For Sandy and Lindsay, the best siblings ever –
they’ve always made my Christmases special.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
EPILOGUE
ANGLO-SAXON CHRISTMAS TRADITIONS
HISTORICAL NOTES
RECIPES
CHAPTER ONE
23 December 1051
Children’s voices rose out of the gloom, swirling down the road on the tendrils of low mist rising with the dusk, and Freya slowed her pony to a walk, charmed by the sound.
‘Listen, Father.’
Lord Galan drew up at her side and together they peered at the scene. Behind them the pale winter sun was dipping towards the horizon and already frost was forming like crystals on the grass either side. Through the tangled Thames fog, Freya could see pinpricks of warm light shimmering in the moisture. As their travelling party drew closer they made out, above tiny candle flames, the faces of children tipped towards the darkening heavens as they sent up a sweet Yule tune to God above. They stood in a circle around a young oak hung with ribbons and sweet pastries. Freya noticed the wide blue eyes of the nearest boy flickering constantly to a tasty biscuit dangling from a tantalisingly close branch. She smiled and reined her pony in.
‘’Tis a crib, Father – see.’
Freya pointed to the centre of the circle where a manger had been set, padded with sheepskins. Two proud children stood behind it, the girl in the soft blue of the Madonna and the boy carrying a shepherd’s stick taller than his blonde head. His other arm was stiffly around his Mary’s shoulders and they were both looking down into the cot where a babe lay, tightly swaddled and covered with woollen blankets.
‘Is that a real child?’ Freya breathed.
Sure enough, the baby’s eyes turned towards them as if it had heard. It gurgled softly and, for a moment, Freya felt as if Christ himself was welcoming her to London. She touched her hand to the cross hanging on a leather cord over her heart, a gift from her mother in her last days on God’s earth, and sent up a thankful prayer of her own. It had been a long, cold journey from her hometown of Leominster, in westerly Herefordshire, to King Edward’s Yule court at Westminster but now she felt warmed through by the simple nativity scene before her.
‘’Tis like we used to have.’
Wilfrid, her younger brother, joined them and, to her surprise, he reached out for her hand. They had always been close, but now he was sixteen it was rare for him to offer her more than a rough hug. She squeezed his fingers. He was right. When they were little their mother had always brought the manger into their homestead on the eve of Christ’s Mass and let them dress as Mary and Joseph. Seeing these other children do the same felt strangely like coming home.
‘Perhaps it’s a sign from Mother,’ Freya suggested softly, ‘that she is watching over us.’
She heard her father draw in a sharp breath and feared she had gone too far but when she looked his way he was smiling and the tear glistening in the corner of his old eye was a soft one.
‘I think, my dear,’ he said quietly, ‘that it might be. She would have been touched by this moment for she loved children. She loved you and would have been happy to see you both grown so fine.’
Freya leaned in and kissed his cheek and the three of them stood together as the children finished their song. They clapped when it came to an end and Galan found pennies for their box, then they watched, amused, as the children were let loose on the hanging pastries. The boy Freya had noticed earlier was quick off the mark, bundling a bigger lad aside with an astute shoulder barge to secure his prize. She was touched, though, to see him seek out a much smaller child with one leg wizened and twisted, and split the treat with him. That was the spirit of Christ’s Mass, she thought, and turned to say so to Galan but the rest of their party had caught up with them now and she was interrupted by Alodie Reeve, her dear friend and travelling companion.
‘Isn’t this marvellous?’ Alodie bubbled. ‘There’s a woman selling the prettiest beads over there and another with ribbons of so many colours, and there are chestnuts on the fire and the most delicious spiced tarts and a wassail cup too. It’s like heaven!’
Freya laughed. She’d been so drawn in by the sweet singing of the children that she hadn’t noticed the little market on the other side of the street. Alodie, however, was never one to miss out on such an opportunity. All the way from Hereford she had been babbling excitedly about the legendary markets of London where traders gathered from as far afield as the golden city of Constantinople, and here was one before they’d even reached the gates. Freya smiled to see her friend’s carefully styled blonde ringlets bouncing with excitement and, passing her pony’s reins to a servant, she allowed herself to be drawn towards the stalls. Dusk was truly falling now and the lanterns on every trestle table created an enticing glow. She could smell sweet chestnuts crisping and see the heady apple-rich steam of a wassail bowl competing to drive away the cold river mist. She drew in a deep, warm breath.
‘Where are we?’ Freya asked Alodie.
‘A place called Chelsea apparently. Earl Ralf called it a village but if so, it’s like no village I’ve ever seen.’
‘’Tis as big as a town,’ Freya agreed, looking around her.
The market had been set up in an open triangle of grass which was lined on all sides by wide, flat streets, beyond which sat runs of houses, some with their timber walls so newly cut from the forests that they were still golden in the soft light of the fading sun. They sat in neatly fenced plots, everyone it seemed with their own chickens and some with pigs and even tethered cows.
‘They keep their own beasts?’ Freya asked her father, her voice low.
‘They do,’ he agreed. ‘There are too many people for communal grazing.’
‘But look!’ Freya nodded as discreetly as she could towards the closest plot. Bigger than its neighbours, it had a rich stretch of grass and an open byre from which two cows stared curiously out at the bustling little market as they munched on soft hay. ‘Two cows,’ Freya whispered, ‘for just one household?’
‘There are some wealthy people here, daughter.’
‘But how,’ Freya asked, looking around at the packed-in dwellings, ‘when they have so little land?’
Lord Galan chuckled and gestured to the stalls around them.
‘They are merchants, my dear, or artisans. They amass their pennies by trade.’
‘Oh, I see.’
Feeling stupid, Freya clamped her mouth shut and turned back to Alodie, who was deep in contemplation of the beads on the nearest stall. A group of ladies came over, pushing past them for a better look, and Freya nudged her friend. The newcomers’ skirts seemed to be cut so wide you could surely sew two gowns out of the fabric. Beneath their fur-lined cloaks, Freya spotted deeply scooped sleeves and rich brocade trims and suddenly her new gown, simply cut in scarlet wool and trimmed with her own painstaking stitching, did not feel as elegant as it had when she’d first tried it on.
‘They’re so richly dressed,’ Freya whispered.
‘And so stylish,’ Alodie hissed back. ‘Look at her cloak clasp!’
They both stared enviously at the nearest lady’s huge silver brooch, fashioned in twisting plaits of silver, but Alodie was recovering herself and dug Freya in the ribs.
‘But no way near as pretty as you or I.’
‘Allie!’
Freya flushed. Alodie, with her big eyes and soft, open face, was lovely to look at but Freya did not consider her own looks – darker, with hazel hair and skin that
turned almost the same shade at just a hint of the sun – to be anything to dwell upon. The only comfort was that she shared her nut-brown hair with her lost mother, but that would hardly endear it to young men.
‘It’s true,’ Alodie insisted. ‘Laurent’s always telling me how pretty you are, Frey, and what a shame . . .’
Alodie stopped herself but Freya knew exactly what her friend was referring to and jerked away, moving past the edge of the cluster of stalls to look out across the grasslands beyond. To one side, the charcoal line of the Thames ate its way across the darkening plain but on the horizon to its right she spotted, at last, the city they had come to see, glowing through the nearly-night like a thousand Yule candles. London!
People said this rich Wessex city had been growing so fast in recent years that there were nigh-on one thousand souls living along the banks of the Thames River. Every day, they said, ships sailed up the waterway from all over the world – trading vessels from Norway and Denmark, from Flanders and Normandy, even from Rome and the lands of the Rus. They brought fabrics as soft as water and jewels that glowed a thousand colours and tales, so many tales. You could hear more adventures in the halls of London in one night, so they said, than you might in a whole lifetime in sleepy Herefordshire. Freya could not wait to be part of it all.
She stared eagerly at the outline of the city, taking in every detail. Over the palisade fencing she could see the double spires of the great wooden abbey leaning in towards each other, dark spikes against the purpling sky, and all around them the gaudy roofs of the pavilions of England’s lords and ladies. Smoke rose from braziers lit between the tents, the sound of mallets on nails sang on the air mingling with shouts and laughter as the court readied itself for dinner in the great hall beyond and suddenly she yearned to be inside.
‘You see the city?’ her father’s voice said behind her and she turned to him.
‘I do. It shimmers as if the angels are casting their light upon it.’
He smiled at her.
‘You are glad, then, that we came?’
‘Oh yes!’
‘Good. ’Tis a pity Lord Osbern could not accompany us.’
Freya flushed and kicked at a hardened sod of earth with her tough little riding boots. It was not, in her opinion, a pity that Lord Osbern had preferred to stay with his cattle than to ride to the court. Come the first thaws of spring her life would be joined to his in holy matrimony and, whilst she understood the benefits, she was glad to have these precious few days to herself first.
Freya moved towards the churning river, suddenly relishing the feel of the iron-cold air against her burning cheeks. Lord Osbern was a wise choice of husband, she knew. His considerable land bordered her father’s and joining the two estates would be very profitable for both sides. Plus, her soon-to-be husband was a kind and gentle man and flatteringly attentive. He would care for her well. It was just . . .
Freya glanced back towards Alodie. Her friend’s new husband, Laurent, had joined her at the stall and she was laughing up at something he had leaned over to whisper in her ear, her eyes sparkling with more than just the sharp air. Freya sighed. Laurent was a knight in the household of Earl Ralf of Hereford, their overlord and the leader of their train of travellers. Recently turned twenty, Laurent was lithe and lean with dusky blonde hair and welcoming eyes and Freya could see exactly why her friend was so taken with married life.
Alodie had been lucky. Laurent, newly arrived from Normandy to serve Earl Ralf, had caught sight of her when she’d accompanied her father, the local reeve, to his master. He’d seized on the chance to talk to her as she’d tended the horses whilst her father did his business with the earl and Alodie had, by her own admission, encouraged the lively knight’s attentions. They had been married within the month. Now they had their own chamber in Ralf’s walled compound at Hereford and ate every night in his hall – if, that is, they made it out of their private room at all.
‘Marriage is so much fun,’ Alodie kept telling Freya, winking infuriatingly. ‘Sometimes I swear I’d happily stay abed all day long. Nay – sometimes we do! You’ll love it, my sweet, I promise.’
Freya had learned to smile as best she could at these well-meaning assertions but she knew she would not have the same experience and Alodie knew it too. Lord Osbern was a widower of more than twice Laurent’s age, with a gut as loose as his teeth and, for all his kindness, Freya could not begin to imagine being intimate with him.
‘There now,’ Alodie had attempted to console her the other day when, cold and saddle-sore, she’d snapped her fears at her friend, ‘some parts of a man are the same I’m sure!’
She’d giggled wildly and unhelpfully and then thrown Laurent a dirty look that had almost sent him skittering off the road, causing her to laugh even more. Freya had not been amused. She was marrying Osbern for her father’s sake and, though she was determined to make the best of it, she could not look forward to it.
‘No matter,’ Freya told herself firmly now. For the next few glorious days she was not the betrothed of an aging farmholder, but just one of a hundred young women at court, and she was going to enjoy herself. She had a beautiful new gown, money in her purse for the great London markets, and dancing slippers that she intended to wear out amongst the rushes of Westminster’s great hall. She set her eyes on the flickering lights of the city and determined not to waste this time at the king’s Yule court with moping.
‘Shall we try the wassail cup?’ Galan suggested and Freya nodded gladly, letting her father draw her towards the steaming pot over a large brazier in the centre of the rough-and-ready market.
‘’Tis a fine brew,’ the alewife said eagerly as they approached, especially when Earl Ralf joined them. King Edward’s nephew was resplendent in a rich fur cape and had a fine sword glinting at his hip and the seller was not slow to take in his potential. ‘It will warm your poor bones, my lords, and see you happily into Westminster.’
She gestured behind her to the city and Earl Ralf nodded.
‘You speak true. Come!’ He turned to the rest of their party who had gathered around his commanding figure. ‘Let’s fill our tankards from this good woman’s wassail bowl and then we can proceed to the royal compound in comfort.’ Earl Ralf unclipped a waxed leather cup from his belt and the woman scrambled to fill it. He drank deeply. ‘Delicious,’ Ralf proclaimed, picking apple-fluff from his moustache and reaching for his clinking purse. ‘Take your fill, all, for ’tis the season of joy and this seems as good a place as any to start our celebrations.’
His guard – ten big men with shoulders as broad as doorframes and swords almost as long as their thick legs – needed no second urging but Ralf put up a hand to hold them back.
‘Ladies first.’
Ralf beckoned Freya and Alodie over and the alewife ladled the pungent brew into their cups before they scuttled aside to give the men their turn.
‘It really is delicious,’ Alodie said, drinking keenly so that the steam seemed to Freya to twirl around her pink nose.
‘And strong,’ Freya warned, tasting the giddy tang of the fermented fruit.
‘Perfect,’ Alodie giggled. ‘Relax, Frey. You heard Earl Ralf – it’s Yuletide; season of joy. We have no tasks to attend to so we can enjoy ourselves.’
Freya drank again and smiled. Alodie was right. It had been a hard year in the west and would likely be harder yet in the cold months of January and February, even – indeed, especially – with a wedding ahead, so she should seize these few precious days of respite. She drank again, tasting Yule in the rich brew and liking it. Earl Ralf paid the alewife, taking a second cupful for himself and snatching a kiss as he did so. The woman who must, Freya was sure, be nearly as old as Lord Osbern giggled like a fool.
‘Tush, my lord, and with not so much as a single mistletoe berry in sight!’
‘I shall return with a whole bunch,’ Earl Ralf promised her and Freya smiled as the woman blushed furiously, but then Ralf spoke again and the whole party stilled,
even the alewife hushing her cackling:
‘Is he here? Is Duke William here?’
Freya looked nervously to Alodie who had crept in against her husband at the name. Duke William of Normandy had a ferocious reputation as a sharp-toothed warrior, not just in northern France but also here in England, across a sea too narrow for comfort. And now he was on their shores, albeit just for a few days to visit King Edward’s Yule court. Freya saw Laurent squeeze his wife’s shoulders but even he, a Norman only recently come to England to serve Earl Ralf, looked nervous now.
No one was sure why Duke William had chosen to cross the Narrow Sea at winter time – and rumours were flying. Some said he had brought his bride, Matilda of Flanders, to see the homeland of her ancestor, Alfred the Great. Others said that he was seeking concessions of some sort from King Edward and others yet that he was here to discuss church matters. Whatever was intended, it seemed certain that the recent exile of the Godwinsons, previously the most powerful family in England, had something to do with it.
The great Earl Godwin, chief advisor to all English kings since Cnut, had clashed with King Edward last summer over the number of Normans appointed to court positions. Godwin had wanted to keep ‘England for the English’ but Edward had been raised in Normandy and had naturally (so Lord Galan saw it) wanted friends in his retinue. After Edward appointed Abbot Robert of Jumièges Abbey in Normandy to the Archbishopric of Canterbury, there had been a bitter political battle that had come heart-wrenchingly close to civil war.
To avoid that, Earl Godwin had been forced to ride for exile, taking his grown-up sons Harold, Torr, Garth and Lane with him and leaving his poor daughter Aldyth, King Edward’s wife, to be cast aside into a nunnery. But the Godwinsons were not a family to go quietly and rumours abounded of the troops they were amassing to fight their way back into favour. The mood in the inns and on the roads suggested that most Englishmen would welcome their return, but for now Edward and his Normans were in power and the duke himself was on his way. All were nervous and the roads were packed with people journeying to see the infamous Duke William for themselves.
The Christmas Court Page 1
