Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
T
he snow continued through the night and over the next days, covering all, drifting deep on field and forest, hilltop and valley throughout Elfael. As soon as the hard weather eased up a little, we fetched the captured spoils back to Cél Craidd, along with the four oxen kept in a pen not far from the road, trusting to the windblown snow to remove any traces of our passing. We kept a right keen watch for the sheriff and his scabby men, but saw neither hank nor hair of them, and so hurried about our chores. The wagons we dismantled where they stood, keeping only the wheels and iron fittings; the animals were more useful, to be sure. One we kept to pull the plough in the spring; the others would be given to farmers in the area to replace those lost in one way or another to the Ffreinc.
It was the same with the money. Bran did not keep what he got from the raid, but shared it out among the folk of his realm, helping those who were most in need of it—and there were plenty of them, I can tell you. For the Normans had been in Elfael going on two years by then, and however bad it was in the beginning it was much worse now. Always worse with that hell crew, never better. So, the money was given out, and those who received it blessed King Raven and his men.
Oh, but that great gold ring began to weigh heavy on the slender strap around Bran’s princely neck. Worth a king’s ransom it was, and we all stoked a secret fear that one day the Red King himself would come after it with an army. We were all atwist over this when Friar Tuck showed up.
I had heard his name by then, and some few things about him—how he had helped Bran in his dealings with the king and cardinal. But whatever I had heard did nothing to prepare me for the man himself. Part imp, part oaf, part angel—that is Friar Tuck.
His arrival was announced in the usual way: one of the sentries gave out the shrill whistle of a crake. This warned the Grellon that someone was coming and that this visitor was welcome. An intruder would have demanded a very different call. For those few who were allowed to come and go, however, there was a simple rising whistle. Well, we heard the signal, and folk stopped whatever they were doing and turned towards the blasted oak to see who would appear through the hedge. A few moments later, a fat little dumpling rolled down the bank, red face shining with a sheen of sweat despite the chill in the air, the hem of his robe hiked up and stuffed in his belt to keep it from dragging through the snow.
“Happy Christ-tide!” he called when he saw all the folk hurrying to greet him. “It is good to see you, Iwan! Siarles! Gaenor, Teleri, Henwydd!” He called out the names of folk he knew. “Good to see you! Peace to one and all!”
“Tuck!” shouted Siarles, hurrying to greet him. “Hail and welcome! With all this snow, we did not think to see you again until the spring.”
“And where should I be at Christ-tide, but with my own dear friends?”
“No bag this time?”
“Bag? I’ve brought half of Hereford with me!” He gestured vaguely toward the trail. “There’s a pack mule coming along. Rhoddi met me on the trail and sent me on ahead.”
Bran and Mérian appeared then, and Angharad was not far behind. The little friar was welcomed with laughter and true affection; I glimpsed in this something of the respect and high regard this simple monk enjoyed amongst the Grellon. The king of England might receive similar adulation on his travels, I’ll warrant, but little of the fondness.
“God with you, Friar,” said Mérian, stepping forward to bless our visitor. “May your sojourn here well become you.” She smiled and bent at the waist to bestow a kiss on his cheek. Then, taking that same round red cheek between finger and thumb, she gave it a pinch. “That is for leaving without wishing me farewell the last time!”
“A mistake I’ll not be making twice,” replied Tuck, rubbing his cheek. He turned as Angharad pushed forward to greet him. “Bless my soul, Angharad, you look even younger than the last time I saw you.”
Wise and powerful she may be, but Angharad was still lady enough to smile at the shameless compliment. “Peace attend thee, friend friar,” she said, her wrinkled face alight.
“Brother Tuck!” cried Iwan, and instantly gathered the sturdy friar in a rib-cracking embrace. “It is that good to see you.”
“And you,Wee John,” retorted the priest, giving the warrior a clip ’round the ear. “I’ve missed you and all.” Iwan set him down, and the priest gazed at the ring of happy faces around him. “Well, Bran, and I see you and your flock have fared well enough without me.” Adjusting his robe to cover his cold bare legs once more, he then raised his hands in a priestly benediction. “God’s peace and mercy on us all, and may our Kind Redeemer send the comfort of this blesséd season to cheer our hearts and heal our careworn souls.”
Everyone cried “Amen!” to that, and when Tuck turned back to Bran, he said, “Some new faces, I see.”
“One or two,” confirmed Bran. He grasped the priest’s hands in his own, then presented the newcomers; I found myself last among them. “And this one here,” he said, pulling me forward, “is the newest member of our growing flock and as handy with a bow as King Raven himself.”
“That’s saying something, that is,” remarked Tuck.
“Will Scatlocke, at your service,” I said, thrusting out my hand to him.
He took it in both his own and shook it heartily. “Our Lord’s abundant peace to you, Will Scatlocke.”
“And to you, Friar. See now, two Saxons fallen among Welshmen,” I said in English.
He cast a shrewd eye over me. “Is that the north country I hear in your voice?”
“Oh, aye,” I confessed. “Deny it, I’ll not. Your ear is sharp as Queen Meg’s needle, Friar.”
“Born within sight of York Minster, was I not? But tell me, how did you come to take roost among these strange birds?”
“Lost my living to William Rufus—may God bless his backside with boils!—and so I came west,” I told him, and explained quickly how, after many months of living rough and wandering, Bran had taken me in.
“Enough!” cried Bran. “There is time for all that later. We have Christmas tomorrow and a celebration to prepare!”
Ah, Christmas . . . how long had it been since I had celebrated the feast day of Our Sweet Saviour in proper style? Years, at least—not since I had sat at table in Thane Aelred’s hall with a bowl of hot punch between my hands and a huge pig a-roasting on the spit over red-hot coals in the hearth. Glad times. I have always enjoyed the Feast of Christ—the food and song and games . . . everything taken together, it is the best of all the holy days, and that is how it should be.
I did not know how the Cymry hereabouts celebrated the Christ Mass, and nursed the strong suspicion that if Friar Tuck had not arrived when he did, King Bran’s pitiable flock would have had little with which to make their cheer. But when his pack mule arrived a short while later, it was clear that the friar had brought Christmas with him.
Within moments, he seemed to be everywhere at once, kindling the banked coals of the forest-dwellers’ hearts—a word of greeting here, a song there, a laugh or a story to lift the spirits of our downcast tribe. Bless him, he fanned the cold embers of joy into a cracking fine blaze.
Although they have adopted some of the more common Saxon practices, the Britons appeared not to observe the trimming of pine boughs, so it fell to Tuck and me to arrange this part of the festivities. The day had cleared somewhat, with bright blue showing through the clouds, so the two of us walked into the nearby wood to cut some suitable branches and bring them back. This we did, talking as we worked, and learning to know one another better.
“What we need now,” declared Tuck when we had cut enough greenery to satisfy tradition, “is a little holly.”
“As good as got,” I told him, and asked why he thought it needful.
“Why? It is a most potent symbol, and that is reason enough,” the priest replied. “See here, prickly leaves remind us of the thorns our dear Lamb of God suffered with silent fortitude, and the red berries remind us of the drops of healing blood he shed for us. The tree remains green all the year round, and the leaves never die—which shows us the way of eternal life for those who love the Saviour.”
“Then, by all means,” I said, “let us bring back some holly, too.”
Shouldering our cut boughs of spruce and pine, we made our way back to the village, pausing to collect a few of the prickly green branches on the way. “And will we have a Yule log?” I asked as we resumed our walk.
“I have no objection,” the friar allowed. “A harmless enough observance, quite pleasant in its own way. Yes, why not?”
Why not, indeed! Of all the odd bits that go to make up this age-old fest, I hold the Yule log chief among them and was glad our friar offered no objection. The way some clerics have it, a fella’d think it was Lucifer himself dragged into the hall on Christmas day. For all, it’s just a log—a big one, mind, but a log all the same.
As Thane Aelred’s forester, it always fell to me to find the log. We’d walk out together, lord and vassal, of a Christmas morn—along with one of the thane’s sons or daughters astride a big ox—and drag the log back to the hall, where it would be pulled through the door and its trimmed end set in a hearth already ablaze. Then, as the end burned, we’d feed that great hulk of wood inch by inch into the flame. Green as apples, that log would sputter and crack and sizzle as the sap touched the flame, filling the hall with its strong scent. We always chose a timber too green to burn any other time for the simple reason that, so long as that log was a-roast, none of the servants had to lift a finger beyond the simple necessities required to keep the celebration going.
A good Yule log could last a fortnight. I suspect it was the idleness of the vassals that got up so many priest’s noses. They do so hate to see anyone taking his ease. Then again, there was the ashes. See, when the feasting was over and the log reduced to cold embers, those selfsame ashes were gathered up to be used in various ways: we sprinkled some on cattle to ensure health and hearty offspring; we scattered some in the fields to encourage abundant crops; and, of course, sheep had their fleece dusted to improve the quality of their wool. A little was mixed with the first brewing of ale for the year to aid in warding off sickness and ill temper, and so on. In all, the ashes of a Yule log provided a useful and necessary commodity.
Over time, a good few of the Britons took up the Yule log tradition, just like many of the Saxons succumbed to the ancient and honourable Celtic rite of eating gammon on Christ’s day. To be sure, a Saxon never requires much encouragement where the eating of pigs is at issue, less yet if there is also to be drinking ale. So, naturally, a great many priests try to stamp out the practice of burning Yule trees.
“Well now,” said Tuck, when I remarked on his obvious charity towards a custom most of his ilk found offensive, “they have their reasons, do they not? But I tell the folk who ask me that the fire provided is the flame of faith, which burns brightest through the darkest nights of the year, feeding on the log—which is the holy, sustaining word of God, ever new and renewed, day by day, year by year. The ashes, then, are the dust of death, the residue of our sins when all has been cleansed in the Refiner’s fire.”
“Well said, Brother.”
“You seem a thoughtful sort of man, Will,” the cheerful cleric observed.
“I hope I am,” I replied.
“And dependable?”
“It would please me if folk considered me so.”
“And are you a loyal man, Will?”
I stopped walking and looked at him. “On my life, I am.”
“Good. Bran has need of men he can trust.”
“As do we all, Friar. As do we all.”
He nodded and we resumed our walk. The light was fading as the short winter day dwindled down.
“You said you lost your living,” he said after a moment. “I would hear that tale now, if nothing prevents you.”
“Nothing to tell you haven’t heard before, I’ll warrant,” I replied, and explained how I had been in service to Thane Aelred, who ran afoul of King William the Red during the accession struggle. “As punishment, the king burned the village and claimed the lands under Forest Law.” I went on to describe how I had wandered about, working for bread and bed and, hearing about King Raven, decided to try to find him if I could. “I found Iwan and Siarles first, and they brought me to Cél Craidd, where Bran took pity on me. What about you, Tuck? How did an upright priest like yourself come to have a place in this odd flock?”
“They came to me,” he replied. “On their way to Lundein, they were, and stopped for a night under the roof of my oratory.” He lifted a palm upward. “God did the rest.”
By the time we returned to the settlement, the first stars were peeking through the clouds in the east. A great fire blazed in the ring outside Bran’s hut, and there was a fine fat pig a-sizzle on a spit. A huge kettle of spiced ale was steaming in the coals; the cauldron was surrounded by spatchcocks splayed on willow stakes, and the savory scent brought the water to my mouth.
With the help of some of the children, Tuck and I placed pine branches over the doors of the huts and around the edge of the fire ring itself. At Bran’s hut and those of Angharad and Mérian, and Iwan and Siarles, we also fixed a sprig or two of the holly we had cut. A few of the smaller girls begged sprigs for themselves and plaited them into their hair.
As soon as the ale was ready, everyone rushed to the fire ring with their cups and bowls to raise the first of a fair many healths to each other and to the day. As wives and husbands pledged their cups to one another, I lofted my cup to Brother Tuck.
“Was hale!”
I cried.
Ruddy face beaming, he gave out a hearty, “Drink hale!” And we drank to one another.
Bran and Mérian, I noticed, shared a most cordial sip between them, and the way those two regarded one another over the rim of the cup sent a pang of longing through me, sharp and swift as if straight from the bow. I think I was not the only one sensing this particular lack, for as I turned around I glimpsed Nóin standing a little off to one side, watching the couples with a wistful expression on her face.