KINGS OF THE CHRISTMAS FEAST
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"The folk of Slandyke are thought to be the most foolish in the realm. It is said, perhaps in jest, that they built a pen to trap a cuckoo, to ensure 'twas ever springtide."
Extract from Holfast's later journal c. 1085 (Narnian dating)
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At Cair Paravel
1275 (Narnian dating)
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"Your Majesty, gentles, good creatures of the court, indulge me a while as I tell you a tale from Narnia's past," said the blind bard.
"I'm done with indulgence," Lord Replete groaned, rubbing his burgeoning stomach to good natured laughter. Fifty had gathered in the great hall of Cair Paravel for the Christmas Eve feast and to see the big day in. Huge spheres of greenery had been hung that morning and the castle swept clean throughout. Fresh rushes and rosemary had been laid on the floor. The rush lights and tallow candles had been replaced with costlier wax candles, supplied by Dwarfish merchants.
"Hush now," said the Queen, frowning and then bestowing an unnoticed smile upon the teller of tales.
Replete put a finger to his lips at the rebuke, which raised further smiles but no laughter. "It is a ghost story for Christmas Eve," Hendrick, the story-teller, went on. He was an old man of about eighty winters; often called upon to perform at court when the nights are long and the days short.
"I don't believe in ghosts," objected King Pascent.
Hendrick turned in his majesty's direction. "It's easy not to believe in ghosts whilst sat in the great feasting hall of kings, before a board groaning with food and drink, surrounded by one's subjects – that I accept." The tables were indeed overflowing – even though many dishes had been finished, others remained. Rare treats such as oranges, dried figs, nuts, raisins and currants from the Calormene Empire graced the board for those that were still hungry. The King shrugged, lazily accepting the rebuke. "Will ye preside over the feast on the morrow, your majesty?"
"Nay; for it is not the custom."
"Indeed it's not, sire, nor has it been for many a year. Do ye know why that should be?"
Pascent looked rather blankly at his wife; "I fear - Master Bard - that I don't. Lady Ismene," he said, turning to the Court Astrologer, "Do you ken this?"
The centaur looked slightly embarrassed and shuffled her hooves. Tradition and folklore were her pet subjects but she knew nothing of this matter. "I fear not, your majesty."
"Ah," said the king, taking a sip of hot, spiced Jinniver (a fiery Calormene spirit) "tell on then, Master Hendrick."
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The bard's tale
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"Know this then, sire, in the reign of Good Queen Reposco – ennobled by Edmund the Just – there lived a knight by the name of Teudor. He was a brave man if ambitious; prone to great acts of chivalry but always looking to his own advancement. The Queen held the nation in trust until the Pevensey siblings returned. Like all true rulers of Narnia she also held herself to be under the authority of Aslan, the Great Lion, himself.
A veritable flood of exiles had swept across the seas to return to Narnia. They found the soil good, the weather kind and their crops flourished. Gentle rains watered the earth, tender winds carried the seeds and a generous sun did its work. Now, the village of Slandyke grew up again like a bulb that has lain dormant in the hard, frozen ground. It bore an ancient name remembered only by the magical peoples of wood and stream. It's my belief that its true name is Aslan's Dyke but alas I cannot be sure nor do I know why." Lady Ismene made a mental note to look into the matter as it was exactly the sort of thing that interested her.
"The Edmundian Statutes remained the law of the land; meaning justice for all, great or small. When the headman of Slandyke reported apparitions that kept the villagers home at night, good queen Reposco despatched Sir Teudor to investigate as commanded by law (for might not any settlement call upon the crown for protection?)"
"Even the cuckoo-catchers," said Lord Replete jocularly.
King Pascent – suppressing a smile – said loudly "Including the good people of Slandyke".
"Sir Teudor made a great show of visiting Slandyke and rode away seemingly content. He had however positioned guards in a copse some distance from the village. They kept watch for two evenings to no avail but, on the third night, they espied ghostly figures leading a horse and cart, bearing a coffin," the bard continued.
"How frightful," said the Lady Celeste (she of a rather nervous and credulous disposition).
"It was, lady," said Hendrick. "The men were an eerie white as if they'd bathed in the waters of the moon. Sir Teudor though showed no fear and he rode down upon them, outpacing his soldiers by fifty yards."
Four spectral figures saw his approach and they began to wail and point reproachfully. Their shrouds spoke of death as did their warnings, "Woe to him that harries the dead!"
"Woe to the living that wouldst commune with the dead!"
"Join us, for the coffin is empty and awaits you!"
"To the earth you will go!"
Sir Teudor, though rightly wary of the infernal cortege, was a man of valour. He rode up to the procession and stared them down. "What brings the dead out of their sleep?"
"That is no business of mortal man," was the reply.
The gallant knight stared hard upon them. "Paint and shrouds do not a corpse make," he said shrewdly and the spectres shifted uncomfortably. All about them now, in a circle, were the guards. "A dead man feels no pain," Teudor went on.
"Our pain was in life," said their spokesman.
"I wonder…" the warrior mused, "If that is true?" Unexpectedly he clapped the flat of his sword hard upon a shoulder and the so-called un-dead cried out in pain. "I've known mouldy cheese with less life than you," he declared. "Sarjeant; break open the coffin."
"Sir!" Obediently, if slowly, the Sarjeant applied his own blade to the coffin lid. It was unscrewed and came up easily enough. Inside were two lean, dead sheep.
"Sheep stealing, hey? I'm not as credulous as the good burghers of Slandyke. You thought you'd found a safe way to poach! Sarjeant; take these men to the village and put them in the lock-up. The Head Man can try them in the morning; stay with them to see justice is meted out. I'm bound for court, as Mid-Winters' Day will soon be upon us." The matter being resolved, Sir Teudor rode off into the night accompanied by two servants – Mould and Ragwort – and his squire, one Manchet.
"How did you know, master?" asked Manchet.
"That they were no more dead than I? They looked fat enough – only their white pallor suggested death. I've seen Calormene Doctors use such paint on their accomplices". Back then there was a glut of quack doctors, claiming (by judicious use of walnut juice) to be of Calormene origin. They travelled the country selling their useless nostrums to the gullible.
The small group rode on some way but, imperceptibly at first, a mist arose that soon became thicker and thicker, eventually hiding all landmarks. "Curse this, I'll be back at Court within two days, even if all the demons of the Hal Hallim try to stop me," raged Sir Teudor.
"Is that a boundary stone, sir?" Mould asked.
Sir Teudor dismounted to examine the rock. "Possibly; there's no marker on it though." Then, with his sword, he gestured at yellow lumps on the ground like unshaped butter. "Fairy butter," he said, in wonder. Mould and Ragwort began to mutter, having a lively fear of fairy-folk. "I'd eat fresh bread and butter from Tash himself right now, still, let us ride on," the knight ordered. "Hard biscuits and rabbit is a diet one soon tires of."
They slowly made their way across rough ground, riding nose to tail lest they lose one another. Some yards away there was a humming sound, "What's that, master?" Ragwort asked nervously.
"I don't know," Teudor admitted.
"Those are bees humming, rehearsing their midnight song," Manchet said. For it is well known that as Christmas Day breaks the merry workers in the hives do sing.
"It's the voices of the dead from the pit," Mould wailed.
"Pull yourself together man," Sir Teudor snapped. "Ride on." They went on for another hour, perhaps in a circle for all they knew. Just as the knight's patience with his cowardly servants was about to snap, they saw a crude hut before them. "We may take shelter here, or at least ask directions," said the cavalier thankfully. The cot was simply made, with thatched roof and no windows. Teudor dismounted and banged hard upon the crazy door with his mailed fist.
A very tall woman came to the door, dressed simply in a homespun robe and kirtle, her head and face modestly veiled. "What brings you to my humble home, on such a dank night?" she asked. She sounded elderly and frail. She held a wooden torch that bathed the entrance in a pool of warm light.
"I'm sorry to trouble you, goodwife, but my servants and I have lost our way. May we seek shelter for the night and perhaps some food and drink? Our provisions are meagre. I will pay you, of course."
"I live here alone and very simply, sir. There is room enough for you. I have some bread - fresh baked this very afternoon - and a cask of plum wine if that would suffice?"
"That would be very welcome, mistress," the knight replied, cheerfully. "Tether the horses," he said to his servants.
"Our hostess is most kind," said the squire, unexpectedly, "perhaps she would answer me a riddle?"
"What is it, young man?" she asked querulously.
"How does a rustic matron have two fine, white hands?" Manchet asked. Reply came there none. "Perhaps you might answer this then, madam? When did two fine, white feet and jewelled slippers grace a rural cottage?"
Sir Teudor drew a further intake of breath and stepped back, his hand upon his sword hilt. "My squire has keen eyes whereas mine have been blind. When did a countrywoman wear the finest ermine beneath her homespun robe?" The lady's own intake of air was more like a venomous hiss. "By the Great Lion, I'd not touch any of your food!" he declared. There followed the most awful shriek; they clamped their palms to their ears to blot it out. Mould and Ragwort stumbled off into the mist in fear and were soon lost. The world seemed to spin and a raging, black whirlwind enveloped both the woman and her cottage. With one further ear-splitting cry the funnel rose into the air and ascended until it was out of sight.
When the knight and his squire eventually returned to Cair Paravel they told Her Majesty, good Queen Reposco, of their adventure. You must understand that none of them believed in ghosts. They also knew that the White Witch had been irrevocably defeated some years earlier. For that reason it was thought politic that the matter should not be made public knowledge for fear of causing unnecessary panic. Nonetheless, Master Manchet was due a reward and was made much of (even though the details couldn't be discussed). That Christmas, he was made King of the Feast and, ever since then, some lowly squire of the court has been elected by his peers to preside over the festival.
My tale is now complete, your majesties and gentlefolk of the court. I can sense that Sir Replete is in imminent need of further refreshment so, all that remains, is for me to bid you all a very Merry Christmas."
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The end
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Explanatory Notes:
Some of the themes of this story are derived from English folk-lore and custom
Fairy butter (a bright yellow fungus)
Rash cursing of evil brings trouble
The bees humming for Christmas
Not accepting food from supernatural beings
Squires presiding at the feast (similar to the Boy Bishops)
There is of course an inversion of the Eucharist implied in the woman's offer of refreshment.
The Hal Hallim is a desert in Calormen (mentioned in several of my other stories) so it seems probable that Sir Teudor's family spent some time in Calormen during the Exile.