying with the fair ladies of the Court, one of whom he had chosen as the mistress of his heart, and whose favour he wore in front of his helmet at many a passage of arms in the courtyard of a castle or in the field of a tournament. Occasionally he went forth for periods of six or twelve months as a knight-errant, for the purpose of redressing wrongs, slaying enchanters, etc., and was known as the Knight of the Sable Plume, from that ornamental appendage of his casque. The cognisance that he bore on his shield was a chevron arg. between three plumes sable, on ground or; and many a doughty deed had he performed, young as he still was, under this cognisance.

He did not spend much time at his ancestral home in Ryedale, being so much occupied at Court and in the quest of adventures as a knight-errant, only going there occasionally to regulate matters relating to his household and estates, look after his vassals and retainers, and make arrangements for the well-being of the villagers. He had now been absent about three years, having, at the instance of his ladye-love at Caerleon, donned his armour, taken his lance in hand, and gone for that space of time to protect the impotent, redress the injured and oppressed, and slay giants and sorcerers, as a test of his valour, at the end of which said period, if he had acquitted himself as a preux-chevalier, she might possibly consent to become the mistress of Ryedale Castle. The period was now drawing to a close, and he had performed many a valorous deed; he had slain a gigantic Saxon in single combat; he had recovered the standard of King Arthur from some half-dozen Picts, who had seized it after killing the bearer of it; he had rescued a damsel from the hands of an enchanter; another from the fangs and claws of a lion, and a third from a giant who was dragging her along by the hair of her head; he had killed a dragon, a griffin, and a hippogriff, had done many another wondrous and valorous deed, and was now going back to Caerleon to claim the hand of the lady at whose behest he had performed all these marvellous achievements, little dreaming all the time that his own people in Ryedale were in sore need of his stalwart arm and trusty sword.

As the knight had been northward, it was necessary to pass through what is now Yorkshire on his way to Caerleon, and he deemed it expedient to call at his Ryedale Castle to see how matters had been going on there during his long absence. It was about a month after the first appearance of the "worm," when the villagers were beginning to experience the truth of the saying that "hope deferred maketh the heart sick," having lost many members of their community through the propensity of the serpent for human flesh, and no Sir Peter coming to deliver them from the ravages of the monster, when the figure of a horseman, with a nodding black plume, was seen "pricking o'er the plain," who was immediately recognised as the veritable Sir Peter Loschi, which gave rise to an exhilarating shout of welcome from the villagers, who cried, "Now shall we be delivered from the ravenous worm." Sir Peter rode on to his castle, where the first being to welcome him was a favourite mastiff, who came gambolling about him with the most affectionate demonstrations of rejoicing at seeing his master once more. The following morning a deputation of the villagers waited upon him, explained their troubles in respect to the worm, and prayed for his assistance in ridding them of the monster. He inquired into the particulars, and having been accustomed in his travels to several encounters with noxious animals of this character, he readily understood what he would have to deal with, and promised his aid, but added that as some preparations would be necessary, the enemy being of an exceptional description, he would not be able to undertake it within a month, and that they must endure it the best they could in the interval.

Sir Peter got a sight of the serpent, and a formidable monster he appeared to be, more terrible than any he had previously met with; and he saw that it behoved him to make special provision for the combat. He pondered the matter over for a few days, and then mounted his steed and rode to Sheffield, where he employed certain cunning artificers to make him a complete suit of armour studded with razor blades. Although razors are alluded to by Homer, and have been used by the Chinese for unknown centuries, it is doubtful whether they were a staple manufacture on the banks of the Sheaf and the Rivelin in the sixth century. It is true that Chaucer speaks of a "Sheffield whittle," but this was eight centuries afterwards, and it is equally to be doubted whether Sheffield, even as a village, existed at that time; but anachronisms are of small moment in legends, and we are required to accept it as a fact, that the knight had his novel suit of armour fabricated in the valley of the Sheaf.

When it was completed, he returned with it to Ryedale, and gladly was he welcomed by the villagers, as the serpent had been committing more ravages amongst the population. He had a sword, a Damascus blade of wonderful keenness, which possessed certain magical properties, similar to those of King Arthur's famous Excaliber; and one morning, after donning his armour, he took the sword in his hand and went forth to the combat. His dog accompanied him, and it was with difficulty that he was prevented from leaping up in caressing gambols against the sharp razor blades.

The serpent had its den in the side of a wooded eminence near East Newton, by Stonegrave, which has since then gone by the name of Loschy Hill, in memory of the great fight between the Knight and the Dragon. Sir Peter, who was on foot, strode along boldly towards the hill, followed by his dog, which seemed to be perfectly aware that some exciting sport was before them, as he rushed about hither and thither, sniffing the air, as if his keen scent gave him intimation that game of an unusual character was not far off, and he barked and growled, as if in defiance of the foe; whilst the villagers stood afar off, with eager countenances, to watch the progress of the combat. As the knight came nearer, he became aware of a pestiferous odour that seemed to contaminate the air; and the dog scented and sniffed, and gave vent to more prolonged growlings and louder barking, and seemed to tremble with excitement in anticipation of the coming fray.

The serpent had not yet breakfasted, and seeing the man and dog approach, darted from his den and made for the dog, with which he thought to stay his appetite as a first mouthful, but the dog was too nimble and eluded his attack, leaping upon one of the curves of its body and biting it with mad excitement; whilst the knight struck it a blow with his sword which almost cut off its head, but the wound healed up instantly, and the serpent coiled itself round his body, in order to crush the life out of him, and then devour him at its leisure. It had not, in doing so, taken into account the razor blades, which cut its body in a multitude of gashes, and caused the blood to stream down on the earth; but this was not of much consequence, as it immediately uncoiled and rolled itself on the earth, when all the wounds closed up. Foiled in this attack, the monster then began to vomit out a poisonous vapour, so horrible and overcoming that the knight seemed ready to sink under its influence, but rallying his energies, he aimed a blow which cut the serpent in two, but the severed parts joined again immediately. All this time the monster was hissing in a fearful manner, and breathing out poison, and the knight began to fear he must succumb and become its prey; but determined not to give in so long as he could continue the fight, he aimed another blow with his sword and severed a portion of the tail end, although feeling persuaded that it would become reunited as before; but his dog, evidently a sagacious animal, having witnessed the former reunion, seized it in its teeth and ran off with it to a neighbouring hill, then returned and carried away other portions as they were cut off successively. The serpent writhed with pain, but afraid, or seeing the uselessness of attacking the razor-armed man, made many attempts to seize the dog, but in vain, as he was too agile to be caught; therefore he depended more on the venom of his breath at this juncture, which he continued to pour forth, and which he knew must eventually overpower his enemy. The dog had returned from his third or fourth journey and came up to his master, wagging his tail in seeming congratulation of the cleverness with which they were gradually accomplishing the destruction of the foe, when the serpent made a spring upon him, but at the same instant the knight's magic sword descended upon his neck and severed the head from the body, which the dog at once seized and carried off to a distance, placing it on a hill near where Nunnington Church now stands.

The monster was now dead which had caused so much terror and desolation, and the villagers shouted with joy as they saw the head carried past by the dog. Meanwhile the knight stood by the remaining portion of the body as it lay prone on the earth, quivering with the remains of its vitality. He was exhausted with his exertions, but more by the poisonous exhalation which the body still gave forth, but in rapidly diminishing volume. He was recovering from its effects and was waiting awhile to gain sufficient energy to leave the scene of his triumph, when the dog returned, but apparently in a very languid condition; still, however, evincing marks of satisfaction and pleasure at the conquest he and his master had achieved. The knight stooped down to pat caressingly his faithful companion, who, in return, reached up and licked his face. Unfortunately, in carrying away the head, the seat of the venom, the dog had imbibed the poison, and in licking his master's face had imparted the virus to him, and a few minutes were sufficient to produce its fatal effects, the knight and his dog falling to the earth together, and when the villagers came up they found both dead.

Although the villagers were rejoiced at the death of the serpent, their lamentations were equally great over the fate of the knight, who had sacrificed his life for their deliverance; and for many a month and year did they cherish his memory and mourn his death.

In Nunnington Church there is a monument of a knight, a recumbent effigy, with a dog crouching at his feet; and this, tradition says, is the tomb of the valorous Sir Peter Loschi and his equally valorous dog, who were buried together, and the monument erected in grateful memory of their achievement.