A story of Narnia in decline, set at Christmas and something of a companion piece to my other short story 'The Queen spins a web'. Part one is complete; part two is yet to be added.
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A Christmas Masque
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Introduction
"Fields choked with thistle and briar, none to tend them,
No children play in the yard,
A hearth full of dust, the thatch neglected, the roof fallen in,
Fox cubs play in the street"
[The so-called Bickerdike prophecy]
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Queen Alfreda (that is 'Elfwise' in the idiom of Old England) was Queen of Narnia before the Telmarine invasion. She was clever and held the throne, in the face of opposition, for eight and a half decades. She didn't go to meet her maker until the great age of one hundred and five. In her day she was reckoned so great a beauty that she might have rivalled the two Queens Swanwhite and even Susan herself. Why then does she appear in so few histories of Narnia? Well, the sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve were once again few. The woods, pastures, valleys and hills seemed likely to know them no more. It wasn't forseen that Telmarine stock would re-people the land. With few of her own sort to remember her, Alfreda must go down as one of the great, lost monarchs of that nation. Strangely, she appears in a number of Calormene texts - for they were both fascinated and fearful of her in equal measure. Wary of Narnian magic since antiquity, the Calormenes debated whether Alreda was in fact Jadis, the White Witch, returned. Clever diplomacy ensured that this point was never answered. We begin our story one Christmas, over nine hundred years after the rule of the Pevensey siblings. Before we venture further afield, let's see the place first through the eyes of one Salman, a visitor from Calormen. He does not form part of our tale and yet has a tale to be told, elsewhere.
"Of course, these barbarians are a superstitious lot," said Salman, the merchant, to his nephew. They stood at the rail as the Narnian coast became clearer and clearer.
"We did see that ship, Uncle," Kamersz suggested hesitantly.
"Nonsense; it was but a distant vessel," Salman replied, dismissively. Two nights earlier they'd seen an indistinct shape on the horizon that unnerved the crew. Some spoke of the long-lost 'Aster', a supposed ghostly barque, which had sailed the seas for fifteen hundred years, in search of its master. "That's just the type of thing that I'm talking about. They are a simple people and prey to the strangest of fancies."
"Not long now, Fentez," the mate called to Salman. He'd chartered the vessel in the Lone Islands because his own countrymen were loath to land on Narnian shores.
The merchant made a gesture of acknowledgement. "Take this whole lion and witch legend," he went on. "It's an old myth and clearly has still more ancient roots. The lion symbolises the nation and the witch some sort of foreign pagan cult. It's fascinating, of course." Salman was one of a growing number of 'educated' Calormene who no more believed in talking lions than he did in Tash. Of course, given the grip that the dreaded 'Observances Bureau' had on that land, he could hardly make such views public. Instead, like many clever men, he would take them to the grave, unable to save himself yet still taking pride in his ideas.
"I'm looking forward to getting off this ship," his nephew said. "The place can be full of talking lions for all I care."
Salman clapped him on the shoulder, "Spoken like a true son of Empire. Water is for these web-footed heathens; on land we are the lions."
"By the blessed pigeons of Falimar," Salman marvelled, watching the harbour avidly. It was a cold, autumn day, summer already forgotten, and the place was bustling. As well as their ship, there was another of foreign design, already in harbour and undergoing repair.
"The half was not told us!" Kamersz was amazed.
Sailors – many flaxen haired descendants of the men of the western wilds – were going about their business, securing the vessel. They weren't ethnically Narnians although their ancestors had once lived alongside them, peaceably. A prosperous looking Dwarf, with a heavy gold chain hung about his neck, sat on a small pony, staring up at the boat. Other Dwarfs, all stout and well armed fellows, kept watch over him.
The Harbour Master was engaged with the master of the 'Jasmine,' completing the formalities that would allow it to remain. It took some time but finally an amicable agreement was reached. The Harbour Master was able to report back to a pair of grave looking centaurs from the great castle, Cair Paravel.
"All right, mister," said the master to the mate, "Start unloading."
"What of my goods, Kapud?" Salman asked.
"You see yon Dwarfish fellow?"
"Certainly."
"He's the warehouse owner you've been a' writing to. I don't know your dealings but I'll warrant he'll help you shift it. He's fair, not the niggardly sort."
The following afternoon, Salman and Kamersz were to make their business known to the local Shire Reeve (an official at the Cair Paravel). Issued the requisite pass by the aging porter, the two men were directed to join a queue. "It's impressive," Kamersz observed, glancing about him at the high walls and great towers.
"As a crumbling cliff," his uncle retorted. "See how the stone crumbles. Look at the poor quality of the repairs," and he was quite right. The masons who'd patched the walls up lacked the skills of their predecessors.
"May I see your passes, gentlemen?" said a faun, appearing as if from nowhere, startling them.
"Huh!" Salman visibly rocked. "My… our passes, of course!"
"It's a goat devil," an ashen Kamersz said, the faun barely out of earshot.
"Dear me, dear me," the merchant loosened his collar.
"It's a goat devil!"
"Yes, I saw!"
"What have we got into, uncle?" The queue moved interminably slow for there was only one official to deal with the paperwork. When the two men got into the vestibule they had another shock, for a muscular, warlike centaur stood on guard, holding a long-sword. They gulped, not daring to risk a comment. Finally, after another thirty minutes, they were ushered forward by a page.
The Shire Reeve, Gwenhaver Lanthorn, had studied their papers, checked their inventory against that taken by the Customs Master, and finally gave them licence to trade. She stamped the pro forma document with her official seal. "Welcome to Narnia, gentlemen," she smiled.
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The Travellers
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Plump, contented pigeons idled as Holborn checked the panniers on his mule. The bags bulged with all the spices of a Calormene bazaar. Such things were highly prized for the making of Christmas goodies such as plum pudding, Christmas cake and minced meat pies. "I'm nearly done, Serjeant!"
"No hurry my friend." The elderly Serjeant was once of the Royal Guard, but long since general factotum of Master Joseph Malfeasance, squire of Bickerdike. Malfeasance was not a rich man but one of considerable charm who'd married well. His bride, Princess Sophia, was the Queen's youngest sister, well educated and of sweet disposition. Delighted to be allowed to marry they'd been surprised by their subsequent treatment. A modest allowance was paid annually from the royal purse but there was no other bridal gift of office, land or title.
"Oo say's there's no blooming hurry?" muttered Rudkin, a Dwarfish silversmith. He and his daughter, Ursula, were travelling west in the same party.
"Make way," boomed a drayman, leading his cart and horses towards the gate, laden with huge barrels of the finest October ale. It still lacked six weeks until the great Christmas feast but preparations were long since underway. Even with the depleted court of the time, the amount of food and drink consumed was jaw-dropping.
Matilda Bickerdike, sat astride the pony that Squire Malfeasance had sent for her. She wore breeches which, whilst undoubtedly practical, were considered rather daring. The girl was no horsewoman however and wouldn't have been able to ride side-saddle. She was impatient to be off; looking forward to returning to her home village, even though she had no family left there. She'd been a serving girl at Cair Paravel for the past eight years, from the tender age of thirteen.
"Are we about ready then?" Wicman boomed. His small cart was some yards away from the others; by consensus he was to travel at the rear. Small barrels of oysters and salted fish were popular delicacies of the season but undeniably rather whiffy.
"I think so," Serjeant Bindweed agreed, casting his eye over the company. "Let's go," he said, with a decisive clap of his hands.
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Bickerdike
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Master Lewis, who painted Narnian history in very broad strokes, had no cause to detail every town and hamlet that had ever existed. One such neglected place was the small village of Bickerdike that lay in the west. It was notable for two things: the first being the dispute that gave the place its name. The second was the so-called 'prophecy' stone that periodically led to Narnian scholars to squabble over its precise meaning and date. Many even doubted that it was a prophecy and more a lament about the times in which it had been carved.
In antiquity the inhabitants of Nutbeam had existed in an uneasy peace with the squirrels that had enjoyed their produce immensely. Long before the coming of the White Witch the hamlet was abandoned. In the generations after the restoration of the Kings and Queens the place was settled once again. Finally a quarrel with a bad landlord, Sir John Malfeasance, saw the digging of a ditch and the enclosure of three quarters of the nut trees. Most of the villagers moved away, leaving just three families to eke out a living on what remained of the common land. The name of Nutley fell into disuse and it became known as Bickerdike to reflect the hated ditch.
"Come along now, Miss," Serjeant Bindweed urged his companion. It would be dark within the hour and he longed for the comfort of the kitchens. Warm cider and pigeon pie were uppermost in his thoughts.
To their left lay Walnut Cot, still home to the Nutter family and their small grove of trees. The windows were already lit with a spectral light. "Oh look!" Tilly Bickerdike delighted in the sight of the once familiar place.
"Oh yes, the Nutters," Bindweed said absently. "Good people. Come on! The track, once so broad and beaten hard, was disappearing through lack of use. They followed it until they reached the Bickerdike itself; a trench ten feet deep and ten feet across. The bridge was a ramshackle affair for, some years earlier, it had been the repeated target of vandals. Anything belonging to the late Sir John Malfeasance had once been 'fair game'. "We'd best get off and lead the horses," the Serjeant suggested, all too alert to the condition of the bridge. "I must speak to the Squire about getting this bridge patched up."
Safely over the bridge and remounted, the pair jogged on until they came in sight of Malfeasance House. It was a small manor house (unfortified as the builders had seen no such necessity). The narrow moat had been more ornamental than defensive and, by that time, was clogged with sludge and weeds. The once pretty drawbridge, originally picked out in gay colours, lay permanently across the moat, its chains rusted and broken. The ancient butler, in subfusc, opened the small door beside the main door, which protested noisily. He sniffed, "Serjeant; welcome, welcome. Matilda Bickerdike? I remember you."
"Master Greypoll?" Tilly said gravely, and dropped a polite curtsy.
"You'd best come in girl; the Serjeant can tend to your beasts. I'll send the lad out to help you."
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The heir
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The new nanny had settled into Malfeasance House quickly. Her charge, a two year old infant named Henry, had taken to Tilly and his parents were quite content with their choice. For the first couple of days Henry had missed Griselda, his former nanny (and erstwhile wet nurse), but after that he was happy enough. Tilly had a small but comfortable room in the west attic which adjoined the nursery. She saw more of the other servants than she did of her employers (as did Henry) but that was typical of their age and class. Henry was presented every evening between five and six, in his best gown, face and hands scrubbed, hair neatly combed.
It was a small household but Tilly got on well enough with her fellows. Simon Greypoll ruled the staff in his formal but kindly fashion. Lucy – the cook – and Sally – the scullery maid – welcomed her as a long lost member of their community. Matthew, who fulfilled the offices of stable boy, gardener and boots, was patently smitten. Only Abigail, Princess Sophia's maid, seemed inclined to dislike her. That was perhaps no surprise for she was jealous of her position and distrusted newcomers.
The household wasn't big enough for anyone to stand on their dignity and refuse other duties. When Henry was napping Tilly had to clean the nursery and her own bedchamber. There was much to do in the days before Christmas, even for the new nanny. She found herself helping with preparations for the great festival as Henry lay on a blanket in the corner. Two days before Christmas Eve, the servants and two of the villagers were preparing the hall – the main dining room at the manor. The women brushed out the old rushes and branches of rosemary that covered the floor. Simon, Matthew and the Serjeant carried in fresh armfuls of the same. The greenery (holly, ivy and more rosemary) that would decorate the place for twelve days wouldn't be brought in for another forty eight hours. It was stored safely in the stable loft.
Abigail entered the room. "There is a man at the door," she announced portentously. A peculiar emphasis was laid on the word 'man'.
The butler straightened up somewhat creakily; "A man, Miss Hazeldene?"
"A stranger, Master Greypoll, by the name of Patch Ploughman. He says that he is a fool," the lady sniffed, "and of that I make no doubt."
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Christmas guests
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"What a pretty child," said Patch, waggling his ears and bushy eyebrows in a most comical manner. Henry surveyed the clown solemnly, unwilling to commit himself. Patch waved his seemingly empty hand in front of the infant and, lo, a rattle appeared in it.
"Why, it's his toy," TIlly marvelled, clapping her hands. The babe did likewise.
Patch turned towards the young woman with a lopsided grin and conjured up a Christmas rose which he presented with a bow. His curly shoes contracted and broke forth again as he bent.
"Yes, very good," Greypoll judged. The professional fool brought with him written recommendations earning him the entrée to the manor for the duration of the festive season.
"I'd intended to apply to her Majesty," Patch had explained to the Squire, "But I was unavoidably delayed in Archenland. It's too late now to press on to Cair Paravel but I was delighted to hear that the Princess Sophia is in residence. It would be an honour to perform and, if you please, to obtain your recommendation…" The clown was duly engaged and assigned a bed in the hayloft, which, despite the occasional mouse, was at least reasonably warm and clean.
There were other guests staying at the manor for Christmas. Lady Priscilla Dominus, relict of the late Sir Walter Dominus, was enough to cast a shadow over the proceedings. Sister to the squire, she shared more of their forbears' nature than he, being rather autocratic and critical. She was elderly before her time, of pinched face and possessing a most ingenious pair of lenses (rather like pince nez) designed for her by Dwarfish craftsmen. Her brother – in her absence – likened those eyes to gimlets. Much of her criticism was directed at the servants and Tilly had quickly learned to flee from her presence.
A very stately gentleman, Sir Hubert Caloman, had the best bedchamber as befitted the guest of honour. Best friend to the Squire's late father, Hubert had unexpectedly turned up in the district and wangled himself an invitation. As a noted bon vivant his absence from Cair Paravel at Christmas would cause comment. The Malfeasances were used to his presence at hunting parties but never at yuletide. Hubert was accompanied by his man, Simeon Porringer.
The last of the ill assorted guests were Robert and Jemima Greenblade of Sward Manor (which was little more than a glorified farmhouse with four tenanted cottages attached). Joseph Malfeasance considered them social climbers but Sophia had grown fond of Jemima and had invited them before her husband could object. "Sward Manor," Joseph complained later, "Farmer's Folly more like!" Sophia had smiled sweetly, "If I can put up with Priscilla then you can put up with the Greenblades."
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Christmas Eve morning
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In some country parts it was still tradition to fast on Christmas Eve until after dusk. Perhaps happily there were only about seven hours of daylight at that time of year anyway. Most of the occupants had eaten a simple breakfast of porridge whilst it was still dark. Only Sir Hubert Caloman had broken his fast in bed on eggs, kippers and toast, served on a tray, at nine of the morning.
The servants – along with several helpers from the village - went to the barn to bring out the greenery to deck the house in its seasonal garb. Crafting the large, ball of greenery that would hang in the centre of the dining hall was a specialised task, overseen by Miss Hazeldene who had learned the art from her mother and grandmother.
"Come along, Tilly," Abigail ordered, "separate those long strands of ivy if you please. That's it, lay them out flat. Hm, yes, they'll do."
As soon as she could be spared, Sally (the scullery maid) was sent back to the kitchens where she'd be busy until the night's feasting was over. Two young boys from the village were employed there for the day to keep turning the spits on which lamb, beef and geese were roasted. Pie after pie went into the ovens, there were:
Game pies washed with egg and decorated most marvellously
Beef and oyster pies bursting with filling
Chicken and mushroom pies, rotund and deep
Mince-pies stuffed with shredded beef and all the spices of Calormen
And the cakes and puddings! What cakes and puddings!
A great round Christmas cake with a layer of marchpane and royal icing
Portly Christmas puddings simmering in the pot
Plum cake topped with whole almonds and glazed with jam
A steam pudding, swelling in the bowl atop of golden syrup
The pantry was filled with sausage rolls and pork pies, plump sausages waiting to be cooked, fresh eggs, sides of bacon and so much more. The manor would see the twelve days of Christmas through right heartily.
There was some concern around midday when – it was thought - a beggar had tried to break into the kitchen (momentarily unguarded). Certainly there were fresh footprints in the half frozen mud outside and the door had rattled. There were reports from the hamlet of a stranger but he - or she - had not approached the manor directly. At that season it would have been a cruel household indeed that denied such wanderer sustenance. "Keep an eye on the chickens," the Serjeant had instructed. "The Squire doesn't mind aiding someone but they aren't helping themselves!"
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Christmas Eve afternoon
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"Come on down to the stream, Tilly," Lucy suggested. It was mid afternoon and she had the luxury of an hour to herself. Cook intended to nap in front of the kitchen fire ahead of the climax to her culinary campaign.
"Yes, why not?" Tilly agreed. She put Henry into his warm jacket and hood and strapped him to her chest. "Oh, you're a big lad," she said. Lucy wrapped a voluminous muffler about her neck and buried herself still further in a shawl.
"Queen's Bertha's waters today," the scullery maid joked.
"Of course! I'd forgotten that". Tilly shook her head; it seemed so strange coming back to Bickerdyke where much was unchanged from her childhood. The stream, known locally as Nutley Beck, ran for some miles until it disappeared underground. It was a pretty place, on the other side of the estate from the loathed Bickerdike, which would soon be alive with snowdrops. A small bridge, kept in a state of good repair, afforded the best view of the water in both directions.
As the two girls stood there, Lucy said, "What's…oh."
"What's what?"
"Nothing."
"No, go on," Tilly pursued.
"It was just a shadow; I'm being daft."
Tilly patted her companion's elbow, "A shadow on the water?"
"Yes."
"Not Queen Bertha then?" Tilly teased.
The other girl laughed, "No, not Queen Bertha."
Now, at this point I ought to explain that no queen named Bertha (or anything similar) appears in the old King Lists of Narnia; either before or after the reign of the White Witch. Those lists are however incomplete and do contain some anomalies. The only reference to Bertha that I can find is in "Foxton's Narnian Mythology" written somewhere around the year 800 (by Narnian reckoning). Assuming that I've identified the correct legend then it was already old when it was recorded and must subquently have been preserved by the non-human occupants of Narnia.
"Bertha was dark and beautiful, with hair like a raven's wing,
Hunting on the very Eve of Christmas her mare bolted,
The folk of Nutbeam saw her asleep, floating on the stream,
Arms crossed peacefully, none dare pull her out,
Disaster for her royal spouse and the land."
It's amazing how old tales can persevere and how often there is some kernel of truth in them. Certainly both girls had heard that Queen Bertha might be seen in the water on the cusp of the Christmas festival. "We'd best get back," Tilly suggested, looking at the lowering skies.
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The Eve of Christmas
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"Oh," Sir Hubert Caloman groaned and lowered himself gently onto the bed. The ageing knight had grown drowsy by the fire, watching the nursemaid sing to her charge. Hubert was barefoot, in shirt and breeches, His corset, stiffened by bones, lay lie a discarded skin upon the floor.
"You'll not need that tonight," his manservant, Simeon, said as he picked up the garment.
"No, indeed!" The great feast would be unbearable so constrained. Hubert shrugged a rug over his chest. "Call me in an hour and a half, if you please."
"Certainly, sir."
"Go tell Cook to feed you. Oh, and keep your eye out… you know, that business…"
Sir Hubert had been a great friend of the Squire's late father and was familiar enough with the west country. Nevertheless, he'd not have chosen to spend Christmas away from Cair Paravel if it wasn't for a nagging sense of doubt. He'd confided his unease to the young Queen Alfreda. "It may be nothing," he'd finished lamely.
The Queen had been sat at her desk in the private closet where she held so many confidential meetings. "The same thought had occurred to me," she'd admitted.
"Really, ma'am?"
"Of course; I made my own enquiries."
"May I ask with what success?"
"They turned nothing up." The Queen looked thoughtful. "You were a good friend to my Grandfather, he spoke most highly of you."
Sir Hubert bowed, "I thought most highly of him."
"I am going to be very frank with you as I know that you won't repeat what I say…"
"Of course not, ma'am."
"Why do you suppose my nephew is living in rustic obscurity?"
"Well, I, um…"
"You think me unfeeling?"
"Of course not, Majesty!"
"Sophia is my youngest sister – there is Selina between us."
"Ma'am," Hubert replied with a nod.
"As you are aware, I am unmarried. Selina married Lord Catigern some years ago. What do you think to Catigern?"
"Well, I, um…"
"Catigern is a wolf but, so far, a wolf without issue. That means little Henry may well inherit the throne, yes?"
"Well, yes, for now, but you are so young, Majesty."
"Who can see the future, Sir Hubert? Do I trust Catigern? No; I trust him no more than I'd trust a hawk with a sparrow. For now it is better than Henry is brought up away from court, out of sight, out of mind and seemingly out of favour. I can't protect him completely but this is the best I can manage at present."
"There is no trace of Catigern's hand in this latest move?" Hubert asked.
"Not that I know of but I'm uneasy."
Forgetting protocol, Hubert began to pace, momentarily turning his back on his sovereign. "Forgive me! This is a lot to think about."
"It certainly is."
"I think I'll spend Christmas at Malfeasance Manor; they'll not turn me away," Hubert decided.
A slow smile spread across the Queen's face, "That truly is love."
The knight shuddered, "Christmas away from Cair Paravel!"
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The stranger at the door
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"A-hem."
The cough startled the Cook and she nearly dropped the pile of platters. "Lawks! Who is that?"
"Pardon, mistress, I didn't intend to frighten you." The man stood in the open doorway. He was tall with a shapeless hat, brim drooping over his eyes, and clad in grey, weather stained robes and furs. His accent was an ancient one, like that of the people who'd once lived in the western wilds, long since forgotten.
"You didn't frighten me, you just surprised me," she corrected him. "Who are you anyway? You're not from these parts."
"No, mistress, I'm a traveller, from the north. I travelled through these parts many years ago."
"Really? Were you lurking about earlier?"
"I do not lurk, mistress but, in answer to your question, no, I have only just arrived here. I am travelling south and find myself in need of sustenance."
Lucy looked at the stranger, weighing him up. He didn't seem threatening and she had a notion that he lacked an eye, which stirred her sympathy. She was sure that she'd caught a glimpse of an empty socket. "We'll not see anyone hungry on this day but if you want a bed for the night it'll have to be the stables and I'll need to get permission."
"It's very kind of you," the man said, waving a hand and revealing a length of ragged sleeve. "I'd be grateful of some food then I must be on my way though."
Lucy pulled out a chair at the table, "Sit you down and I'll find you something – for now and for your journey." She paused, "How did you get in?"
"Forgive me but the door was unlocked and nobody answered when I knocked."
"Unlocked! My, that's odd, I locked it myself."
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Father Christmas
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Christmas Eve was a celebration for the household – assisted by a couple of girls from the hamlet. The following day it would be 'open house' until eventide and anyone from miles around might join them and be fed right royally. At one time there would have been scores of children invited but there was a dearth of youngsters in Narnia. Then, when darkness fell, the servants would begin their celebration, waited on by the family. Anyone not completely sated by the end of Christmas Day was expected to fend for themselves, whatever their station. Other than the building of fires there would be little done the following day until noon.
'King Peter and the Giant' was the customary tale that began many a Christmas in Narnia. The Squire was happy to delegate to Patch, the fool, who did the voices most comically. Little Henry was allowed to stay up to enjoy the story then, before things became more raucous, Matilda took him away to his room. The nursery was on the same floor as the servant's quarters and Tilly had her own bed in a snug anteroom, little bigger than a closet.
It was but nine at night when something most uncommon occurred. Well, although I say uncommon it was something that happens every year, in many places, but is unseen by most. In the dark sky a most unusual thing flew. Drawn by eight reindeer, Sledde was gaily painted, a golden carved lion's head at its prow and bright shields on its sides. There were none, except a few startled birds, that heard the voices in the wind.
"Sing lads, sing, as we fly the gulls' way,
Though the air is chill or wet,
Trying not to lose our way,
Or the bairns will surely fret!"
If you were upon Sledde, that wondrous, magnificent sleigh that bore Father Christmas through the air and had landed upon the roof of Malfeasance Manor, then you would be mightily puzzled. Was Sledde suddenly small or the roof unfeasibly large? That was a part of the magic. However it was done, the vehicle landed comfortably on the roof.
"Oh, he is a fine old fellow,
His heart's in the truest place,
You may know that at once by the children,
Who glory to see his face.
For he never forgets the children,
They are all dear to him,
You'll see that with wonderful presents,
His pockets are crammed to the brim".
The unseen Aelf folc were giddy, for Christmas was a great season for them. Freed from the cold bonds of the frozen north-twixt-the-worlds they got to roam strange lands for some months – and all in a single night. For just a night it somehow was – even though when they returned home they'd find the frozen sea beginning to thaw and the other Aelfs anxiously awaiting them.
"Peace, peace," said Father Christmas.
"First one of the night!" an unseen helper pointed out.
"Yes, a special job," he agreed. He raised himself to his full height, for he was a tall man with a barrel chest, wrapping his red robe tightly about him. He stroked his long beard, plaited with leather thongs, and stretched his arms. "Pass me the first bag," he said.
It was a mystery how Father Christmas got down the chimney and into the nursery (especially as a low fire burned in the grate). If you'd seen it you wouldn't have said that he shrank nor would you have thought the chimney expanded. Even so, the trick was done. The nursery was quiet; Tilly was already asleep in her own bed next door. No sounds of distant revelry penetrated those quarters. Old Christmas walked silently across the floor, the floorboards not squealing their usual protests. He looked down at the child for some moments; Henry was fast asleep. From his pocket he produced a leather necklace from which hung a shiny metal disc bearing the face of Aslan Himself. "May He protect you," Father Christmas whispered.
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Christmas Day
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"Good morning, sister."
The Squire had turned the door ring and entered in complete silence, startling Lady Priscilla Dominus. "Oh!" she exclaimed, her lens slipped her nose and dangled by its thong.
"A merry Christmas to you," Joseph said, eyeing his sister wryly. She'd been reading a letter on the desk moments before and it had been scrolling shut when he came in.
"Hm, a merry Christmas to you too," the lady replied. Then, feeling some sort of explanation was in order she said, "I hope you don't mind me being in your study."
"Not at all."
"It's just all so busy today."
"Well, the servants are making everything ready for our guests."
"Hm; keep an eye on the servants," she instructed him.
"They know their job."
"They know where to cut corners; servants always do," Priscilla responded tartly.
"Greypoll will see that everything is done properly."
"I suppose you're feeding half the county this afternoon?"
"Hardly that! Just a few of the locals – it's not like in our great grandfather's day." That was very true, for the Christmas Day feasts were reportedly magnificent then. Not only had the hated Bickerdike driven people away but there were generally far fewer people in Narnia of late.
"Vulgar excess."
"Charity, sister, charity."
Priscilla eyed Joseph. "I will let you have some privacy; I think I'll take a turn in the gardens."
"It's a fine day for it."
"It's a pretty garden," Jemima Greenblade observed (and she was right). The walled rose garden had a display of beautiful white Calormene roses that cared nought for the cold. It was Princess Sophia's haven; it reminded her of her late Mother's garden at Cair Paravel.
"Yes, we ought to do something like this at the Manor," her husband agreed. They'd long since agreed that constant references to Sward Manor would eradicate its original name, Sward Farm, from human memory. "I like this wall," he said, "I must find some good, red brick."
"I say!" A voice called out.
"Lady Priscilla; a very merry Christmas to you!" Robert said.
"And to you. I rather think you've left the back gate open," the lady observed.
They all turned and, sure enough, a distant door was ajar. "Not us, ma'am," Jemima corrected her. "We've not been beyond the garden."
Thwarted, Priscilla sniffed. "Hm. I'll tell one of the servants to close it," (for it actually bolted from the other side). "We can't have people wandering in, willy-nilly."
The locals began turning up before noon – up to twenty were expected in all, of which but two were children. Dog-carts and donkeys rattled their way up the pitted, weedy gravel drive of Malfeasance Manor. Old Farmer Toller drove an antique equipage that had once belonged to a Dowager Queen of Narnia. It had since passed through a number of hands and was becoming increasingly dilapidated. "By the Lion!" Priscilla exclaimed, noting it through the window. "Have you ever seen such a spectacle! Our grandmother would have been ashamed to be seen out in it!"
"Hush, sister," Joseph warned, "Farmer Toller is most proud of his carriage."
Lady Sophia was at the main door to welcome their guests. She was soon joined by her husband who always found his sister's improving company a little irksome. Sophia greeted each bow and curtsy with "Welcome, welcome, a very merry Christmas to you."
Patch, the fool, scampered about like a terrier, capering and juggling to general amusement. Greypoll had on his most impressive air (except to those choice, elderly acquaintances with who he could discuss ailments). The boards began to fill up (as did the cups) and the feast began.
.
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The woman's magic
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The last of the locals were heaved onto their ponies, donkeys and carts by six o'clock. The servants began to tidy themselves and assume a festive air. The family and houseguests then ventured into the kitchens where food for the last party of the day was already laid out. "Now, we bring out this batch first," Princess Sophia said, indicating the choice delicacies, plated and ready, on the smaller table. There was salted fish, cheese biscuits and small, spicy meatballs.
"Generous," Priscilla observed (and it was not a compliment).
"When they've finished, you men clear the tables and we ladies will bring the next course." The large table was loaded with joints of beef and ham, a goose, game pie, apple tart and Christmas cake.
"Keep their cups filled – there's no shortage of good ale or cider," the Squire told the men. "They'll be asleep by ten," he laughed. "Oh, and keep the fire banked up."
"Any volunteers to wash up will be most welcome," Sophia hinted. "I intend to wash up as we go along."
"Really, Princess!" Jemima said, "I couldn't possibly let you do that. You must allow us!"
"It was good enough for my mother so it's good enough for me," the Princess corrected her. "Now, why don't we take the first course up?"
Any lady with tightly laced corsets regretted it. The servants' dinner had been prodigious and most had eaten not wisely but too well. Greypoll felt the sting in his big toe which was usually a harbinger of gout. Simeon Porringer was slumped down in his chair – in a reversal of roles, Sir Hubert feared that he must put his valet to bed that night. Patch had performed his last caper and cracked his last joke and had sat down to drowsily pull on a cup of cider. Ordinarily those respected pillars of society, Priscilla and Sir Hubert, would have long since gone to bed but it was bad protocol when the Princess Sophia was still working.
"Please, ma'am," Matilda said, addressing her mistress, "Might I sing? If you don't mind - whilst you are all here – to thank you all for this party."
"Can you sing, Tilly?" Sophia asked, "Very well, please, indulge us."
Tilly began to sing and the flames in both fire and candle leapt in pleasure. The old man said to live up the chimney ceased his usual plaints and settled down to listen. The girl sang of the sun warming the earth and of the daffodils dancing in the breeze. Every man and woman present listened rapt, to that story of a spring morning.
Tilly sang next of the heat of the noon tide sun in summer and everyone was warmed by its imagined presence; the rays beat their backs and made them drowsy.
The girl's theme changed then and became plaintive; an aching note crept in that made one wistful and vaguely conscious of things lost.
Finally Matilda sang of night and everyone's eyelids became leaden. It was surely a dark, still night in which neither bird nor beast gave tongue; a long silent night for sleep. It was long after dawn when they began to move and, pray remember, how late that it is in the middle of winter. Groggy heads began to stir and bodies shiver. The great fire in the hearth was nothing more than lukewarm ash. "Oh, my word," Lucy, the Cook, exclaimed.
"Uggh," grunted the Serjeant. "What was I drinking last night?" He was the first to his feet.
Sir Hubert, slumped in a hard wooden chair, felt every one of his years. "Lights!" he called, "What time is it?"
"Why, it must be nearly breakfast, sir," Greypoll said, struggling to his feet.
The Squire, disturbed by the activity, began to wake. "Wh…What time is it?"
"Nearly breakfast, sir," the butler said again.
"By the mane!" Malfeasance exclaimed. "Wake up my dear," he said, taking his wife gently by the shoulder.
"Mm, must I?" she protested, opening her eyes even so. It would be another five minutes before anyone enquired after baby Henry and a little more before panic set in.
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Where is the Witch-girl?
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"Wanted – alive" read the notices pasted all over the land. There was a mood of dismay for, even though the boy had lived in rural obscurity, he was a potential heir to the throne (certainly of his generation). Despite numerous sightings, Matilda, the witch-girl, had vanished with her charge. Narnia's depleted networks of guards and Shire Reeves were busily searching but to no avail.
One fine summer afternoon, when it seemed possible to forget one's cares, two hunters picked their way through northern woods. Lagging back from the party they'd quickly become separated. The lady was cloaked and hooded despite the fierce sun. The man had the appearance of a groom (and indeed was). Tom Ringer had attended his mistress all of her life and he was fiercely devoted to her, as he had been to her mother before him. Eventually the pair came to a neat, square cottage surrounded by palings. Hens clucked a greeting and an old goat looked disinterestedly at them. "We will ask directions here; mind the horses, Thomas," the lady said loudly. She made her way to the door and rapped upon it with the old spur that served as a knocker. A plump, middle-aged woman, dressed for housework, opened the door. "Forgive me, goodwife, but we are lost. Might we have directions and – if you please – water?" she asked confidently.
"Come in, mistress, come in."
The door opened into the main living room of the house. The ceiling was low and grey with years of smoke. No fire burned in the hearth that day though for it was summer and the cooking was already done. A small boy lolled on a fur rug by the hearth, playing with a wooden toy.
"There's no one else here, ma'am," the woman said.
"It's good to see you, Judith," Queen Alfreda said, slipping an arm about her former nurse's waist. "How is my nephew?"
To be continued
Glossary:
Aelf: Trans. Elf (Old English)
Aster: The name of both bride and ship of the most famous mariner Aethelwold
Blessed pigeons of Falimar: An exclamation, from an ancient Calormene legend
Fentez: Trans. Sir / Master (Calormene) similar to the Turkish Effendi
Folc: Trans. Folk (Old English)
"Fine old fellow" rhyme: "Welcome to Christmas" by Mary Howitt 1850
Fool: A clown, fool, jester; an entertainer
Kapud: Trans. Captain (Calormene) like the Turkish word
Sledde: Trans. Sled (Old English)