GOD ONLY KNOWS: The good vibrations of Hubert Hobux’s spooky summer

Returning to the street, you are met with that heady feeling that comes with leaving a dark place and stepping back into sunlight. The streets are indeed quieter now and you relish in this, taking your time to amble to your next destination. You take time to appreciate the buildings you pass by, resisting the temptation to run your hands across the doors and peek in at the leaded windows.

Turning onto New Street, you arrive at your destination for the evening. The street was once known as Bury Street and had a name change during renovation in the early 17th century when many of the buildings were updated. William Whitwell moved to Oundle from Richmond in Surrey with his wife in the 1680s. They lived in a house called Berrystead and did much for the community including donating silverware to the church, and Whitwell is credited for the rebuild of Bury Street, and the Talbot Hotel. Towering above you, you take in all that the hotel has to offer. You can see how it was once described as the most impressive building in Oundle. The stone mullioned windows would have been witness to much in the past, but they were not part of the original building which dates back further still.

A building is said to have existed here in the 7th Century, a monk’s hospice which was a place to stay for pilgrims. Travel was not then what it is now, and those who took to the road were mainly those destined for a church or abbey.

A pilgrimage was an important journey for a religious person, and a place to stay, to rest and recuperate was most welcomed.

“A building is said to have existed here in the 7th Century, a monk’s hospice which was a place to stay for pilgrims.”

The religious connections with the building remained for hundreds of years, and the property belonged to the Guild of Our Lady of Oundle in the 1500s. During this Tudor period, the inn existed and was known as the Tabard, written in a document in Latin as ‘Tabret’, which was a small tambourine type instrument, but it is more likely that The Tabard was the name, as this was a common pub name of the time. This religious ownership ended with the Dissolution of the Monasteries in the late 1530s. As was the case with many inns, having derived from monastic hospices, they were seized and sold on, or changed their names in an attempt to disguise any religious connections. The Talbot was taken in 1648 after King Henry VIII’s death by the council of King Edward VI as his father’s work to remove traces of a monastic establishment continued.

As you pass the Jacobean front of the hotel, through the carriage entrance in the centre of the building, you find yourself in the courtyard looking at the timber framed Tudor pub, now functioning as the hotel’s reception and administrative area. Surrounded with such history, you give yourself a minute to take it all in. The area surrounding the hotel is built up these days, but an article advertising the sale of the Talbot in 1790 described the property as having 14 acres of land and stabling enough for a hundred horses. Coaching links from Oundle to London operated from the Talbot in the Georgian period and so this stabling was essential. An important visitor to stay and change horses at the inn in 1829 was the then Prime Minister and hero of the Battle of Waterloo, The Duke of Wellington who was passing through on his way south to Woburn Abbey.

You check in to reception to find your room for the night, and discover you are to stay in the Mary Queen of Scots Room, overlooking New Street and the spot you admired the hotel from, just moments ago. As you are shown to your room, you are told that you are walking up the famous oak staircase said to have originated from the nearby Fotheringhay Castle. You have heard much about this staircase and are a little overwhelmed to be climbing it now as it creeks and groans under your feet from years of wear. The stories state that Mary, Queen of Scots was led down this very staircase to her execution. You learn that the window to your right is also thought to have come from the castle. Situated just 4 miles away used to stand the royal palace Fotheringhay Castle. Now little more than a mound and quite fittingly, plenty of thistles, the castle was the final place of incarceration for Mary Stuart, who had been held under house arrest by her cousin once removed, Queen Elizabeth I. Elizabeth was the granddaughter of King Henry VII, whilst Mary was his great-granddaughter. When Mary fled the Scottish throne in 1568, she sought refuge from the English queen, but many Catholics believed Mary to be entitled to the English throne, and whilst Elizabeth wanted to help her cousin, she ultimately saw her as a threat and hence ensued Mary’s nineteen years of imprisonment. She was held at Fotheringhay from 25th Sept 1586 until the time of her execution on 8th Feb 1587. After her execution in the great hall, the castle fell into disrepair. By 1603, Mary’s son James VI of Scotland had become James I of England under the Union of the Crowns. James sold Fotheringhay which was subsequently dismantled entirely, and materials sold off for use in other buildings, which was commonplace at the time.

After you set down your bags, you return downstairs to dine after a busy day of contemplation and sightseeing. Suitably stuffed with delicious food, you retire to your room to rest. Gazing out of the leaded windows, you again let your mind wander. You imagine the lamplighters illuminating the street with gas lamps, the last swoosh of bustling skirts retiring through doorways for the evening. An intoxicated man staggers past, young children scurry home as dusk sets in. You look across the skyline, now hazy with smoke from the many puffing chimneys staggering across the horizon. Dressing for bed, you imagine the people who have slept in this room before you and contemplate the ghost stories that surround the hotel. Crying is said to be heard coming from this room, and the only one next to you in this part of the building, when both rooms are known to be empty. The ghost of a female looking like a maid in a long dress, cap and pinafore is seen around the building and you wonder if the crying comes from her, pondering what may have been her fate. After a long day, you drift off into a comfortable sleep.

At some time during the night, you are awoken by a commotion outside your room. You’re surprised, as this part of the building is far removed from the rest of the rooms, bar one. You lay there for a while, annoyed at being disturbed at such an hour, waiting for the noise to subside. When those outside the room fail to desist, you haul yourself out of bed with a sigh. Peeking through the peephole in the door, you see nothing. The noise, sounding as though it’s right outside your door, continues and so you open the door a crack, not wanting to be seen in your nightwear and a little hesitant at what you will find.

Moonlight streams through the huge, old window, and for the rest, the building is in darkness. You see a group of men, illuminated in the natural light, descending the stairs, now in silence. You instantly realise these are not men from this time. They wear ballooning jackets, neck ruffs and carry swords. As the procession turns the bend in the stairs, you see it’s being led by a woman dressed in black, wearing a head dress, veil and rosary beads. She is assisted by the arm of a gentleman in body armour and followed by two sorrowful looking women. As you take in all you are seeing, the stories you heard earlier this evening run through your mind. The last of the men vanish from sight as the stairs pass underneath where you now stand. You lean forward, trying to catch a last glimpse, steadying yourself on the banister. Under your hand is the crown imprint, reportedly made by a ring worn by Mary, possibly a Luckenbooth ring. She is said to have gripped the wood so tightly before her final descent that her ring forever imprinted in the wood. All remains silent and you wonder if you really witnessed all that you just saw.

An account of the execution of Mary was written by Robert Wynkfielde. This is a shortened version of that script:

Her prayers being ended, the executioners, kneeling, desired her Grace to forgive them her death: who answered, ‘I forgive you with all my heart, for now, I hope, you shall make an end of all my troubles.’ Then they, with her two women, helping her up, began to disrobe her of her apparel: then she, laying her crucifix upon the stool, one of the executioners took from her neck the Agnus Dei, which she, laying hands off it, gave to one of her women, and told the executioner he should be answered money for it. Then she, being stripped of all her apparel saving her petticoat and kirtle, her two women beholding her made great lamentation, and crying and crossing themselves prayed in Latin. She, turning herself to them, embracing them, said these words in French, ‘Ne crie vous, j’ay prome pour vous’, and so crossing and kissing them, bade them pray for her and rejoice and not weep, for that now they should see an end of all their mistress’s troubles. Then she, with a smiling countenance, turning to her men servants, as Melvin and the rest, standing upon a bench nigh the scaffold, who sometime weeping, sometime crying out aloud, and continually crossing themselves, prayed in Latin, crossing them with her hand bade them farewell, and wishing them to pray for her even until the last hour. Then the two women departed from her, and she kneeling down upon the cushion most resolutely, and without any token or fear of death, she spake aloud this Psalm in Latin, In Te Domine confido, non confundar in eternam, etc. Then, groping for the block, she laid down her head.’

You stand there in the moonlight in the continued silence for a short time, waiting and wondering. Suddenly the air feels charged with a static, you hear words being spoken… “In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum”. They seem to echo from all around you in a gentle, yet painful way. They are the last words known to be spoken by Mary Stuart and translate as ‘Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit’. All is quiet again until the mournful sobbing begins.

Lorien X