Chapter 6, Part 1
Longing for Home
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The vestibule of St. Michael’s Catholic Church buzzed with controlled chaos. Parishioners hurried through the heavy front doors, brushing snow from their coats and stamping warmth back into their feet before disappearing into the sanctuary. Every few seconds another gust of bitter December air blew in as the doors swung open again. From inside the church came the faint strains of the opening organ prelude. Near the sanctuary entrance, altar boys assembled for the procession while choir members gathered with hymnals tucked beneath their arms. Members of the clergy moved quietly among them, making final preparations before Mass.
Off to one side, a collection of costumed children waited for the annual Christmas pageant. Father Tom stood among them with a clipboard in hand. In his forties, he possessed the kind eyes and inexhaustible patience that seemed prerequisites for shepherding both children and parishioners.
“All right,” he said. “Mary and Joseph.” Two older children raised their hands.
“Three angels.” Three girls waved enthusiastically.
“Two wise men ... and one wise woman.” A small girl beamed with unmistakable pride.
“Lots of sheep.” A chorus of enthusiastic baas answered him.
“And three shepherds.” He frowned at the clipboard. “No. Just two shepherds.”
At that precise moment the church doors burst open. A blast of icy air swept into the vestibule as ten-year-old Arthur hurried inside, breathing hard from the cold. He wore a shepherd’s robe, a canvas satchel slung over one shoulder ... and a side-mounted snare drum.
“I’m here, Father Tom!” he called between breaths. “Sorry I’m late.”
Every child turned, as did Father Tom.
“Arthur ...” His eyes settled on the drum. He seemed to search for the appropriate response. “What are you wearing?”
Arthur glanced down as though the answer were perfectly obvious. “A drum.”
“I can see that.”
“I want to be the Little Drummer Boy.”
A few of the children giggled.
“Arthur,” Father Tom said patiently, “you’re a shepherd.”
“I know.” Arthur pointed toward the assembled cast. “But there are already two shepherds.” Father Tom looked. There were indeed two shepherds. “And we need a Little Drummer Boy.”
Suppressing a sigh, Father Tom knelt until they were eye to eye. “Arthur, there was no drummer boy at the Nativity. It’s simply a song, a very recent one.”
“I know, Father Tom.” Arthur’s expression brightened. “I looked it up.”
Father Tom waited with the practiced resignation of someone who already suspected where this conversation was headed. Arthur reached into his shepherd’s satchel and withdrew a Bible thick with slips of paper marking dozens of pages. He opened it to a heavily annotated passage, circles and handwritten notes crowding the margins.
“Luke, chapter two.” He pointed eagerly at the page. “Mary. Joseph. Baby Jesus. Angels. Shepherds.” He looked up. “No sheep, though.”
Father Tom’s lips twitched despite himself.
Arthur flipped backward through the marked pages. “And Matthew has the star, the wise men, and the gifts.” He paused. “But not necessarily three wise men, just three gifts.”
Father Tom found himself nodding. “The stories are different.”
Another turn of the pages. “Mark doesn’t mention any of it.” He flipped farther. “Neither does John.”
“I admire your diligence, Arthur.”
“So maybe there was a drummer boy.”
Father Tom tilted his head. “That’s your conclusion?”
“Well ...” Arthur considered the question carefully. “... there are lots of things I haven’t been able to find yet.”
Father Tom rubbed his forehead. From the sanctuary entrance, the processional cross appeared. Mass was beginning. Arthur, however, had not yet finished.
“Christmas trees.” Father Tom nodded. “Advent calendars.” Another nod. “The donkey.”
“Arthur—”
“The Immaculate Conception. Purgatory.”
Finally, Father Tom raised a hand. “Arthur, all right.” Arthur’s face lit instantly. “You may be the Little Drummer Boy.” A grin spread across Arthur’s face. “On one condition.” Arthur waited. “You may not actually play the drum.”
Without hesitation Arthur nodded. “Agreed.”
Father Tom laughed in spite of himself as he rose to his feet. “Now get in line.”
Arthur hurried eagerly toward the other children, delighted by his unexpected promotion.
Father Tom watched him go, smiling as he slowly shook his head.
* * *
The cruck house was unusually quiet. Tuck knelt beside the hearth, splitting kindling into neat stacks for the fire, while Saras sat at the table with a needle and thread, patiently mending a tear in one of Arthur’s tunics. The only sounds were the crack of kindling, the hiss of the fire, and the occasional pull of thread through worn cloth.
The front door exploded inward. A blast of icy air swept through the room. Arthur stumbled backward through the doorway, dragging something large in with him.
“Yes, Virginia,” he declared triumphantly, “there is a Santa Claus!”
Tuck and Saras both looked up.
With one final tug, Arthur hauled a medium-sized fir tree across the threshold. Snow cascaded from its branches and scattering across the floor as he wrestled the tree upright. It immediately leaned.
“Whoa.” Arthur lunged forward and caught it before it toppled over, then carefully steadied the trunk until it stood more or less on its own.
Saras stared deadpan. “What are you doing?”
Arthur looked almost offended by the question. “You, of all people, should know exactly what I am doing.” He pointed a finger at her. “So no Socratic method from you today.”
Taking a satisfied step backward, he admired his handiwork. “This is our tree.”
“Our tree?” She couldn’t help herself.
“Our Christmas tree.”
Tuck stared blankly at the evergreen.
“We are decorating for Christmas,” Arthur continued.
“Christmas?” asked Tuck.
Arthur looked at him. “Not you, too!”
“No, seriously.” Tuck frowned. “What’s Christmas?”
Arthur stared back. “It’s the time of year when the Church celebrates the birth of Christ.”
“With a tree?”
“Well ... not the Church exactly.” Arthur waved a hand vaguely. “People. Families. You decorate. You sing songs. You exchange gifts.”
Tuck’s eyes brightened. “I like gifts.”
“Everyone likes gifts!” declared Arthur. He brushed the remaining snow from his sleeves. “It’s supposed to be a joyful time. A reminder to be kind to people. A merry time.” He smiled. “So we say, ‘Merry Christmas.’”
“No we don’t,” Saras corrected.
Arthur turned. “What?”
“We say, ‘Happy Christmas.’”
“Nobody says ‘Happy Christmas.’”
“The English do.” She let that settle for a moment before continuing. “Have you ever heard anyone say, ‘Merry Birthday’?”
Arthur hesitated. “No.”
“’Merry Anniversary’?”
“No.”
“’Merry Easter’? ‘Merry Holidays’?”
Arthur stood there with his mouth slightly open, searching for a rebuttal that refused to materialize.
Saras nodded with quiet satisfaction. “Exactly. It’s ‘Happy Christmas.’”
Arthur considered the argument far longer than he wanted to. Finally, he sighed. “I hate that you may have a point.”
Tuck looked from one to the other. “You two are weird.”
Saras’s attention drifted back to the tree. “Although ...” she started. Arthur’s expression brightened instantly. “... of all your harebrained ideas, I think I could actually go for this one.” A grin spread across his face. “I like Christmas.” Her voice softened almost imperceptibly. “I would miss Christmas.”
“Yes!” said Arthur, as if celebrating a victory.
“And gifts,” Tuck added.
Arthur pointed enthusiastically. “And gifts.”
He rubbed his hands together, already planning. “We’ve got lots of work to do. Decorations. Food. Music.”
Saras rested her chin on one hand as though another thought had just occurred to her. “You know ...” Arthur looked up. “If you’re going to inflict this on us, you could introduce Christmas to the entire Court.”
Arthur froze. Then, very slowly, he turned toward her.
She quickly backtracked. “I’m joking.”
His eyes grew wider instead. Ideas were already taking root.
“Arthur?”
“That’s a great idea!”
“No!”
“That’s a fantastic idea!”
“It really isn’t.”
But Arthur was already halfway to the door. “We’ll need volunteers.”
“Arthur—”
“And decorations. And music. And gifts.”
“Arthur!”
He flung the door open, letting another wave of winter air sweep into the house.
“Merry Christmas!”
Then he was gone, disappearing into the falling snow. The door slammed shut behind him. Silence returned almost as suddenly as it had been broken.
Tuck looked at Saras. “What just happened?”
Saras continued staring at the closed door. “I may have doomed us all.”
* * *
Lady Wynflaed’s manor in Shaftesbury had become too quiet. She wandered slowly through its familiar rooms, though she could not have said what she was looking for.
She paused in the dining hall. Everything sat precisely where it belonged. Almost absently, she reached out and nudged a wooden cup a fraction of an inch before continuing on.
An empty bedchamber waited beyond the hall. The bed was neatly made. No one had slept there for months.
She lingered in the doorway, her eyes roaming the room before moving on. The next chamber was no different. Everything was orderly. Everything was empty. She closed the door gently behind her.
Some time later she found herself standing once again in the dining hall. She stopped, looking around as though she had forgotten why she had come there in the first place.
At last she let out a slow breath. Then she turned and headed for the door.
The stone corridors of Shaftesbury Abbey echoed with quiet footsteps. Nuns moved calmly about their daily duties, their routines undisturbed by the winter morning. Wynflaed walked among them, trying to settle her thoughts. She paused to watch two young novices carrying baskets across the cloister before continuing on.
A window overlooking the abbey grounds drew her to a stop. Snow rested upon the gardens beyond, untouched except for a few narrow paths winding between the buildings. She stood staring through the glass, though her thoughts were elsewhere entirely.
“Lady Wynflaed.”
She turned. Abbess Agnes stood a few steps away. Age had softened neither her perception nor her quiet authority. She possessed the rare gift of observing far more than she ever acknowledged.
“You have walked past this window three times.”
Wynflaed frowned slightly. “Have I?”
“You have.” A brief silence settled between them. “And before that,” the Abbess continued, “Sister Edith informed me that you spent a considerable time staring at a closed door.”
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of Wynflaed’s mouth. “I was thinking.”
“Dangerous.” The Abbess crossed the remaining distance and joined her at the window. For a time, neither woman spoke.
Then, without looking away from the snow-covered grounds, the Abbess said simply, “Go.”
Wynflaed sighed. Caught. “Your Grace—”
“You miss them.”
“The Abbey needs me.”
“The Abbey is older than either of us.” Only then did the Abbess turn toward her. “I suspect it will survive.”
“But there is much to do.”
“There is always much to do.” She studied Wynflaed for a long moment. “The real question is whether that is truly why you are still here.”
Wynflaed lowered her eyes. After a long silence she answered quietly. “I am uncomfortable at Court.”
“So I have gathered.”
“Everything has changed. Elle is queen. Edmund is king. There are responsibilities now.” She hesitated. “Dangers.”
“And because there are responsibilities and dangers,” the Abbess asked, “you believe they need you less?” Wynflaed offered no reply. “Curious reasoning.”
“They are grown.”
“They are young.” The firmness in the Abbess’s voice softened. “And they are attempting to carry burdens that would trouble people twice their age.” Wynflaed absorbed the words in silence. “You wish to help them?” The Abbess waited a moment. “Then help them.”
Again silence settled between them. The Abbess regarded her with quiet patience. “Or are you avoiding something else?”
Something flickered across Wynflaed’s face. It lasted only an instant.
The Abbess noticed. She chose not to pursue it. Instead she said, almost conversationally, “A week ago, I had your maid pack your things.”
Wynflaed turned sharply. “You did what?”
“I asked her to prepare for your return. The stable master as well.” The faintest hint of amusement crept into the Abbess’s voice. “He is simply waiting for the word.”
“Without asking me?”
“You were always going to go.”
“That is not the point.”
“No.” The Abbess allowed herself the smallest smile. “It is not.” She reached over and rested one hand gently atop Wynflaed’s. “The point is that you have spent a week arguing with yourself.” Another beat. “And losing.”
A quiet laugh escaped Wynflaed before she could suppress it.
The Abbess squeezed her hand gently. “You are allowed to be uncertain here.” Her voice remained gentle, but the words carried unmistakable conviction. “But in Winchester, they will look to you for solid footing.”
Wynflaed nodded.
“Compose yourself.” The Abbess gave her hand one last reassuring squeeze. “Then go.”
For a long moment neither woman moved.
Finally Wynflaed smiled. “Thank you.”
“And give my regards to the King and Queen.”
Wynflaed inclined her head, turned, and walked down the corridor toward the abbey entrance. The Abbess remained where she was, watching until she disappeared from sight.
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