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 Cel 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 Merian, 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 Merian, 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 Noin standing a little off to one side, watching the couples with a wistful expression on her face.
"A health to you, fair lady," I called, raising my cup to her across the fire.
Smiling brightly, she stepped around the ring to touch the rim of her cup to mine. "Health and strength to you, Will Scarlet," she said, her voice dusky and low.
We drank together, and she moved closer and, wrapping an arm around my waist, hooked a finger in my belt. "God's blessing on you this day, and through all the year to come."
"And to you and yours," I replied. Glancing around, I asked, "Where is the little 'un?"
"Playing with the other tads. Why?"
"There will be no keeping them abed tonight," I suggested, watching the excited youngsters kicking up the snow in their games.
"Nor, perhaps, their elders," Noin said, offering me a smile that was both shy and seasoned. Oh, she knew the road and where it led; she had travelled it, but was a mite uncertain of her footing just then. It opened a place in my heart, so.
Well, we talked a little, and I remembered all over again how easy she was to be near, and how the firelight flecked her long, dark hair with red, like tiny sparks. She was the kind of woman a man would find comfortable to have around day in, day out, if he should be so fortunate.
I was on the point of asking her to join me at table for the feast when Friar Tuck raised his voice and declared, "Friends! Gather around, everyone! Come, little and large! Come fill your cups. It is time to raise a health to the founder of the feast, our dear Blessed Saviour-who on this night was born into our midst as a helpless infant so that he might win through this world to the next and, by his striving, open the gates of heaven so that all who love him might go in." Lofting his cup, Tuck shouted, "To our Lord and Eternal Master of the Feast, Jesus!"
"To Jesus!" came the resounding reply.
Thus, the Feast of Christ began.
The devil, however, is busy always. Observing neither feast nor fest, our infernal tormentor is a harsh taskmaster to his willing servants. The moment we dared lift cup and heart to enjoy a little cheer, that moment the devil's disciples struck.
And they struck hard.
CHAPTER 16
The first sign of something amiss came as our forest tribe gathered to share the festal meal. We drank the abbot's wine and savoured the aromas of roasting meat and fresh bread, and then Friar Tuck led us in the Christ Mass, offering comfort and solace to our exiled souls. We prayed with our good priest and felt God's pleasure in our prayers.
It was as we were singing a last hymn the wind shifted, coming around to the west and bringing with it the scent of smoke. Yes, Odo." I sigh at his interruption. "It is not in any way unusual to smell smoke in a forest. In most forests there are always people burning things: branches and twigs to make charcoal, or render lard, clear land… what have you. But the Forest of the March is different from any other forest I've ever known, and that's a fact."
My monkish friend cannot understand what I am saying. To him, a forest is a forest. One stand of trees is that much like another. "See here," I say, "Coed Cadw is ancient and it is wild-dark and dangerous as a cave filled with vipers. The Forest of the March has never been conquered, much less tamed."
"You would call a forest tame?" He wonders at this, scratching the side of his nose with his quill.
"Oh, aye! Most forests in the land have been subdued in one way or another, mastered long ago by men-cleared for farmsteads, harvested for timber, and husbanded for game. But Coed Cadw is still untouched, see. Why, there are trees that were old when King Arthur rallied the clans to the dragon flag, and pools that have not seen sunlight since Joseph the Tin planted his church on this island. It's true!"