Cursed Dancers of Colbek

I came to this story whilst searching for notes on another tale, the dancing plague, or dancing fever, of Strasbourg, in 1418, after being reminded of it by a song from the Cornish gypsy folk (|?!) band, 3 Daft Monkeys: Days of the Dance.

Days of the Dance tells the interesting and mystical story of the dancing plague that took place in Strasbourg in 1518. A woman stepped out on to the street and couldn’t stop dancing. Several days later over 100 people had joined her. They danced for days and days to the sound of professional musicians who were called in to get them to continue dancing. The authorities believed the only cure was to let them dance it off.

As Dr. Hecker of Berlin describes, 1839

In The Penny Magazine, 1839, [1839-11-09], Vol 8 Iss 488, pp439-440.

THE DANCING MANIA.

It is a well-known fact that diseases wear out, not only in individuals, but in nations; the leprosy and the sweating sickness live only in the pages of history, or at any rate, are no longer to be seen in Europe; and St. Vitus’s dance, a troublesome, but rarely a formidable disease, is the meagre remnant of an epidemic which once afflicted thousands, and spread terror and confusion over large districts. This singular change, this mitigation of the disease from a rabid dance to a mere convulsion or distortion of a few muscles, was, we believe, first distinctly narrated and commented on by Dr. Hecker of Berlin.

It was in the year 1374 that assemblages of men and women were seen at Aix-la-Chapelle, who had come out of Germany, and yielded to the uneasiness which oppressed them in the following manner. They formed circles, hand in hand, and continued dancing in the streets for hours together, in a wild delirium, till they fell from sheer exhaustion. They were then in a state of extreme oppression from the tympany which followed these spasmodic ravings; and of this they were relieved by having cloths bound tightly round their waists, or, more simply still, by thumping and trampling on the parts affected. “While dancing they neither saw nor heard, being insensible to external impressions through the senses, but were haunted by visions, their fancies conjuring up spirits whose names they shrieked out; and some of them afterwards asserted, that they felt as if they had been immersed in a stream of blood, which obliged them to leap so high.” [Hecker on 'The Dancing Mania,' translated by Dr. Babington, p.4-5.]

In the worst cases, the attack began with epileptic convulsions; yet, though the patients fell to the ground senseless, and foamed at the mouth, they were able to spring up and begin the dance amid strange contortions. The disease first appeared at Aix-la-Chapelle in July, and in a few months spread over the Netherlands. In many towns the dancers wore garlands in their hair, and had cloths round their waists, which were tightened as soon as the fit was over, to relieve their uneasiness. Many, however, received more benefit from kicks and blows, which the bystanders were ever ready to administer. These morbid pranks were universally attributed to demoniacal possession, and intimidated the people to such a degree, that by express ordinance none but square-toed shoes were to be made, the dancers having manifested a strong dislike to the pointed shoes which had come into fashion in 1350, immediately after the great plague. They were extremely irritated at the sight of red colours, and some of them could not bear to see persons weeping. Whether from the exorcisms of the clergy, or from mere exhaustion, this particular epidemic soon died out, and in ten or eleven months the St. John’s dancers, as they were called, were no longer to be seen in any of the cities of Belgium. This first set of dancers appeared in Aix-la-Chapelle with St. John’s name in their mouths, and it is sufficiently probable that the revels of St. John’s day, 1374, gave rise to the disease. The people, says Dr. Hecker, were suffering from wretchedness and want, and the frantic celebration of the festival, then observed with great form, was sufficient to kindle the malady in constitutions already prepared for it. In the language of medicine, starvation was the predisposing cause, and the gaiety of the festival the exciting one. The bowels, debilitated by hunger and bad food, were naturally attacked by tympanitis, which will account for the relief obtained by bandaging.

At a later period, in 1418, namely, Strasburg was visited by the dancing plague, and here the aid of St. Vitus was invoked for the cure of the patients. St. Vitus was a Sicilian youth who suffered martyrdom with Modestus and Crescentia, under Dioclesian, in the year 303. His fame gradually increased with the progress of time; and at the beginning of the fifteenth century, or perhaps in the fourteenth, the legend came forth that he could and would protect from the dancing mania all who should solemnize the day of his commemoration, and fast upon its eve.

The Strasburg patients were conducted to the chapels of St. Vitus, near Zabern and Rotestein, and, after hearing mass, were led in solemn procession to the altar. It is probable that many were cured there; at all events, they did not dance before the altars of the saint. Burton, in his ‘Anatomy of Melancholy,’ tells the chief facts very pleasantly; he says of St. Vitus’s dance, “It is so called for that the parties so troubled were wont to go to St. Vitus for help; and after they had danced there awhile, they were certainly freed. ‘Tis strange to hear how long they will dance, and in what manner, over stools, forms, tables; even great-bellied women sometimes (and yet never hurt their children) will dance so long that they can stir neither hand nor foot, but seem to be quite dead. One in red clothes they cannot abide. Music above all things they love; and therefore magistrates in Germany will hire musicians to play to them, and some lusty, sturdy companions to dance with them. This disease hath been very common in Germany, as appears by those relations of Schenkius, and Paracelsus, in his book of madness, who brags how many several persons he hath cured of it. Felix Platerus (De Mentis Alienat., cap. iii.) reports of a woman in Basle whom he saw, that danced a whole month together, The Arabians call it a kind of palsy.” There are some curious lines in J. of Königshoven, the oldest German chronicler in existence, describing the epidemic as it appeared at Strasburg:

‘Viel hundert fingen zu Strassburg an,’ &c.

which might be translated -

At Strasburg hundreds of folks began
To dance and leap, both maid and man;
In open market, lane, and street,
They skipped along, nor cared to eat,
Until their plague had ceased to fright us:
“Twas called the dance of holy Vitus.

These dancing plagues, however, are by no means the most ancient recorded in history. In 1237 more than a hundred children were seized with this disease, at Erfurt, and went dancing and jumping along the road to Arnstadt. Here they fell exhausted to the ground; many of them died, and the rest were afflicted with a permanent trembling for the rest of their lives. In 1278, two hundred fanatics began to dance upon the bridge over the Moselle at Utrecht, and would not desist till a priest passed, who was carrying the Host to a sick person, on which the bridge gave way and they were all drowned. Nay, as early as 1027, a similar event occurred near the convent church of Kolbig.

Eighteen peasants are said to have disturbed divine service on Christmas-eve, by dancing and brawling in the churchyard; on which the priest, Ruprecht, cursed them to the effect that they should dance and scream for a whole year without ceasing. This curse was fulfilled, says the legend, so that the sufferers at length sank knee-deep into earth, and remained without nourishment till they were released by the intercession of two pious bishops. Upon this they fell into a deep sleep, which lasted three days; four of them died, and the rest continued to suffer all their lives from a trembling of their limbs.

Whatever fragment of truth there may have been in this story, it was firmly believed during the middle ages, and with the succeeding plagues of a like kind so impressed the minds of the people, that St. Vitus’s dance formed the basis of a heavy maledictia: Dass Dich Sanct Veitstanz ankomme, i.e. may you be seized with St. Vitus’s dance. It was not till the beginning of the sixteenth century that St. Vitus’s dance lost its unhallowed character, as the work of demons, and became the subject of medical inquiry. This was due to that great and eccentric genius Paracelsus, who explained the communication of the disease by sympathy with considerable ingenuity, and recommended a curious remedy for the variety which depended on the imagination. “The patient was to make an image of himself in wax or rosin, and by an effort of thought to concentrate all his blasphemies and sins in it. ‘Without the iniervention of any other person, to set his whole minds and thoughts concerning these oaths in the image;’ and when he succeeded in this, he was to burn the image, so that not a particle of it should remaim.” [Hecker on 'The Dancing Mania,' translated by Dr. Babington, p. 33.]

This imaginative method of curing a distemper dependent on the imagination, appears to be copied, as Dr. Babington observes, from a classic mode of enchantment. The sorceress made a wax image of the person to be tormented; and by sticking pins into the figure, or melting it before the fire, she hoped to inflict similar ills on the-prototype. Thus Simoetha says, in Theocritus:

“Just as I melt this wax before the fire,
So may young Delphis waste with slow desire.” —Anon.

Nor did this strange fancy expire with the superstition of the ancients, for it is to be found in the works on magic written in the middle ages. About this time the dancing mania began to decline, so that the severer cases of St. Vitus’s became rarer, and in modern times have totally disappeared. Schenck von Graffenberg, a celebrated physician, who died in 1598, speaks of the disease as having been common only in the time of his forefathers. In the beginning of the next century it was only occasionally observed im its ancient form. Thus in 1623 G. Horst saw some women who annually performed a pilgrimage to St. Vitus’s chapel at Drefelhausen, near Weissenstein, in the territory of Ulm. There they waited till the dancing-fit came on, continuing day and night in a state of delirium, till they fell to the ground; and when they recovered from this state, they felt relieved of the uneasiness and sensation of weight, of which they had complained for weeks previously. Music seems in some measure to have excited the paroxysms of St. Vitus’s dance, though by its continuance it soothed the violence of the convulsions.

The Thirty Years’ War, which lasted from 1618 to 1648, finally extinguished this singular form of disease; for though the calamities it brought upon Germany were unspeakable, yet, with the vehemence of a purifying fire, they gradually effected the intellectual regeneration of the Germans, and thus put a stop to a malady excited by superstition. Dr. Hecker’s account of tarantism, which may be called the dancing plague of Italy, and other convulsive epidemics, we will reserve for a future occasion.

The Cursed Dancers of Colbeck

The article in the Penny Post, based on the chapter “The Dancing Mania” in Babington’s 1844 edition of the Hecker’s Epidemics of the Middle Ages, identifies two major outbreaks of the sickness, in Strasbourg in 1418 and Aix-la-Chappelle in 1374, along with a couple of others, but dates another notable outbreak back even earlier, to 1027, in Kolbig (and variously Kölbigk, Cölbigk, Colbeck, etc.).

Eighteen peasants are said to have disturbed divine service on Christmas-eve, by dancing and brawling in the churchyard; on which the priest, Ruprecht, cursed them to the effect that they should dance and scream for a whole year without ceasing

What a fabulous hint of a tale. That is far too good a suggestion of a story for there not to be other elaborations of it.

If William of Malmesbury is to be believed, the original tale of the dancing curse, which Hecker dates to 1027, “near the convent church of Kolbig”, must be a true one, because he provides a statement of an account of the whole episode from one of the carollers who had been so cursed. He dates it to the year 1012, giving the location as “a certain town of Saxony”.

“I, Ethelbert, a sinner”, 1847

In William of Malmesbury’s Chronicle of the kings of England: from the earliest period to the reign of King Stephen, 1847, pp.181-3.

And since I have wandered from my subject, I think it may not be unpleasant to relate what took place in Saxony in the time of this king, in the year of our Lord 1012, and is not so generally known. It is better to dilate on such matters than to dwell on Ethelred’s indolence and calamities: and it will be more pleasing certainly, and nearer the truth, if I subjoin it in the original language of the person who was a sufferer, than if I had clothed it in my own words. Besides, I think it ornamental to a work, that the style should be occasionally varied.

“I Ethelbert, [Other MSS. read Otbert.] a sinner, even were I desirous of concealing the divine judgment which overtook me, yet the tremor of my limbs would betray me; wherefore I shall relate circumstantially how this happened, that all may know the heavy punishment due to disobedience. We were, on the eve of our Lord’s nativity, in a certain town of Saxony, in which was the church of Magnus the martyr, and a priest named Robert had begun the first mass. I was in the churchyard with eighteen companions, fifteen men and three women, dancing, and singing profane songs to such a degree that I interrupted the priest, and our voices resounded amid the sacred solemnity of the mass. Wherefore, having commanded us to be silent, and not being attended to, he cursed us in the following words, ‘May it please God and St. Magnus, that you may remain singing in that manner for a whole year.’ His words had their effect. The son of John the priest seized his sister who was singing with us, by the arm, and immediately tore it from her body; but not a drop of blood flowed out. She also remained a whole year with us, dancing and singing. The rain fell not upon us; nor did cold, nor heat, nor hunger, nor thirst, nor fatigue assail us: we neither wore our clothes nor shoes, but we kept on singing as though we had been insane. First we sank into the ground up to our knees: next to our thighs; a covering was at length, by the permission of God, built over us to keep off the rain. When a year had elapsed, Herbert, bishop of the city of Cologne, released us from the tie wherewith our hands were bound, and reconciled us before the altar of St. Magnus. The daughter of the priest, with the other two women, died immediately; the rest of us slept three whole days and nights: some died afterwards, and are famed for miracles: the remainder betray their punishment by the trembling of their limbs. This narrative was given to us by the lord Peregrine, the successor of Herbert, in the year of our Lord 1013.”

The Penny Post’s description of the events quotes Robert Burton’s, The anatomy of melancholy: what it is, with all the kindes, causes, symptomes, prognostickes, and severall cures of it: in three maine partitions with their seuerall sections, members, and subsections: philosophically, medicinally, historically, opened and cut up, 1621, part.x. Sec. 1. 1. Diſeases of the Minde, so perhaps there is more to be told there? A quick check of the reference shows that the quote is a complete one, so for more detail we must look elsewhere.

In the richly annotated contents of Furnivall’s edited version of Robert Mannyng’s Handlyng Synne, we do find a more elaborate synopsis of the tale.

The Tale of the Sacrilegious Carollers (synopsis), 1862

In Robert Mannyng (or Robert de Brunne), Handlyng Synne (started A. D. 1303;) with the French treatise on which it is founded, Le Manuel des Pechiez by William of Waddington, now first printed from MSS. in the British Museum and Bodleian libraries (c. 1275-c. 1338), ed. Frederick J. Furnivall, 1862, pp. lx-lxi.

Against Carols, Wrestlings, or Summer Games, in Churchyards, ….. 279
Or entyrludes, or syngynge, 8993
Or tabure bete, or other pypynge,

all this is forbidden during mass-time. And I shall tell you ‘a ful grete chaunce’ that happened in England in King Edward’s time, 1. 9010-16.

The Tale of the Sacrilegious Carollers:— How they danced together for Twelve Months without Stopping, and then hopped separately ever afterwards ….. 280-286

One Christmas night twelve fools got up a carol, and came to the town of Colbeck, to the church of St. Magne and St. Bukcestre; their leader was Bevo, and their poet Gerlew, and Merswynde and Wybessyne were two of the maidens. These girls go in and fetch out Ave, the daughter of the priest Robert, and they carol away in the churchyard. They disturb the priest at mass, and he bids them cease, but they will not; on which he prays God and St. Magne that they may be made to dance on for a twelvemonth for, as the Latin says, for ever. At once their hands are locked together, and cannot be parted for a year. The priest sends his son Agone to bring in Ave, and he does take hold of her arm, but it comes off, and the body goes on dancing, and neither it nor the arm bleeds. Agone takes the arm to his father, who is full of woe, and buries it; but next day it is out of the grave again, and this is repeated twice; so the arm is laid on the altar.

The carollers dance on, feeling no cold, or heat, or rain, knowing nothing of night or day. What living man could help coming to see the marvel? The Emperor Henry came from Rome, and told carpenters to make a covering over them; but what was put up one day, ‘on the tother, down it lay,’ and so the attempt was given up. At the twel’month’s end, at the same hour in which the priest cursed them, the carollers flew apart, and into the church, and lay three days as dead. Then all revive but Ave. whose father dies too, and her arm is put in a vessel and hung in the church.

The carollers go on hopping separately, never together; four went ‘with sundry leaps’ to the Court of Rome, and were ‘ever hopping about,’ and got no relief except at the tomb of St. Edith.

‘This tale so marvellous’ is told by Bp. Brunyng of St. Tolouse, afterwards Pope Leo; and it is written in Chronicles beyond the sea more than it is here, — as men well say, ‘The nearer the church, the further from God,’ 1. 9236-43. Some men ‘hold it but a troteuale’ (gammon), others as a great marvel; it certainly is a fair example against cursing, and against carolling in churchyards against the priest’s will, 1. 9244-53.

The prose synopsis gives us a good basis for a telling, but is there more to find in the more complete metrical verse version? Furnivall provides versions of the tale in Middle English metrical verse (pp. 279-86).

The Tale of the Sacrilegious Carollers, 1862

In Robert Mannyng (or Robert de Brunne), Handlyng Synne (started A. D. 1303;) with the French treatise on which it is founded, Le Manuel des Pechiez by William of Waddington, now first printed from MSS. in the British Museum and Bodleian libraries (c. 1275-c. 1338), ed. Frederick J. Furnivall, 1862, pp. 279-86.

Karolles, wrastlynges, or somour games,
Who so euer haunteþ any swyche shames
Yy cherche, oþer yn chercheȝerde,
Of sacrylage he may be a ferde;
Or entyrludës, or syngynge,
Or tabure bete, or oþer pypynge,
Alle swyche þyng forbodyn es
Whyle þe prest stondep at messe.
Alle swyche to euery gode preste ys lothe,
And sunner wyl he make hym wroþe
Þan he wyl þat haþ no wyt
Ne vndyrstondep nat holy wryt;
And specyaly at hyghë tymes
Karolles to synge, and redë rymys,
Noghte yn nonë holy stedes,
Þat myghte dystnrble þe prestës bedes,
Or ȝyf he were yn orysun
Or any ouþer deuocyun, — Sacrylage ys alle (al ys) hyt tolde, Þys ande many oþer folde.
But for to leue yn cherche [for] to daunce
Y shal ȝow telle a ful grete chaunce,
And y trow þe most þat fel
Ys sope as y ȝow telle; [Ys as sothe as þe gospel.] And fyl þys chaunce yn þys londe,
Yn Inglande, as y vndyrstonde;
Yn a kynges tyme þat hyghte Edwarde
Fyl þys chaunce þat was so hard.

The Tale of the Sacrilegious Carollers, and how they danced together for twelve Months without stopping, and then went hopping about singly ever afterwards.

Hyt was vpp on a crystemesse nyȝt
Þat twelue folys a karolle dyȝt,
Yn wodehede, as hyt were yn cuntek
Þey come to a tounne men calles Colbek;
Þe cherche of [þe] tounne þat þey to come
Ys of seynt Magne þat suffrede martyrdome;
Of seynt Bukcestre hyt ys also,
Seynt Magnes suster, þat þey come to.
Here names of alle þus fonde y wryte,
And as y wote now shul ȝe wyte;—
Here lodĕs man þat made hem glew,
Þus ys wryte, [Þe ouþer twelue, here namës alle, Þus were þey wrete as y can kalle.] he hyȝte Gerlew;
Twey maydena were yn here coueyne
Mayden Merswynde and Wybessyne;
Alle þese come þedyr for þat enchesone,
Of þe prestĕs doghetyr of þe tounne.
Þe prest hyȝt Robert, as y kan ame;
Aȝone, hyȝhtě hys sone by name;
Hys dogheter, þat þese men wulde haue,
Þus ys wryte, þat she hyȝt Aue;
Echoune consentede to o wyl,
Who shulde go, Aue oute to tyl:
Þey grauntede echone out to sende
Boþe Wybessynĕ and Merswynde.
Þese wommen ȝede and tollede here oute
Wyþ hem to karolle þe cherche aboute.
Beune ordeynede here karollyngg,
Gerlew endytede what þey shulde syng;
Þys ys þe karolle þat þey sunge,
As tellep þe latyn tunge,
“Equitabat Beuo per siluam frondosam,
Ducebat secum Merswyndam formosam,
Quid stamus, cur non imus?”

“By þe leuede wode rode Beuolyne,
Wyþ hym he leddë feyre Merswyne;
Why stondě we? why go we noghte?”
Þys ys þe karolle þat Grysly wroghte.
Þys songe sunge þey yn þe chercheȝerde,
Of foly were þey no þyngg aferde,—
Vn to þe matynes were alle done
And þe messe shulde bygynně sone.
Þe preste hym reuest to begynne messe,
And þey ne left þerfore neuere þe lesse,
But daunsede furþe as þey bygan;
For alle þe messě þey ne blan.
Þe preste þat stode at þe autere
Ande herde here noyse ande herě bere,
Fro þe auter down he nam,
And to þe cherchě porche he cam,
And seyde, “on goddes behalue [halfe] y ȝow forbede
Þat ȝe no lenger do swych dede;
But comeþ yn on feyre manere
Goddës seruysě for to here;
And doþ at crystyn mennys lawe,
Karolleþ no more for Crystys awe,
Wurschyppeþ hym wyþ alle ȝoure myȝt
Þat of þe vyrgyne was bore þys nyȝt.”
For alle hys byddyngg lefte þey noȝt,
But daunsede furþ as þey poȝt.
Þe prest þarefore was sore a greuede,
He preydě Gode þat he on beleuyde,
And for seynt Magne, þat he wulde so werche,
Yn whos wurschyp sette was þe cherche,
Þat swych a veniaunce were on hem sent
Are þey oute of þat stede were went,
Þat [þey] myȝt euere ryȝt so wende
Vnto þat tymě twelvemonthe ende:
Yn þe latyne þat y fonde þore
He seyþ nat tweluemonth, but euermore. He cursede hem þere alsaume
As þey karolede on here gaume.

As sone as þe preste hadde so spoke,
Euery hande yn ouþer so fast was loke
Þat no man myȝt wyþ no wundyr
Þat twelfmonþe parte hem asundyr.
Þe preste ȝede yn whan þys was done
And commaundedě hys sone Aȝone
Þat he shulde go swyþe aftyr Aue
Oute of þat karolle algate to haue.
But al to late þat wurde was seyde,
For on hem alle was þe veniaunce leyde.
Aȝone wende weyl for to spede;
Vn to þe karolle asswyþe he ȝede;
Hys systyr by þe arme he hente,—
Ande, þe arme fro þe body wente.
Men wundrede allě þat þere wore,
Ande merueyle mowe ȝe herě more,
For seþen he hade þe arme yn hande
Þe body ȝede furþ karolande;
And noþer [þe] body, ne þe arme,
Bledde neùer blodě, colde ne warme,
But was as drye wyþ al þe haunche,
As of a stok were ryue a braunche.
Aȝone to hys fadyr went,
And broȝhtě hym a sory present,
“Loke fadyr,” he seyde, “and haue hyt here
Þe armě of þy doghetyr dere
Þat was myn ownĕ syster Aue
Þat y wende y myȝt a [haue] saue.
Þy cursyngg now senĕ hyt ys
Wyþ veniaunce on þy ownĕ flesshe,
Fellyche þou cursedest, ande ouer sone;
Þou askedest veniaunce, þou hast þy bone.” Ȝow þar nat aske ȝyf þere was wo
Wyþ þe preste and wyþ many mo;
Þe prest þat cursede for þat daunce,
On some of hys, fyl hardë chaunce.
He toke hys doghetyr arme forlorun
And byryede hyt on þe morun;
Þe nexte day, þe arme of Aue
He fonde hyt lyggyng aboue þe graue.
He byryede on anouþer day,
And eft aboue þe graue hyt lay;
Þe þrydde tyme he byryede hyt,
Ande eft was hyt kast oute of þe pyt.
Þe prest wulde byrye hyt no more,
He dredde þe veniaunce ferly sore;
Yn to þe cherche he bare þe arme
For drede ande doute of morë harme,
He ordeyneđe hyt for to be
Þat euery man myȝt wyþ ye hyt se.
Þese men þat ȝede so karollande
Alle þat ȝerë hande yn hande,
Þey neuer oute of þat stede ȝede,
Ne nonë myȝt hem þennë lede;
Þere þe cursyng fyrst bygan,
Yn þat place a boute þey ran,
Þat neuer [ne] fette þey no werynes—
As many bodyes for goyng dos—
Ne metë etë, ne drank drynke,
Ne sleptë onely a lepy wynke;
Nyȝt, ne day, þey wyst of none
Whan hyt was come, whan hyt was gone,
Frost ne snoghë, hayle ne reyne,
Of colde ne hete, felte þey no peyne;
Heere ne naylës neuer grewe,
Ne solowede clopes, ne turnede hewe;
Þundyr ne lystnyng dyde hem no dere,
Goddes mercy dyde hyt fro hem were;
But sungge þat songge þat þe wo wroȝt
“Why stonde we, why go we noȝt?”
What man shulde þyr be yn þys lyue
Þat hyt ne wulde [hyt] see and þedyr dryue?
Þe Emperoure henry come fro rome
For to see þys harde dome;
Whan he hem say, he wepte sore
For þe myschefe þat he saghe þore;
He dede come wryȝtes for to make
Coueryng ouer hem for tempest sake;
But þat þey wroghte, hyt was yn veyn,
For hyt come to no certeyn;
For þat þey settë on oo day,
On þe touþer, downe hyt lay;
Ones, twyys, þryys, þus þey wroȝt,
Ande alle here makyng was for noȝt;
Myghte no coueryng hyle hem fro colde
Tyl tyme of mercy þat cryst hyt wolde.
Tyme of grace fyl þurghe hys myȝt
At þe tweluemonthe ende, on þe ȝole nyȝt,
Þe samë oure þat þe prest hem bannede,
Þe same oure atwynne þe wonede;
Þat houre þat he cursede hem ynne,
Þe [Þat] same oure þey ȝede atwynne;
And as yn [a] twynkelyng of an ye
Yn to þe cherche gun þey flye,
And on þe pauement þey fyl alle downe,
As þe hade be dede, or fal yn a swone.
Þre days styl þey lay echone
Þat none steryde oþer flesshe or bone,
And at þe þre days ende
To lyfe Gode grauntede hem to wende.
Þey sette hem vpp, and spak apert
To þe parysshe prest syre Robert
“Þou art ensample ande enchesun
Of oure long confusyun;
Þou maker art of oure trauayle
Þat ys to many [ful] grete meruayle;
And þy traueyle shalt þou sone ende,
For to þy long home sone shalt þou wende.”
Alle þey ryse þat ychë tyde,
But Auë, she lay dede besyde;
Grete sorowe hade here fadyr, here broþer,
Merueyle and drede hade alle ouþer,
Y trow no drede of soule dede,
But wyþ pyne was broghte þe body dede.
Þe fyrst man was þe fadyr, þe prest,
Þat deydë aftyr þe doȝtyr nest,
Þys ychë arme þat was of Aue,
Þat none myȝt leye yn graue,
Þe emperoure dyde a vessel werche
To do hyt yn, ande hange yn þe cherche,
Þat alle men myȝt se hyt ande knawe
And þenk on þe chaunce when men hyt sawe.
Þese men þat hadde go þus karollande,
Alle þe ȝere, fast hande yn hande,
Þoghe þat þey were þan asunder
Ȝyt alle þe worlde spake of hem wunder,—
Þat same hoppyng þat þey fyrst ȝede
Þat daunce ȝede [wente] þey þurghe land and lede;
And as þey ne myȝt fyrst be vnbounde,
So efte to gedyr myȝt þey neuer [togedyr] be founde,
Ne myȝt þey neuer come aȝeyn
To gedyr to oo stede certeyn.
Foure ȝede to þe courte of Rome,
And euer hoppyng aboute þey nome,
Wyþ sundyr lepys come þey þedyr,
But þey come neuer efte to gedyr,
Here cloþes ne rotede, ne naylës grewe,
Ne here ne wax, ne solowede hewe,
Ne neuer hadde þey amendement,
Þat we herde, at any corseynt,
But at þe vyrgyne Seynt Edyghte,—
Þere was he botenede [seynt] teodryghte, On oure lady day yn lenten tyde
As he slepte [slepe] here toumbe besyde,
Þere he hade hys medycyne,
At seynt Edyghte þe holy vyrgyne.

Brunyng, þe bysshope of seynt Tolous,
Wrote þys tale so merueylous;
Seþþe was hys name of more renoun,
Men callede hym þe pope Leoun;
Þys at þe court of Rome þey wyte,
And yn þe kronykeles hyt ys wryte
Yn many stedys þe ȝounde þe see
More þan ys yn þys cuntre;
Þarfor men seye, an weyl ys trowede,
“Þe nerë þe cherche, þe fyrþer fro Gode.”

So fare men here by þys tale,
Some holde hyt but [for] a troteuale;
Yn oþer stedys hyt ys ful dere,
And for grete merueyle þey wyl hyt here;
A tale hyt ys of feyre shewyng
Ensample and drede aȝens cursyng;
Þys tale y tolde ȝow to make ȝow aferde
Yn cherche to karolle or yn cherche ȝerde,
Namely aȝens þe prestys wylle;
Leueþ, whan he byddeþ ȝow be stylle.

Reading the Middle English is perhaps something of an acquired tast, so we can cast it into an intermediate form by updating some of the spelling and simple grammar, before then attempting to engage in a more contemprary translation.

The Sacrilegious Carollers

Carolles, wrastlynges, or somore games—
Whoso evere haunteth any such shames
In churche or in churche-yerde,
Of sacrilege he may be afeard;
Or entreludës or syngyng,
Or tabour bete or other pipynge—
Alle suche thyng forboden is
While the preest stondeth at messe.
Alle suche to every good preest is loth,
And sooner wyl he make him wroth
Thanne he wyl that hath no wyt
Ne understondeth not Holy Writ;
And specially at heighe tymes
Caroles to synge, and rede rymes
Nought in none holy steads
That myghte destourbe the prestes bedes,
Or if he were in orisoun
Or any other devocioun:
Sacrilege is al it tolde,
This and many other folde. But for-to leve in churche to daunce,
I shal you telle a ful greete chaunce,
And I trow, the moste that fel
Is as sooth as the Gospel:
And fel this chaunce in this londe,
In Englond, as I understonde;
In a kynges tyme that hight Edward
Fel this chaunce that was so hard.

The Tale of the Sacrilegious carolers, and how they danced together for twelve Months without stopping, and then went hopping about singly ever afterwards.

It was upon a Christemesse nyght
That twelve fools a carole dighte,
In woodhede, as it were in contest;
They come to a toun men called Colbek.
The churche of the toun that they to come
Is of Seint Magne that suffred martyrdom;
Of Seint Bukcestre it is also,
Seint Magnes suster, that they come to.
Her names of alle thus fond I write,
And as I wot now shullen ye wite:
Her lodes-man that made hem glew,
Thus is write, he highte Gerlew;
[The other twelve, here named al, Thus were they wrote as I can call] Two maydens were in here coveyne,
Maiden Merswynde and Wybessyne.
Alle thise come thider for that enchesoun,
Of the prestes doghter of the toun. The preest highte Robert, as I can ame;
Azone highte his sone by name;
His doghter, that thise men wulde have,
Thus is write, that she highte Ave.
Ech on consented to own wylle
Who sholde go Ave out to tille.
They graunted ech oon out to sende
Bothe Wibessyne and Merswynde.
Thise wommen yede and tollede hire oute
With hem to carole the churche aboute.
Bevune ordeyned here carolyng.
Gerlew endited what they sholde sing.
This is the carole that they shuld syng,
As telleth the Latyn tonge:
“Equitabat Beuo per siluam frondosam,
Ducebat secum Merswyndam formosam.
Quid stamus? Cur non imus?”

“By the leved wode rode Bevolyne,
With him he ledde fair Merswyne.
Why stonde we? why gon we nought?”
This is the carole that Grysly wroghte.
This song sunge they in the churche-yerd—
Of folye were they nothing afeerd—
Un to the matynes were alle done,
And the messe shuld bigynne soone.
The preest him revest to begynne messe,
And they ne left ther-fore nevere the lesse,
But daunsed forth as they bygan—; For all the messe they ne blan.
The preest, that stood at the autere
And herde her noise and her bere,
From the autere doun he nam
And to the churche porche he cam,
And seyde: “On Goddes behalf, I you forbidde
That ye no lenger don such dede;
But cometh in on faire manere
Goddes servise for to here,
And doth at Cristen mannes lawe,
Caroleth no more, for Cristes awe.
Worshipeth Him with al youre myght
That of the virgine was born this nyght.”
For alle his bidding lefte they noght,
But daunsede forth as they thoght.
The preest therefor was sore agreved;
He preyed God, that he on bileved,
And for Seint Magne, that He wulde so werche,
In whos worship set was the churche
That such a vengeaunce were on hem sent,
Are they out of that stede were went,
That they myghte evere right so wende
Unto that tyme twelve-month ende.
In Latyn that I fond thore
He seyth not twelve-month but evermore.
He cursed hem there alsame
As they carolede on here game.

As soone as the preest hadde so spoke
Every hand in other so faste was loke
That no man myghte, wyth no wonder,
That twelve-month parte hem asonder.
The preest ghede inne whan this was don
And commaunded his sone Azone
That he sholde go swithe after Ave,
Out of that carole algate to have.
But al to late that word was seyd,
For on hem alle was the vengeaunce leyd.
Azone wende wel for to spede;
Unto the carole as-swithe he yede.
His syster by the arm he hente,
And the arm from the body wente.
Men wundrede alle that there wore,
And merveil mowe ye here more;
For sithen he hadde the arm in hande,
The body yede furth carolande;
And neither the body, ne the arm
Bledde never bloode, cold ne warm,
But was as drye with al the haunche,
As of a stok were riven a braunche.
Azone to his fader went
And brought him a sory present:
“Loke, Fader,” he seyde, “and have it heer,
The arm of thy doghter dere,
That was myn owne syster Ave,
That I wende I myghte have save.
Thy cursing now sene it es
With vengeaunce on thy owne flessh.
Fellyche thou cursedest, and over-soon;
Thou askedest vengeaunce, thou hast thy boon.”
You thar nat aske if there was wo
Wyth the preest and with many mo.
The preest that cursed for that daunce,
On some of his, fel harde chaunce.
He took his doghtres arm forlorn
And buryed it on the morn.
The nexte day the arm of Ave
He fond it liggyng above the grave.
He buryed it on another day,
And eft above the grave it lay.
The thridde tyme he buryed it,
And eft was it cast out of the pit.
The preest wolde burye it no more:
He dredde the vengeaunce ferly sore.
In to the churche he bare the arme
For drede and doute of more harme;
He ordeined it for to be
That every man myghte with eye it see.
These men that yede so carolande
Alle that yere hand in hande,
They nevere out of that stede yede,
Ne none myghte hem thenne lede.
Ther the cursyng first bigan,
In that place aboute they ran,
That never ne fette they no werynes—
As many bodies for goyng dos—
Ne mete ete, ne drank drynke,
Ne slepte only a lepy wynke.
Nyght, ne daym they wiste of non,
Whan it was come, what it was gone,
Frost ne snow, hayl ne reyne,
Of colde ne hete, felte they no paine;
Heer ne nayles nevere grewe,
Ne solowede clothes, ne turnede hewe;
Thunder ne lightning dide hit hem no dere—
Goddes mercy dide hit fro hem were—
But sunge that song that the wo wroghte:
“Why stonde we? why go we noght?” What man shuld ther be in this lyve
That it ne wolde it see and thider dryve?
The Emperour Henry come fro Rome
For to see this harde doom.
When he hem saw, he wepte sore
For the mischief that he saw thore.
He did come wrightes for-to make
Coveryng over hem, for tempeste sake.
But that they wroghte, it was in vayn,
For it cam to no certeyn;
For that they sette on oo day,
On the tother, doun it lay.
Ones, twyes, thries, thus they wroght,
And al her makyng was for nought.
Myghte no covering hyle hem from colde
Til tyme of mercy that Christ hem wolde.
Tyme of grace fel thurgh His myght
At the twelvemonth ende, on the Yole night.
The same houre that the preest hem banned,
The same houre atwynne they wonede;
That houre that he cursed hem inne,
The same houre they yede atwynne;
And as in a twynkelyng of an eye
In to the churche gonne they flye,
And on the pavement they felle alle doun
As they hadde ben dede, or falle in a swoun.
Three dayes stille they lay ech on,
That none stired other fleash or bone,
And at the three dayes ende
To lyfe God graunted hem to wende.
They setre them up and spak apert
To the parishe preest, Sir Robert
“Thou art ensample and enchesoun
Of oure long confusioun;
Thou maker art of oure travaile,
That is to many greet merveil;
And thy travail shalt thou soone ende,
For to thy long home soone shalt thou wende.”
Alle they rise that yche tide
But Ave: she lay dede beside.
Grete sorowe had her fader, her brother;
Merveil and drede hadde alle other.
I trowe no drede of soule deed,
But with pyne was broghte the body dede.
The firste man was the fader, the preest,
That deyde after the doghter nest,
This eche arme that was of Ave,
That none myghte lay in grave,
The emperoure dide a vessel werche
To do it in, and honge in the churche,
That alle men myghte see it and knowe,
And thenke on the chaunce whan they it sawe.
Thise men that hadde gon thus carolande,
Alle the yere, fast hand in hande,
Thogh that they were than asunder,
Yet al the worlde spake of hem wunder.
That same hoppyng that they first yede,
That daunce wente they thurgh land and lede;
And as they ne myghte first be unbounde,
So efte togedyr myghte they nevere be founde,
Ne myghte they never come ageyn
Togedyr to oon stede certeyn.
Foure yede to the court of Rome
And ever hoppyng aboute they nome;
With sunder lepes come they thider,
But they come never eft togidre.
Her clothes ne roted, ne nayles grewe,
Ne heer ne wax, ne solowed hewe,
Ne never hadde they amendement,
That we herde, at any corseint,
But at the virgine Saint Edith,
There was he botenede Seint Theodoric,
On Oure Lady Day in Lenten-tide,
As he slepte her toumbe beside,
There he hadde his medicine
At Seint Edith the holy virgìne.

Brunyng the bisshop of Seint Tolous
Wrote this tale so merveilous;
Sethe was his name of more renoun—
Men callede him the Pope Leoun;
This at the court of Rome they wite,
And in the cronicles it is write
In many stedes the yond the see
More than is in this countree.
Therfor men seye, and wel is trowed,
“The neer the chirche, the further from God.”

So fare men heer by this tale,
Som holde it but a trotevale;
In othre stedes it is full dere,
And for greet merveil they will it here.
A taile it is of faire shewyng,
Ensample and drede agens cursyng.
This tale I tolde you to make you afeerd
In churche to carole, or in chiuche-yeerd,
Namely agens the prestes wylle:
Leveth, whan he biddeth you be stille.

Here is a crude rendering of the poem into modern English; it is in no way offered as an accurate modern translation, nor does it necessarily preserve line order or even attempt to scan regularly.

The Cursed Dancers of Colbeck (modern English)

The Cursed Dancers of Colbeck

Carols, wrestling, or summer games—
Whoever engages in such pastimes
In church or in the churchyard,
Should be wary of committing sacrilege.
As far as comic plays, or singing,
Or drumming, or playing the pipes, goes,
These should all be forbidden
While the priest is celebrating Mass.
All such things are loathsome to every good priest,
And nothing is more likely to anger him
Than a fool
Or anyone who doesn’t respect the Holy Scripture.
And this is particularly true for high days and holidays
When singing songs or reciting rhymes
Around those holy places
Might disturb the priest’s prayers,
For when he is praying at such times
Or engaged in any other devotion:
Then it is sacrilege,
Wherever it occurs. Speaking of such dancing around the churchyard:
Do I have a tale to tell you!
A tale of events that really happened,
As true as the Gospel itself.
It happened,
As I understand it,
In the time of King Edward:
A truly terrible tale.

The Tale of the Sacrilegious carolers, and how they danced together for twelve Months without stopping, and then went hopping about singly ever afterwards.

It was Christmas Eve,
And twelve revellers (as the chronicler describes them) arranged “a carol”, which is to say, a bit of a party,
Just for a bit of fun.
They decided to take a trip to the town of Colbek.
The Church there was dedicated to St Magne,
Who suffered martyrdom,
And also St Bukcestre,
St Magnes’ sister. I’ll mention the revellers’ names as I was told them,
And as I know them, now you shall know them: The leader of the revellers,
Or so it was written, was a man named Gerle.
There were also two young women in the group,
Mersynde and Wybessyne.
And the reason they came to Colbek, and to that Church in particular?
Well, that would be the priest’s daughter. The priest was named Robert, if I remember correctly;
And his son was named Azone;
And his daughter — the one whom the partygoers had came to meet —
She was apparently called Ave.
Between them,
They agreed
Who should try to entice Ave out:
Wybessyne and Mersynde. The young women approached Ave, and persuaded her To join their party.
Bevune led the dance
And Gerlew suggested what they should sing.
It was this,
In the original Latin:
“Equitabat Beuo per siluam frondosam,
Ducebat secum Merswyndam formosam.
Quid stamus? Cur non imus?”

The gist of it was this:
“By the leafy wood rode Bevolyne
And with him the fair Merswyne.
Why should we stay? Why shouldn’t we go?
Or something like that,
And that was the song that Grysly composed.
They sang it in the graveyard
With no regard for anyone else,
Even while the prayers were being said,
Even as the Mass was about to begin. The priest was starting to put on his vestments, ready to start the Mass, But that didn’t stop them,
And they continued dancing, just as they’d started,
And didn’t stop through the whole of the Mass. The priest, who doing his best at the altar,
Couldn’t help but hear their commotion
And so he came down from the altar
And went to the Church porch
And said: “In God’s name,
Will you please just stop that?
You’re most welcome to come in,
And join our service. But please, do show some respect,
And just stop your dancing for now,
As we worship the birth of Christ, our Lord,
Who was born of the Holy Virgin Mary on this sacred night.” But for all at, they didn’t stop, They just carried on with their singing and dancing.
And quite understandably, the priest was sorely aggrieved.
So he prayed to God, in whom he believed,
And to Saint Magne, In whose name the Church was dedicated,
That He should act—
To wreak vengeance on the dancers
Before they left
And force them to keep dancing
Until a year had passed. (Actually, in the original Latin text
It says “for evermore”.)
Anyway, he cursed them all something like that.
As they danced around him.

And as soon as he had finished speaking,
The dancers found they couldn’t let go of each others’ hands [And they asked each other:
What did he say? What was that curse he said?] The priest went back inside
And told his son Azone
To go and bring Ave back
By whatever means necessary.
But it was too late:
All the dancers had been cursed.

Azone quickly set off
To try and retrieve his sister.
He grabbed her by the arm,
But it came off in his hands. Quite literally. He ripped it off.
Everyone stared
And gasped, in shock.
Because even though Azone had his sister’s arm in his hand,
She just continued dancing.
There was no blood anywhere
Not from her shoulder, nor from the arm itself A clean break,
Like a branch snapped off from a tree.

Azone rushed back to his father
His sister’s arm still in his hand
“Father… I…
“This arm… “It’s Ave’s… “I didn’t mean to, I was just trying ot get her to come back…
“But the curse you summoned
“Fell on your own flesh and blood… “That curse was a terrible one. “You asked for vengeance, and you’ve got it.”

You might well ask how the priest responded,
How his congregation felt too: That their priest, who’d called for the dancing to continue,
Should see one of his own cursed the same way too.

He sadly took his daughter’s arm
And buried it the next morning. But the day after that,
He found it lying on the ground on top of the grave. He buried it again,
But once again, the next day, there it was: on top of the grave.
The third time he buried it,
The same thing happened again.
There was no reason to believe that he would have any more success if he tried again
And he severely regretted the curse he had made,
So he carried the arm into the Church,
Fearful of what might happen if he left it outside,
And placed it where everyone could see it
With their own eyes. As a lesson.

As to the rest of the carollers — the dancers — they carried on dancing
For the whole of the year, hand in hand,
And just couldn’t get away from there
No matter how hard they tried.
The curse that was made there
Would be spent there.
And it was as if they never got tired
Though you might expect them to, what with the continuous dancing,
And they never ate; and they never drank And they didn’t even sleep, not a single wink.
Whether it was day or night
Whatever the weather
Frost or snow, hail or rain,
Warm or cold, they seemed oblivious to it.
Their hair never grew, their nails never grew
Their clothes never seemed to change, never seemed to need washing, didn’t fade in the sunlight.
And when the storm clouds thundered, and the lightning struck around them, it did them no harm,
As if God’s mercy was somehow protecting them.
And so they sang: “Why are we stuck here? Why can’t we let go?”
And who in their right mind
Wouldn’t want to go and see such a spectacle?
The Emperor himself came from Rome
To see the dancers’ fate.
And when he saw them, he cried in sympathy
At the misfortune he saw there.
He summoned some carpenters To make a shelter to protect them from the rain
But it was a pointless task
That came to nothing,
Because whatever they managed to build during one day
Was razed to the ground by the next. Once, twice, three times they tried
But all their efforts came to nothing.
It seemed like no covering could protect the dancers
Unless Christ, in his might, would grant them mercy.
At the end of the year, on the next Christmas night,
At the same time that the priest had proclaimed against them them the previous year,
At the exact same hour
A year later, from when he had first cursed them,
The dancers managed to let go of each others’ hands,
And, in the twinkling of an eye
Ran into the Church
And fell to the floor
As if they had fainted, or fallen into a swoon. For three days they lay there, each and every one,
Not moving a muscle.
But then, after three days,
It was as if God had raised them up again
And they sat up, and each of them spoke
To the parish priest, to Sir Robert:
“You were the one who caused
The confusion that afflicted us over the past year, You caused our troubles,
That everyone came to gawp at.
But your own earthly troubles will soon come to an end,
Because you’ll return to your eternal home soon enough.” At this point, they all stood up
Except for Ave, who still lay dead.
And her Father, and her brother, grieved sorely for her
While everyone else gasped.
I don’t believe his soul was damned
But I do think that the physical suffering that caused his death Was caused by his grief at the loss of his daughter,
Becuase the priest died the very next day.
But what of Ave’s arm?
The arm that couldn’t be buried?
The emperor had a casket made,
Into which the arm was placed, and hung it
So that all might see it, and know
And ponder what lesson they might learn from it. And what of the revellers who,
Throughout that year, had been locked hand in hand?
Even though they’d now been separated,
Everyone still gawped at them
Because that same hopping dance that they had first done,
Hadn’t stopped, and they carried on dancing still.
But whereas they hadn’t been able to separate themselves from each other before,
Now they couldn’t stand (in many senses of the word) to remain
In the same place
At the same time, together.

Four went to the court of Rome,
Dancing and hopping their whole way there
Individually making their way, with leaps and bounds,
Though they never crossed paths with each other again.
Their clothes never needed washing, never faded,
Their hair and their nails never grew
And they never found a cure
Anywhere, not at any any shrine,
Except for one: at the shrine of St Edith,
Where Saint Theodoric was given a cure On Our Lady’s Day, in Lenten time.
As he slept beside her tomb
He receieved a cure
From Saint Edith, the holy virgin.

It was Brunnyng, the Bishop of Saint Toulous,
Who wrote this marvellous tale.
And afterwards, his name was even more renowned,
As Pope Leon,
As they knew him at Rome
And as it was written in the chronicles,
And many places beyound the sea More so than here.
Therefore men say, and well it is believed,
“The nearer to the church, the further from God.”
So pay due regard to the lesson of this tale:
Some say, it is but an idle story.
But others believe it as the truth,
And wonder at it, as a marvel
A tale that illustrates plainly,
An example and a dreadful warning, against cursing.
This tale I told to you, as a warning, against
Dancing in church, or in the churchyard,
Especially if the priest tells you not to:
Just leave quietly when he asks you to be still.

A Narrative

A narrative version, generated from the modern English version, that I used as a basis for my own first telling of this tale in December, 2025, as part of a Sir Gawain set modified from a couple of years earlier.

Cursed Dancers of Cobeck (narrative)

The Cursed Dancers of Colbeck

Carols, wrestling, or summer games: whoever engages in such pastimes in church, or in the churchyard, should be wary of committing sacrilege. And as for comic plays, or singing, or drumming, or playing the pipes, these should all be avoided whilst the priest is celebrating Mass.

All such things are loathsome to every good priest, and nothing, nothing, is more likely to anger him than a fool, or anyone who doesn’t give the Holy Scripture due respect.

This is particularly true for high days and holidays, when singing songs or reciting rhymes around those holy places might disturb the priest’s revenances, for when he is praying, orr engaged in any other devotion, then it is sacrilege, wherever it occurs.

Speaking of such dancing around the churchyard: do I have a tale to tell you! A tale of events that really happened, as true as the Gospel itself.

It happened, as I understand it, in the time of King Edward: a truly terrible tale.

The Tale of the Sacrilegious carolers, and how they danced together for twelve Months without stopping, and then went hopping about singly ever afterwards.

It was Christmas Eve, and twelve revellers (as the chronicler describes them) arranged “a carol”, which is to say, a bit of a party, just for a bit of fun.

They decided to take a trip to the town of Colbek. The Church there was dedicated to St Magne, who suffered martyrdom, and also St Bukcestre, St Magnes’ sister.

I’ll mention the revellers’ names as I was told them, and as I pronounce them, so that you shall know them to. The leader of the revellers, or so it was written, was a man named Gerle. There were also two young women in the group, Mersynde and Wybessyne.

And the reason they came to Colbek, and to that Church in particular? That would be the priest’s daughter. The priest was named Robert, if I remember it correctly, his son was named Azone, and his daughter — the one whom the party-goers had came to meet — she was called Ave.

Between them, they agreed who should try to entice Ave out: it would be Wybessyne and Mersynde. The young women approached Ave, and persuaded her to join their party.

Bevune led the dance, and Gerlew suggested what they should sing.

In the original Latin, it was this:

“Equitabat Beuo per siluam frondosam,
Ducebat secum Merswyndam formosam.
Quid stamus? Cur non imus?”

which translates as:

“By the leafy wood rode Bevolyne
And with him the fair Merswyne.
Why should we stay? Why shouldn’t we go?

or something like that, and that was the song that Grysly had composed.

They sang it in the graveyard, without caring for anyone else, even as the prayers were about to said, even as the Mass was about to begin. The priest may well have started to put on his vestments, ready to start the Mass, but that didn’t stop them, and they continued their dancing and frolicking, just as they’d started.

The priest, who was trying to lead the Mass, couldn’t help but hear their commotion, so he came down from the altar and went to the Church porch, and said to them: “For God’s sake, will you please just stop that? You’re most welcome to come in, and join us. But at the very, please show some respect, and just stop your dancing for now, as we worship the birth of Christ, our Lord, who was born of the Holy Virgin Mary on this sacred night.”

But for all at, they didn’t stop, they just carried on with their singing and dancing.

And quite understandably, the priest wasn’t too happy at this, so he prayed to God, believing in his help when it was truly needed, and to Saint Magne, the patron saint of that very Church, that God should act, and wreak vengeance on the dancers before they left, by forcing them to keep on dancing for a whole year. (Actually, in the original Latin text, it says “for evermore”.) Anyway, he cursed them all, or something like that, as they all danced around him, and as soon as he’d finished speaking, the dancers found they couldn’t let go of each others’ hands.

“What did he say?” they asked each other, “what was that curse he made?”

and the priest went back inside, telling his son Azone to go and bring Ave back by whatever means was necessary.

But it was too late, because all the dancers had been cursed.

Azone quickly set off, to try and bring his sister back, but when he grabbed her by the arm, it came off in his hands. Quite literally. He ripped it off.

Everyone stared, and gasped, in shock. Because even though Azone had his sister’s arm in his hand, she just continued dancing. There was no blood anywhere, not from her shoulder, or from the arm. It was a clean break, like a branch snapped off a tree.

Azone rushed back to his father with his sister’s arm still in his hand.

“Father… I… This arm… It’s Ave’s… I didn’t mean to, I was just trying to get her to come back…But you cursed her with the rest of them… You asked for vengeance, and now you’ve got it.”

You might well ask how the priest responded, or how his congregation felt about their priest, who’d called for the dancing to continue, seeing his own daughter cursed along with the rest of them.

Deeply saddened, he took his daughter’s arm and buried it. But the next day, he found it lying on the ground, on top of the grave. So he buried it again. But there it was, once again, the very next day, on top of the grave. And the third time he buried it, the same thing happened again. There was obviously no reason to believe that he’d have any more success if he tried again, and fearful of what might happen if he left it outside, along with severe regret about the curse he’d made, he carried the arm into the Church and placed it where everyone could see it with their own eyes. As a lesson.

As to the rest of the carollers — the dancers — they carried on dancing for the whole of the year, hand in hand. They couldn’t escape the place, no matter how hard they tried. The curse that had been made there, would be spent there.

And despite their continuous dancing, it was as if they never got tired. They never ate, they never drank, they didn’t even sleep, not a single wink.

Whether it was day or night, whatever the weather, frost or snow, hail or rain, warm or cold, they seemed oblivious to it.

Their hair never grew either, nor their nails. Their clothes never seemed to change, never seemed to need washing, didn’t fade in the sunlight. And when the storm clouds thundered, and the lightning struck around them, it never harmed them, as if God’s mercy was somehow protecting them.

And so they sang:

“Why are we stuck here? Why can’t we let go?”

And who in their right mind wouldn’t want to go and see such a spectacle? The Emperor himself came from Rome to see them, and when he saw them, he cried in sympathy at their misfortune. So he summoned some carpenters to make a shelter to protect them from the rain. But it was a pointless task, because whatever they managed to build during one day had been razed to the ground by the next. Once, twice, three times they tried, but all their efforts came to nothing. It seemed like no covering could protect the dancers unless Christ himself, in his might, would grant them mercy.

At the end of the year, on the next Christmas night, at the exact same time that the priest had proclaimed against them the year before, at the exact same hour a year later from when he’d first cursed them, the dancers managed to let go of each others’ hands. Immediately, in the twinkling of an eye, they ran into the Church and fell to the floor as if they’d fainted. For three days they lay there, each of them, not moving a muscle. But then, after three days, it was as if God raised them up again, and they sat up, and each of them spoke to the parish priest, to Sir Robert:

“You were the one who caused the affliction we suffered over the past year. You caused our troubles that everyone came to gawp at. But your own earthly troubles will soon come to an end, because you’ll return to your eternal home soon enough.”

At this point, they all stood up, except for Ave, the priest’s daughter, who still lay dead. And her Father, and her brother, grieved sorely for her.

I don’t necessarily believe his soul was damned, the priest’s, but I do think that the physical suffering that caused his death was caused by his grief at the loss of his daughter, because he died the very next day.

And what of Ave’s arm, the arm that couldn’t be buried? Well, the emperor had a casket made, and the arm was placed in it, and it was hung up so that all could see it, and reflect on what lesson it might teach them.

And what of the revellers who had been locked hand in hand throughout the previous year? Even though they’d now been separated, everyone still gawped at them, because that same hopping dance that they’d first done, hadn’t stopped: they carried on dancing still. But whereas they hadn’t been able to separate themselves from each other before, now they couldn’t stand (in many senses of the word) to remain in the same place, at the same time, together.

Four of them made their separate ways to the court of Rome, dancing all of the way there, though they never crossed each others’ paths again. Their clothes never faded, never even needed washing; their hair and their nails never grew, and they never found a cure to stop the dancing, not at any any shrine, except for one: to St Edith, where Saint Theodoric was given a cure on Our Lady’s Day, in Lenten time, as he slept beside her tomb.

It was Brunnyng, the Bishop of Saint Toulous, who wrote this marvellous tale. He was even more revered, later, under the name they knew him by in Rome, and in the chronicles, and in many places beyond the sea: as Pope Leon.

As the old saying goes, *”The nearer to the church, the further from God.” So pay due regard to the lesson of this tale. Some say, it is but an idle story while others believe it to be the truth, wondering at it, as a marvel, a clear example and a dreadful warning, against cursing. But also as a warning against dancing in church, or in the churchyard, especially when the priest tells you not to: just leave quietly if he asks you to settle down and you don’t believe you can.