#englishfolklore — Public Fediverse posts

The Three Lions

There are few symbols in England more instantly recognisable than three golden lions marching proudly across a field of red.

Today they adorn football shirts, cricket caps and rugby jerseys. They are painted on pub signs, stamped on passports, embroidered onto military uniforms and waved from terraces whenever England dares to dream.

Millions sing Three Lions without ever stopping to ask a simple question.

Why three?

Why lions?

And why has this particular emblem survived almost nine centuries while kings, dynasties, empires and governments have all faded into history?

Like so many ancient symbols, the answer lies somewhere between history and mythology.

The lion itself had never roamed Britain. Wolves, bears and wild boar once stalked these islands, but lions existed only in stories carried home by pilgrims, crusaders and Roman writers. To medieval Europe, the lion represented everything a king was expected to be: courageous, just, noble, watchful and fierce.

Long before heraldry became an organised system, lions appeared throughout Christian art. Medieval bestiaries claimed that lion cubs were born dead before being brought to life by the breath of their father three days later. Whether believed literally or symbolically, the tale became an obvious parallel with the Resurrection of Christ. Lions were therefore not merely dangerous beasts; they were creatures associated with kingship, divine authority and eternal life.

It is hardly surprising that Europe’s rulers eagerly adopted them.

England’s relationship with lions began with the Norman kings. William the Conqueror himself probably bore no official coat of arms because heraldry had not yet fully developed, but by the twelfth century shields and banners had become increasingly important on crowded battlefields. Knights hidden beneath mail and helmets required instantly recognisable devices.

The first English royal lions seem to appear during the reign of Henry I. Henry married Matilda of Scotland, linking Norman and Anglo-Saxon royal bloodlines. Some historians believe one lion may have entered the royal family’s symbolism through this marriage, while another emerged through subsequent dynastic alliances.

Heraldry during this period was fluid, with symbols evolving rather than appearing fully formed. The decisive moment arrived with Henry’s son, Richard I.

Richard Plantagenet.

Richard the Lionheart.

Few English monarchs have acquired such legendary status. Ironically, Richard spent remarkably little time in England. He spoke French, regarded his continental possessions as more important than his English kingdom, and devoted much of his reign to warfare and the Crusades. Yet he became the king most closely associated with English courage.

Richard originally used seals depicting two lions passant guardant – walking with one forepaw raised while turning their faces towards the viewer. During his reign a third lion appeared, creating the royal arms that remain instantly recognisable today.

Whether Richard consciously chose three lions or inherited an evolving design remains debated by historians, but by the end of the twelfth century England possessed one of Europe’s most distinctive coats of arms. Three gold lions with blue claws and blue tongues, marching one above another upon a crimson shield.

In heraldic language the animals are not technically “lions” at all. They are described as lions passant guardant. Passant refers to the walking pose. Guardant means the head faces directly towards the observer. To medieval eyes this posture conveyed confidence rather than aggression. A rampant lion, rearing upon its hind legs, symbolised battle. A passant lion suggested calm authority – a ruler who possessed strength but had no need to prove it.

There may also have been another layer of symbolism. Throughout medieval Europe, the number three carried profound meaning. Three represented the Holy Trinity. Birth, life and death. Past, present and future. Faith, hope and charity. The symbolism would have been immediately understood by contemporary audiences. Whether Richard deliberately chose three lions because of religious symbolism remains uncertain, but medieval rulers rarely ignored such powerful associations.

Once adopted, the badge spread rapidly.Royal seals, coinage, castles, government documents,military banners. It became the visual signature of the English Crown.

As English armies marched across France during the Hundred Years’ War, three golden lions marched with them. The emblem flew above the armies of Edward III, the Black Prince and Henry V. It fluttered above muddy battlefields at Crécy, Poitiers and Agincourt, becoming associated not simply with monarchy but with English identity itself. Ironically, the badge survived periods when the monarchy itself seemed close to collapse.

During the Wars of the Roses, rival claimants fought beneath variations of royal heraldry. Under the Tudors, dragons, roses and portcullises joined the royal display, yet the three lions remained.

When James VI of Scotland inherited the English throne in 1603, the royal arms expanded dramatically. Scotland’s rampant lion and Ireland’s golden harp joined the shield, yet England’s three lions retained their place.

Empires rose. Empires fell. The lions remained.

One reason for their remarkable survival maybe lies in what they came to represent. Originally they belonged solely to the king. Gradually they became the property of the nation.The shift happened slowly over centuries. The English Civil War challenged royal authority. The Industrial Revolution transformed society. The British Empire reshaped Britain’s place in the world. Yet somehow the ancient lions adapted, and by the nineteenth century they had become less a symbol of monarchy than of England itself.

Then came football.

In 1863, when the Football Association sought an emblem, it turned naturally towards the ancient royal arms. The modern FA crest retained the three lions while adding Tudor roses between them. Few sporting badges possess such extraordinary ancestry. Every England football shirt carries a design whose origins stretch back to the Crusades. Every chant echoes nearly nine hundred years of history. Every major tournament briefly reconnects modern England with a medieval kingdom.

Of course, symbolism rarely remains fixed. To Victorian imperialists the lions represented national destiny. During the World Wars they became symbols of resilience. For football supporters they came to embody hope, frustration and stubborn optimism in equal measure.

The song Three Lions, first released during the European Championships in 1996, captured something far older than football itself. “It’s coming home” resonated not simply because the game originated in England, but because the badge itself already felt timeless. The lions seemed to belong to history rather than any particular generation.

Yet there is another, older way of looking at them.

Folklore often blurs the line between animal and guardian. Across Britain, churches possess spectral black dogs, castles harbour ghostly ravens and forests boast white stags. England’s lions occupy a similar symbolic space. Not literal creatures. Guardians. Sentinels. Beasts that exist not in the countryside but in the collective imagination of a nation.They have watched Norman knights become Tudor courtiers, Georgian soldiers become Victorian industrialists, and factory workers become football fans. They have witnessed plague, civil war, empire, Blitz, victory and defeat. Kings have died beneath them. Queens have ruled beneath them. Governments have come and gone. The lions simply continue their silent march.

Unlike flags, or borders, which shift. Unlike politicians, who disappear into history. The three lions remain reassuringly constant. Almost nine hundred years after Richard the Lionheart’s reign, children still draw them in school exercise books. Soldiers still wear them into battle. Sportsmen still carry them onto the world’s biggest stages.

Most never think about where they came from.But perhaps they should because hidden inside those three ancient beasts lies the story of England itself. And it’s a story of crusaders and kings, of heralds and holy symbolism, of battlefields and belief, of history transformed into legend.

And that is one of the greatest mysteries of all.

Not that three lions came to symbolise England.

But that, after nearly nine centuries, England still instinctively recognises them as its own.

My childhood brushes with ghost lore

Despite writing about supernatural folklore, I rarely think about my childhood brushes with ghostly stories. I thought I might rectify that here—by reflecting on two examples of ghost lore I was exposed to in my youth.

Before I begin, I should point out that children’s folklore is just as vital and dynamic a phenomenon as its adult equivalent. Children’s Folklore: A Source Book (1999) is one example of a text that documents the folkloric creativity of children (as opposed to their passive receptivity). The book shows that wherever children come together, they form what folklorists call “folk groups.” The only criteria for the existence of such a group is that “two or more people. . . share something in common—language, occupation, religion, residence”; that they “share ‘traditions'”; and that they have the opportunity to meet face to face.

The Grey Lady

I’ll start with my childhood experience of belonging to a large “folk group” at my prep school, Tockington Manor, in South Gloucestershire. Every child in the school belonged to this folk group, because everyone, at some point, learned about the Grey Lady who haunted the manor’s halls. The boarders at the school were terrified of this lady: they said she wandered the manor at night—the spirit of a nurse who’d fallen from a skylight when the building served as a hospital during the First World War. I don’t remember much about this nighttime revenant, but she’s clearly a variant of a folkloric figure found at boarding schools everywhere: the Grey, White, Black, or Brown Lady.

In my school, older students, already initiated into the ghostly mystery, passed on stories about the drab-colored lady to the younger children, who did the same for the incoming class. I can only assume that telling stories about the Grey Lady allowed us to share anxieties in a fixed, personified form, which helped us adapt to unfamiliar surroundings. It also mythologized the building’s space, especially for boarders—those who couldn’t leave. Separated from their family homes, they created bonds and associations through the emotions that ghost stories evoke.

The story of the Grey Lady may have been one of the most memorable aspects of our folk group. But one story doesn’t create a culture. We also played games like marbles and conkers and had a shared language (words like cave—Latin for “beware”—were used to signal that a teacher was coming). Sometimes we sneaked out of school to gather in an old stone quarry, a place now dense with ivy-covered trees. The aura of this place—which we called simply “Quarry”—will forever remind me of the childhood capacity to create mythological worlds in spaces dominated by adults.

The Yellow Lady

The second example of supernatural storytelling from my childhood occurred during a trip to a Catholic boys’ camp in the summer of 1991. There too the sharing of ghostly legends created belonging among the boys. Despite sharing a tent with my brother, a cousin, and members of my cousin’s family, I felt unsettled in my new surroundings, and I remember how powerfully the nighttime telling of ghost stories allowed us to bond through fear. 

The only story I remember clearly (because it terrified me) was inspired by a local landmark. Visible from the camp was a house that glowed an eerie yellow at night. The sight of this building alone would be enough to inspire a haunted house tale. But in our case, the color became detached from the building, and we gave it to a supernatural figure who roamed the grounds at night. Apparently, a mysterious revenant called the Yellow Lady haunted that house, and she visited the meadow where we slept. Pricking up her disturbingly large ears to listen for wakeful boys, the Yellow Lady prowled the rows of tents, determined to steal a child. 

Although I remember thinking at the time that the Yellow Lady must have been a ghost, she differs in one important way from the Grey Lady mentioned earlier. While the latter was merely a scary presence that never interacted with students, the Yellow Lady was relational, embodying the discipline of the adult world (“no talking after lights out”). Her eerie color and super-sensory abilities—a result of her inhumanly large ears—suggest that she was a kind of supernatural bogeywoman, perhaps even close to a fairy.

The extreme effectiveness of this Yellow Lady legend meant that all of us had trouble sleeping that night. The next day we rushed to mass, hoping to find protection in proximity to a sacred ritual. The impulse was in keeping with much ghost lore, where holy symbols ward off supernatural threats.

Interestingly, while researching “Yellow Lady” stories (to see how commonplace they are), I came across a blog post in which the writer talks about a Yellow Lady story he learned at a camp run by monks. He then turns the tale into a literary short story—an embellishment, perhaps, of a fragmentary tale like mine. It seems to me that the writer’s camp may even have been the one I attended. Either that or the Yellow Lady haunts a number of such camps.

Haunted houses and witch houses

Besides my encounters with the Grey and Yellow Ladies, the only other ghost lore I can remember from my childhood are stories about haunted houses. These were always abandoned homes in the neighborhood, their shattered windows revealing darkness inside, the absence of family life. Repeating things we’d heard or inventing stories on the spot, we called these houses “haunted” or the former resort of “witches”—words that described the rupture in our sense of what a home should look like. One of these houses sat at the corner of Charborough Road and Dunkeld Avenue in Filton, Bristol (I can still picture its dilapidated state). Another was on a road branching off from Charborough Road: they said that if you looked into its broken, upstairs window, you might see a witch looking back. (The latter is a vague memory that may even have been my own thought.)

Considering all this lore, it seems to me that ghosts fill the gaps where social meaning decays, whether through separation from home, abandonment of a home, or maladjustment in a place that’s not yet fully home. When I consider these crucial functions, I understand why empirical approaches to ghostly “phenomena” bore me: they arguably fail to understand ghosts at all.

Read about more ghost lore here.