The Villains of the Piece also know as The Oath and the Sword Graham Shelby
http://www.le.ac.uk/ar/njc10/wallingford_project/index_files/Page831.htm

Gui de Warwic, Anonymous (French, versions from the 13th - 15th centuries)

“He and Herhaud, for sothe to say,
To Wallingforth toke the way,
That was his faders toun.
Than was his fader, sothe to say,
Ded and birid in the clay:
His air was sir Gioun.
Alle that held of him lond or fe
Deden him omage and feute,
And com to his somoun.
He tok alle his faders lond
, And yaf it hende Herhaud in hond
Right to his warisoun.”

Jerome K. Jerome: Three men in a boat (1888)
"I remember being terribly upset once up the river (in a figurative sense, I mean). I was out with a young lady - cousin on my mother's side - and we were pulling down to Goring. It was rather late, and we were anxious to get in - at least SHE was anxious to get in. It was half-past six when we reached Benson's lock, and dusk was drawing on, and she began to get excited then. She said she must be in to supper. I said it was a thing I felt I wanted to be in at, too; and I drew out a map I had with me to see exactly how far it was. I saw it was just a mile and a half to the next lock - Wallingford - and five on from there to Cleeve.

 "Oh, it's all right!" I said. "We'll be through the next lock before seven, and then there is only one more;" and I settled down and pulled steadily away.

We passed the bridge, and soon after that I asked if she saw the lock. She said no, she did not see any lock; and I said, "Oh!" and pulled on.

"No," she said; "I can't see any signs of a lock."

"You - you are sure you know a lock, when you do see one?" I asked hesitatingly, not wishing to offend her.

The question did offend her, however, and she suggested that I had better look for myself; so I laid down the sculls, and took a view. The river stretched out straight before us in the twilight for about a mile; not a ghost of a lock was to be seen. 

"You don't think we have lost our way, do you?" asked my companion.

I did not see how that was possible; though, as I suggested, we might have somehow got into the weir stream, and be making for the falls. This idea did not comfort her in the least, and she began to cry. She said we should both be drowned, and that it was a judgment on her for coming out with me. It seemed an excessive punishment, I thought; but my cousin thought not, and hoped it would all soon be over.

I tried to reassure her, and to make light of the whole affair. I said that the fact evidently was that I was not rowing as fast as I fancied I was, but that we should soon reach the lock now; and I pulled on for another mile.

Then I began to get nervous myself. I looked again at the map. There was Wallingford lock, clearly marked, a mile and a half below Benson's. It was a good, reliable map; and, besides, I recollected the lock myself. I had been through it twice. Where were we? What had happened to us? I began to think it must be all a dream, and that I was really asleep in bed, and should wake up in a minute, and be told it was past ten.

I asked my cousin if she thought it could be a dream, and she replied that she was just about to ask me the same question; and then we both wondered if we were both asleep, and if so, who was the real one that was dreaming, and who was the one that was only a dream; it got quite interesting.

I still went on pulling, however, and still no lock came in sight, and the river grew more and more gloomy and mysterious under the gathering shadows of night, and things seemed to be getting weird and uncanny. I thought of hobgoblins and banshees, and will-o'-the-wisps, and those wicked girls who sit up all night on rocks, and lure people into whirl- pools and things; and I wished I had been a better man, and knew more hymns; and in the middle of these reflections I heard the blessed strains of "He's got `em on," played, badly, on a concertina, and knew that we were saved.

I do not admire the tones of a concertina, as a rule; but, oh! how beautiful the music seemed to us both then - far, far more beautiful than the voice of Orpheus or the lute of Apollo, or anything of that sort could have sounded. Heavenly melody, in our then state of mind, would only have still further harrowed us. A soul-moving harmony, correctly performed, we should have taken as a spirit-warning, and have given up all hope. But about the strains of "He's got `em on," jerked spasmodically, and with involuntary variations, out of a wheezy accordion, there was something singularly human and reassuring.

The sweet sounds drew nearer, and soon the boat from which they were worked lay alongside us. It contained a party of provincial `Arrys and `Arriets, out for a moonlight sail. (There was not any moon, but that was not their fault.) I never saw more attractive, lovable people in all my life. I hailed them, and asked if they could tell me the way to Wallingford lock; and I explained that I had been looking for it for the last two hours.

"Wallingford lock!" they answered. "Lor' love you, sir, that's been done away with for over a year. There ain't no Wallingford lock now, sir. You're close to Cleeve now. Blow me tight if `ere ain't a gentleman been looking for Wallingford lock, Bill!"

I had never thought of that. I wanted to fall upon all their necks and bless them; but the stream was running too strong just there to allow of this, so I had to content myself with mere cold-sounding words of gratitude.

We thanked them over and over again, and we said it was a lovely night, and we wished them a pleasant trip, and, I think, I invited them all to come and spend a week with me, and my cousin said her mother would be so pleased to see them. And we sang the soldiers' chorus out of FAUST, and got home in time for supper, after all."
http://onlinebooks.library.upenn.edu/webbin/gutbook/lookup?num=308

Sir Walter Scott: Kenilworth (1821)

"There is savour in this, my hearts," said Michael, when the mercer had finished his song, "and some goodness seems left among you yet; but what a bead-roll you have read me of old comrades, and to every man's name tacked some ill-omened motto! And so Swashing Will of Wallingford hath bid us good-night?"

"He died the death of a fat buck," said one of the party, "being shot with a crossbow bolt, by old Thatcham, the Duke's stout park-keeper at Donnington Castle ."
http://arthurwendover.com/arthurs/scott/knlwt10.html

Thomas Tusser(died -1580)

Thomas Tusser (a person well known by his Book of Husbandry) was born at Rinen-hall in Essex , of an ancient Family, but now extinct; where, when but young, his Father, designing him for a Singing-man, put him to Wallingford-School, where how his Misfortunes began in the World, take from his own Pen.

O painful time, for every crime,
What toosed ears, like baited Bears,
What bobbed lips, what yerks, what nips,
What hellish toys?
What Robes so bare, what Colledge-fare?
What Bread how stale, what penny Ale?,
Then Wallingford, how wer't thou abhorr'd,
Of silly boys?

From The Lives Of The Most Famous English Poets  (1687)  by William Winstanley.
http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/5/4/6/15461/15461.txt

Chretien DeTroyes "Cliges" Originally written in Old French, sometime in the second half of the 12th Century A.D., by the court poet

“(Vv. 4575-4628.)  Thus love harrows Fenice.  But this torment is her delight, of which she can never grow weary.  And Cliges now has crossed the sea and come to Wallingford .  There he took expensive quarters in great state.  But his thoughts are always of Fenice, not forgetting her for a single hour.  While he delays and tarries there, his men, acting under his instructions, made diligent inquiries.  They were informed that King Arthur's barons and the King in person had appointed a tourney to be held in the plain before Oxford , which lies close to Wallingford . (34)  There the struggle was arranged, and it was to last four days.  But Cliges will have abundant time to prepare himself if in the meantime he needs anything, for more than a fortnight must elapse before the tournament begins.  He orders three of his squires to go quickly to London and there buy three different sets of arms, one black, another red, the third green, and that on the way back each shall be kept covered with new cloth, so that if any one should meet them on the road he may not know the colour of the arms they carry.  The squires start at once and come to London , where they find available everything they need.  Having finished this errand, they return at once without losing any time.  When the arms they had brought were shown to Cliges he was well pleased with them.  He ordered them to be set away and concealed, together with those which the emperor had given him by the Danube , when he knighted him.  I do not choose to tell you now why he had them stored away; but it will be explained to you when all the high barons of the land are mounted on their steeds and assemble in search of fame.

(Vv. 4629-4726.)  On the day which had been agreed upon, the nobles of renown came together.  King Arthur, with all his men whom he had selected from among the best, took up his position at Oxford , while most of the knights ranged themselves near Wallingford .  Do not expect me to delay the story and tell you that such and such kings and counts were there, and that this, that, and the other were of the number. (35)  When the time came for the knights to gather, in accordance with the custom of those, there came forth alone between two lines one of King Arthur's most valiant knights to announce that the tourney should begin.  But in this case no one dares to advance and confront him for the joust.  There is none who does not hold back.  And there are some who ask: "Why do these knights of ours delay, without stepping forward from the ranks?  Some one will surely soon begin."  And the others make reply: "Don't you see, then, what an adversary yonder party has sent against us?  Any one who does not know should learn that he is a pillar, (36) able to stand beside best three in the world."  "Who is he, then?"  "Why, don't you see?  It is Sagremor the Wild."  "Is it he?"  "It surely is." Cliges listens and hears what they say, as he sits on his horse Morel, clad in armour blacker than a mulberry: for all his armour black. As he emerges from the ranks and spurs Morel free of the crowd, there is not one, upon seeing him, but exclaims to his neighbour: "That fellow rides well lance in rest; he is a very, skilful knight and carries his arms right handily; his shield well about his neck.  But he must be a fool to undertake of his own free will to joust with one of the most valiant knights to be found in all the land.  Who can he be?  Where was he born? Who knows him here?"  "Not I."  "Nor I."  "There is not a flake of snow on him; but all his armour is blacker far than the cloak of any monk or prior."  While thus they talk, the two contestants give their horses rein without delay, for they are very eager and keen to come together in the fight.  Cliges strikes him so that he crushes the shield against his arm, and the arm against his body, whereupon Sagremor falls full length.  Cliges goes unerringly and  bids him declare himself his prisoner, which Sagremor does at once.  Now the tourney is fairly begun, and adversaries meet in rivalry.  Cliges rushes about the field, seeking adversaries with whom to joust, but not a knight presents himself whom he does not cast down or take prisoner.  He excels in glory, all the knights on either side, for wherever he goes to battle, there the fight is quickly ended.  That man may be considered brave who holds his ground to joust with him, for it is more credit to dare face him than it is to defeat another knight.  And if Cliges leads him away prisoner, for this at least he gains renown that he dared to wait and fight with him.  Cliges wins the fame and glory of all the tournament.  When evening came, he secretly repaired to his lodging-place in order that none might have any words with him.  And lest any one should seek the house where the black arms are displayed, he puts them away in a room in order that no one may find them or see them, and he hangs up his green arms at the street-door, where they will be in evidence, and where passers-by will see them.  And if any one asks and inquires where his lodging is, he cannot learn when he sees no sign of the black shield for which he seeks.”
http://www.pstratos.gr/books/dtroy10.txt

James Branch Cabell,: Chivalry (1909) - retelling of Nicholas de Caen’s The Story of the Sestina

“He answered with a gravity which singularly became him, "You have reason to understand that to my fullest power I will aid you." "You know that at Lewes these swine overcame us." He nodded assent. "Now they hold the King, my husband, captive at Kenilworth . I am content that he remain there, for he is of all the King's enemies the most dangerous. But, at Wallingford , Leicester has imprisoned my son, Prince Edward. The Prince must be freed, my Osmund. Warren de Basingbourne commands what is left of the royal army, now entrenched at Bristol , and it is he who must liberate my son. Get me to Bristol , then. Afterward we will take Wallingford ." The Queen issued these orders in cheery, practical fashion, and did not admit opposition into the account, for she was a capable woman.”
http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/1/7/5/11752/11752-8.txt

The Kyng of Alemaigne (Anon).

Sitteth alle stille, ant herkneth to me;
The Kyng of Alemaigne, bi mi leaute,
Thritti thousent pound askede he
For to make the pees in the countre,
Ant so he dude more,

Richard, thath thou be ever trichard,
Tricthen shalt thou never more.

Richard of Alemaigne, whil that he wes Kying,
He spende al is tresour opon swyvyng,
Haveth he nout of Walingford oferlyng,
Let him habbe, ase he brew, bale.-, to dryng,
Maugre Wyndesore. Richard, thath thou be ever, etc.

The Kyng of Alemaigne wende do ful wel,
He saisede the mulne for a castel,
With hare sharpe swerdes he grounde the stel
He wende that the sayles were mangonel
To helpe Wyndesore,
Richard, thath thou be ever, etc.

The Kyng of Alemaigne gederede ys host,
Makede him a castel of a mulne post,
Wende with is prude, ant is muchele bost,
Brohte from Alemayne mony sori gost
To store Wyndesore.
Richard, thath thou be ever, etc.

By God, that is aboven ous, he dude much synne,
That lette passen over see the Erl of Warynne,
He hath robbed Engelond, the mores, and the fenne,
The gold, ant the selver, ant y-boren henne,
For love of Wyndesore.
Richard, thath thou be ever, etc.

Sire Simond de Mountfort hath suore bi ys chyn,
Havede he nou here the Erl of Waryn,
Shuld he never more come to is yn,
Ne with sheld, ne with spere, ne with other gyn
To help of Wyndesore,
Richard, thath thou be ever, etc.

Sire Simon de Montfort hath suore bi ys cop
Heyede he nou here Sir Hue de Bigot,
Al he shulde grante here twelftmoneth scot
Shulde he never more with his fot pot
To helpe Wyndesore,
Richard, thath thou be ever, etc.

Be the luef. be the loth, Sire Edward,
Thou shalt ride sporteles o thy lyard
Al the ryhte way to 'Dovere-ward,
Shalt thou never more breke foreward;
Ant that reweth sore
Edward, thou dudest as a shreward,
Forsoke thyn emes lore,
Richard, thath thou be ever, etc.

The Kyng of Alemaigne is a 13th century political ballad which criticizes the spending and foreign ambitions of Richard of Cornwall, King of the Romans.

William Morris: A Dream Of John Ball (1892)

“Sometimes I am rewarded for fretting myself so much about present matters by a quite unasked–for pleasant dream. I mean when I am asleep. This dream is as it were a present of an architectural peep–show. I see some beautiful and noble building new made, as it were for the occasion, as clearly as if I were awake; not vaguely or absurdly, as often happens in dreams, but with all the detail clear and reasonable. Some Elizabethan house with its scrap of earlier fourteenth–century building, and its later degradations of Queen Anne and Silly Billy and Victoria, marring but not destroying it, in an old village once a clearing amid the sandy woodlands of Sussex. Or an old and unusually curious church, much churchwardened, and beside it a fragment of fifteenth–century domestic architecture amongst the not unpicturesque lath and plaster of an Essex farm, and looking natural enough among the sleepy elms and the meditative hens scratching about in the litter of the farmyard, whose trodden yellow straw comes up to the very jambs of the richly carved Norman doorway of the church. Or sometimes ’tis a splendid collegiate church, untouched by restoring parson and architect, standing amid an island of shapely trees and flower–beset cottages of thatched grey stone and cob, amidst the narrow stretch of bright green water–meadows that wind between the sweeping Wiltshire downs, so well beloved of William Cobbett. Or some new–seen and yet familiar cluster of houses in a grey village of the upper Thames overtopped by the delicate tracery of a fourteenth–century church; or even sometimes the very buildings of the past untouched by the degradation of the sordid utilitarianism that cares not and knows not of beauty and history: as once, when I was journeying (in a dream of the night) down the well–remembered reaches of the Thames betwixt Streatley and Wallingford, where the foothills of the White Horse fall back from the broad stream, I came upon a clear–seen mediaeval town standing up with roof and tower and spire within its walls, grey and ancient, but untouched from the days of its builders of old.”
http://public-library.net/eBooks/Adelaide/m/m87dj/part1.html

Rudyard Kipling: Rewards and Fairies (1910)

'I am at these pains to be particular, good people, because I would have you follow, so far as you may, the operations of my mind.  That plague which I told you I had handled outside Wallingford in Oxfordshire was of a watery nature, conformable to the brookish riverine country it bred in, and curable, as I have said, by drenching in water. This plague of ours here, for all that it flourished along watercourses - every soul at both Mills died of it, - could not be so handled. Which brought me to a stand.
http://www.writersmugs.com/books/books.php?book=238&name=Rudyard_Kipling&title=Rewards_and_Fairies

William Morris: News from Nowhere (1890) Chapter XXVII: The Upper Waters

We stopped at Wallingford for our mid-day meal; of course, all signs of squalor and poverty had disappeared from the streets of the ancient town, and many ugly houses had been taken down and many pretty new ones built, but I thought it curious, that the town still looked like the old place I remembered so well; for indeed it looked like that ought to have looked.

At dinner we fell in with an old, but very bright and intelligent man, who seemed in a country way to be another edition of old Hammond . He had an extraordinary detailed knowledge of the ancient history of the country-side from the time of Alfred to the days of the Parliamentary Wars, many events of which, as you may know, were enacted round about Wallingford . But, what was more interesting to us, he had detailed record of the period of the change to the present state of things, and told us a great deal about it, and especially of that exodus of the people from the town to the country, and the gradual recovery by the town-bred people on one side, and the country-bred people on the other, of those arts of life which they had each lost; which loss, as he told us, had at one time gone so far that not only was it impossible to find a carpenter or a smith in a village or small country town, but that people in such places had even forgotten how to bake bread, and that at Wallingford, for instance, the bread came down with the newspapers by an early train from London, worked in some way, the explanation of which I could not understand. He told us also that the townspeople who came into the country used to pick up the agricultural arts by carefully watching the way in which the machines worked, gathering an idea of handicraft from machinery; because at that time almost everything in and about the fields was done by elaborate machines used quite unintelligently by the labourers. On the other hand, the old men amongst the labourers managed to teach the younger ones gradually a little artizanship, such as the use of the saw and the plane, the work of the smithy, and so forth; for once more, by that time it was as much as—or rather, more than—a man could do to fix an ash pole to a rake by handiwork; so that it would take a machine worth a thousand pounds, a group of workmen, and half a day’s travelling, to do five shillings’ worth of work. He showed us, among other things, an account of a certain village council who were working hard at all this business; and the record of their intense earnestness in getting to the bottom of some matter which in time past would have been thought quite trivial, as, for example, the due proportions of alkali and oil for soap-making for the village wash, or the exact heat of the water into which a leg of mutton should be plunged for boiling— all this joined to the utter absence of anything like party feeling, which even in a village assembly would certainly have made its appearance in an earlier epoch, was very amusing, and at the same time instructive.
http://www.marxists.org/archive/morris/works/1890/nowhere/chapters/chapter27.htm