Chapter 6, Part 5
A Christmas to Remember
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Elle stood before the mirror fastening the clasp of her cloak. The room had grown quiet. Beyond the window, the last light of afternoon was giving way to evening, and somewhere in the palace she could hear distant voices preparing for the Christmas celebration.
A gentle knock sounded at the door. Wynflaed stood in the doorway. For a long moment neither woman spoke.
“Mother,” Elle finally said.
Wynflaed stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind her. Again, silence. Neither seemed quite certain how to begin.
At last Wynflaed smiled. “You look beautiful.”
A small, uncertain smile answered her own. “Thank you.”
The quiet returned.
“I should not have spoken to you the way I did.”
Elle lowered her eyes. “And I should have remembered ...” She hesitated. “... that you are always on my side.”
Wynflaed absorbed the words before answering. “When I saw the three of you ...” She looked away for a moment. “I was frightened.”
Elle said nothing.
“I have spent so many years trying to keep you and Edmund safe ...” A faint smile touched Wynflaed’s face. “... that I sometimes forget you are no longer children.”
Elle’s smile was equally small. “Sometimes I forget that, too.”
“Do you?”
“Almost every day.” They stood together in comfortable silence. Then Elle spoke again. “I understand.”
Wynflaed met her daughter’s eyes. “I was never angry.” A pause. “Only afraid.”
The words settled gently between them.
Elle stepped forward and took her mother’s hands. “I’m still here.”
At last Wynflaed’s composure gave way. She drew Elle into her arms. For a long time neither of them moved. When they finally stepped apart, Wynflaed brushed a tear gently from Elle’s cheek.
“I must see the Lord Chancellor.” She managed the faintest smile. “I believe I owe him an apology, as well.”
Elle smiled in return. “I think he’d appreciate that.”
Wynflaed nodded, then crossed to the door. As she opened it, she found Edmund standing just outside, already dressed for the evening’s celebration.
“Lady Wynflaed.”
She stopped. Without thinking, she reached up and brushed an imaginary speck from his shoulder. She straightened the collar of his cloak. Smoothed one sleeve. Then stepped back to admire her work.
“Oh, Edmund ...” Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper. “How you have grown.”
Edmund smiled with almost boyish embarrassment. “I’ve been told that happens.”
Wynflaed laughed softly. She gave his shoulder one affectionate pat before slipping past him into the corridor.
Edmund watched her disappear from sight. Only then did he turn back toward Elle.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes.” She offered him her arm. “Let’s go.”
As they walked together toward the Great Hall, she glanced sideways at him. “Do you have any idea what’s about to happen?”
He grinned. “Not the slightest.”
Together they disappeared down the corridor toward whatever Christmas was about to become.
* * *
Warm candlelight filled the Great Hall. The last preparations were quietly giving way to anticipation. Servants made small adjustments as they passed, straightening a ribbon here, shifting a wreath there, and lighting the final candles that flickered against the evergreen boughs overhead.
At the far end of the hall, the Abbot and several brothers arranged a simple altar while Duncan conferred with them in hushed tones.
Nearby, Brother Gregory frowned thoughtfully at one of the wreaths. He straightened it, stepped back to study it, then adjusted it once more before finally nodding with satisfaction.
Across the hall, Saras stood before a small group of decidedly nervous monks. She sang a short musical phrase, listened as one of the brothers repeated it, then smiled and demonstrated it again. This time he nodded as understanding dawned.
Near one wall, Tuck and Kaelyn stood talking quietly together. Whatever Kaelyn said drew an enthusiastic laugh from Tuck—louder than he intended. He glanced sheepishly around the hall, only to find Kaelyn laughing with him.
Arthur entered from the vestibule and stopped. For a moment he simply stood and took it all in: the greenery draped overhead, the glow of the candles, the simple altar waiting at the far end of the hall, and the quiet industry of people who needed no direction. A smile of quiet satisfaction spread across his face.
As he wandered farther into the hall, Duncan looked up from his conversation with the brothers. Their eyes met. A small nod passed between them, followed by matching smiles. Nothing more needed to be said.
Servants crossed the room carrying stacks of wooden trenchers and armfuls of cups, arranging them neatly along the banquet tables that had been pushed against the walls.
Almost without notice, members of the court began arriving. Earls, ladies, and household officers filtered into the hall, greeting old friends with quiet bows and easy conversation.
The Lord Chamberlain moved dutifully among them, welcoming each arrival with practiced efficiency. Every so often his attention drifted upward to the greenery or across to the altar. He never commented, but despite himself, he approved.
Arthur remained near the side of the room, content simply to watch.
A few moments later the Lord Chancellor entered. His gaze swept slowly over the transformed hall, lingering on the evergreen boughs, the ribbons, the countless candles, then finally on the altar, the gathering choir, and the steadily growing court. He observed everything without a word.
Across the room Saras caught Arthur’s eye. She offered the faintest of smiles, and Arthur returned it.
At the entrance, the sharp report of a herald’s staff echoed through the hall. Every head turned.
“Their Majesties, King Edmund and Queen Aelfgifu,” he announced.
Edmund and Elle entered side by side, with Wynflaed following a respectful pace behind them and Aelfwynn just behind her. The assembled court bowed. Edmund acknowledged them with a gracious inclination of his head.
Elle paused for a moment to take in the transformed hall, and a quiet smile touched her face. Edmund’s eyes wandered across the gathering. Monks stood beside noblemen. Servants chatted comfortably with courtiers. Friends greeted one another without regard for rank. For a fleeting moment, the Great Hall felt less like the center of a kingdom than the heart of a home.
As the quiet lingered, uncertain glances about what should happen next passed through the room. Several nobles looked expectantly toward the Lord Chamberlain. Aelfwynn glanced toward Elle, and Wynflaed did the same. Across the hall, the Lord Chancellor looked to Edmund. The King remained still.
From beside the altar, the Abbot watched the uncertainty ripple gently through the gathering. Leaning toward Duncan, he said quietly, “Perhaps this evening should begin with Mass.” Duncan smiled.
The Abbot stepped forward, and almost instinctively every eye in the hall turned toward him. He stood before the altar and waited until every eye in the hall had settled upon him.
“Your Majesties ... my lords ... my ladies ... good people all,” he began, with his gaze drifted slowly across the gathering and a gentle smile touching his face. “I confess, I am uncertain whom I should thank for inviting us here today.”
A ripple of quiet laughter passed through the hall.
“Perhaps that is fitting.” He gestured toward the room around him. “Looking about this hall, it seems many hands have prepared it.” His smile broadened. “Many hearts as well.”
He let the words settle before continuing. “Our Lord once fed thousands with but five loaves and two fish—not because one man possessed enough, but because many offered what little they had.” His eyes moved from face to face. “May this gathering be no different.”
He raised his hand and made the Sign of the Cross. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.“
“Amen,” the group answered together.
The Abbot looked toward the choir. Saras caught his eye. He gave the slightest nod. She turned to the monks, raised one hand, and drew a quiet breath.
They began with gentle, enchanting harmonics that rose solemnly into the Great Hall
Adeste, fideles, laeti triumphantes.
There was nothing hurried about their singing. Each phrase lingered beneath the timbered roof before yielding to the next, not sung in triumph but with quiet tenderness.
Venite, venite in Bethlehem.
Recognizing that no more direction was needed, Saras lowered her hand and simply listened.
Around the hall, small smiles appeared. No one spoke. No one seemed inclined to disturb the music. Arthur lifted his head, as if to breathe the music in. Even the Lord Chancellor’s normally severe expression had softened.
Candles flickered gently. Thin ribbons of incense drifted upward before the altar. At last the final note faded into silence.
The Mass continued. The congregation listened as the Abbot proclaimed the Scriptures from a small book held before him, his voice carrying easily through the hall. Later, heads bowed and hands folded as the prayers continued, and time seemed, for a little while, to slow.
When the choir sang again, their voices were even more ethereal than before. This time slow and haunting.
Veni, veni, Emmanuel,
Captivum solve Israel,
The hymn seeming to entrance Arthur. He stood motionless, his eyes fixed upon the altar. The Abbot’s voice became lower now, measured and deliberate as he prayed over the bread and the wine. Without realizing it, Arthur clasped his hands more tightly together. Then the Abbot lifted the loaf of bread, raising it slowly above his head.
Qui gemit in exilio,
Privatus Dei Filio.
For a heartbeat, Arthur saw only the white bread silhouetted against the candlelight. Then another altar. Another church. Another lifetime.
* * *
Sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows, scattering patches of color across the stone floor of an otherwise empty sanctuary.
Arthur, five or so years younger, walked slowly down the center aisle. Reaching the sanctuary rail, he bowed, knelt, clasped his hands, and looked toward the altar. For a long while, he said nothing.
Finally he spoke, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper.
“I thought I should tell you in person.” His gaze drifted downward before returning to the crucifix. “It wouldn’t seem right to simply stop showing up.”
A pause.
“I have tried. I have really tried. I have read. I have studied. And I have prayed.”
Another pause.
“I’ve spent years believing that if I kept looking and waiting long enough, eventually something would make sense. Or that I would receive an answer.”
His eyes remained fixed upon the altar.
“But the silence has made it too hard for me.”
The church remained still.
“Maybe that’s unfair. Maybe you never promised any of that. Maybe I expected certainty where only faith was ever offered. I don’t know.”
A faint, weary smile crossed his face.
“But now I’m tired. And I don’t know how to keep searching for someone who may not want to be found.”
The words lingered in the empty church.
“I still believe that what you taught is beautiful, that the people who follow you are often better for it. And I still hope they’re right.”
He lowered his eyes.
“I just can’t make myself come with them.”
Another silence.
“I’m sorry.”
Arthur rose slowly. From beneath his arm he took a worn Bible that had accompanied him for years, along with a rosary that had so often rested in his hands. He laid them carefully at the foot of the altar.
For a moment he simply stood there. Then he bowed one last time and turned toward the doors.
* * *
The voices of the choir were no longer echoes in an empty church. They filled the Great Hall once more.
Arthur found himself staring at the altar as the Abbot held the bread aloft. Without thinking, he joined the line moving quietly foward. One by one, they stepped before the Abbot. He broke a small piece from the loaf, placed it gently into waiting hands, and spoke the same familiar words.
“Corpus Christi.“
“Amen.”
The next communicant stepped aside, and the line moved forward. Only a handful of worshippers remained ahead of him.
The choir continued softly.
Gaude! Gaude! Emmanuel,
Nascetur pro te, Israel.
Another worshipper approached.
“Corpus Christi.“
“Amen.”
Arthur took another step. His breathing had grown shallow.
The music drifted through the hall, filling the silence between the Abbot’s quiet words. Another communicant received. Another stepped away. The line shortened.
Arthur could feel the warmth of the candles upon his face.
One more worshipper stood before the altar.
“Corpus Christi.“
“Amen.” The worshipper bowed and moved aside.
Arthur stepped forward. The Abbot looked up. A gentle smile crossed his face as he lifted a small piece of the consecrated bread.
“Corpus Christi.“
Arthur did not move. He made no attempt to extend his hands. He simply stood there.
Gaude! Gaude! Emmanuel,
Nascetur pro te, Israel.
Arthur’s eyes glistened. He could not look away.
* * *
The Great Hall dissolved once more. Sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows into the empty sanctuary. A side door opened quietly. Father Tom, his hair whitened and his gait softened, entered, just passing through on an errand.
When he reached the alter, he noticed the Bible and rosary. He paused, and his expression changed. Slowly, almost reverently, he knelt. He picked up the rosary first, letting the beads slip gently through his fingers before setting them across his palm.
Then he lifted the Bible. The leather was worn smooth with use. Embossed in faded gold across the cover was a name. ARTHUR DENNISON. Father Tom’s thumb lingered over the letters. For a long moment, he simply looked at them.
Then he opened the Bible. The margins were crowded with careful handwriting. Questions. Cross-references. Observations squeezed between printed lines. Entire passages had been underlined and words circled, some more than once.
He turned a page and then another. Every one bore the same evidence of reading, studying, and searching.
Father Tom’s jaw tightened, and his eyes glistened. He closed the Bible with great care and drew it gently against his chest. He took a slow, unsteady breath. Then, with one last glance toward the crucifix, he turned and quietly continued on.
* * *
Arthur stood motionless before the Abbot. Between them, the consecrated bread rested in the Abbot’s outstretched hand.
The Abbot waited. But then before the moment became uncomfortable, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, he said, “Arthur?”
The sound of his own name seemed to draw Arthur back across the years. He looked at the bread. Then at the Abbot. For an instant he remained frozen.
Slowly, he drew a long, steady breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they glistened with tears. And he raised his hands.
“Amen.”
The Abbot smiled gently and placed the bread into Arthur’s waiting palms. Arthur bowed his head and stepped aside.
Across the hall, Saras watched him. Although no one else appeared to have noticed—some remained bowed in prayer; others had listened quietly as the monks sang—she had noticed. She saw the hesitation and the tears.
The line continued forward with the unhurried rhythm of the liturgy, and Arthur returned silently to his place and bowed his head submissively.
When the celebration resumed, the Great Hall seemed almost transformed. The altar had quietly disappeared. The banquet tables once again filled the room, laden now with bread, cheese, roasted meats, and overflowing cups. Candlelight danced across polished wood as conversation and laughter rose into the rafters.
Edmund wandered into an ongoing conversation between Wynflaed and Elle. Without thinking, Wynflaed rested a hand lightly against the young king’s back as he stepped beside them. He leaned his shoulder gently against hers for just an instant before straightening again. She glanced up at him with an easy smile before returning to the discussion.
At the serving table, Aelfwynn was attempting the impossible. She had somehow managed to balance yet another roll atop a plate that was already overflowing with bread and cheese. Auntie noticed immediately. Without a word, she reached over, plucked the offending roll from the top of the pile, dropped it neatly back into the basket, and gave Aelfwynn a firm little wave that unmistakably meant, Move along. Aelfwynn sighed with exaggerated innocence, rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, and obediently started away. But the instant Auntie turned to help someone else, Aelfwynn darted back, snatched the very same roll from the basket, and vanished into the crowd.
Near the edge of the hall, the Abbot and the Lord Chancellor stood talking quietly together. The Chancellor inclined his head as the Abbot spoke. Whatever he heard drew the faintest smile from the old statesman.
Across the room, Duncan had gathered several noblemen into an enthusiastic conversation. He gestured broadly toward the greenery, the candles, the musicians, and nearly everything else within sight. The noblemen followed his sweeping arm, nodding their approval. Duncan beamed.
Near one corner of the hall, Kaelyn and Tuck lingered together. After glancing about to be certain no one was watching, Tuck reached into his pocket and produced a small, carefully wrapped package. Kaelyn looked at him in surprise. Then she smiled, eagerly accepted the gift, and began loosening the ribbon.
At the far end of the hall, the choir began another hymn, softly and rhythmically. Again, in Latin.
Veni, dixerunt
A curious refrain answered.
Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum.
Arthur slowed. His brow furrowed ever so slightly. The monks continued.
Natum regem vide,
Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum.
Arthur turned toward the singers. Surely, it can’t be. The next line came.
Dona ferimus
Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum
He stared. Then came the words that erased every remaining doubt.
Coram rege pone.
Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum.
Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum.
Rum-pa-pum-pum.
Rum-pa-pum-pum.
A child-like smile spread across his face, and his eyes filling once again. He found Saras across the hall. She had been watching him all along, smiling and waiting.
Num ei pulsabo,
Tympano?
He laughed quietly to himself and then mouthed two simple words to her, “Happy Christmas.”
Saras answered without hesitation, “Happy Christmas.”
Arthur brushed quickly at the corner of one eye.
Around them, the celebration swelled. Laughter echoed beneath the rafters. Cups were raised. Friends talked as though they had known one another for years. And above it all, the choir continued to sing.
* * *
“You gave them the same gift?!” Saras asked incredulously.
She and Arthur were sitting in their rocking chairs in the cruck house before a cheerful fire crackled in the hearth. Three wool stockings, embroidered with an S, an A, and a T, hung from the mantle. Two carve wooden blocks with the letters N and A, were placed appropriately between them. The little fir tree stood nearby, decorated with ribbons, strings of dried berries, and a star fashioned from twigs and twine.
Arthur looked over innocently. “No. I gave Aelfwynn one of the pocket mirrors. Tuck gave the other one to Kaelyn.”
She gave him a flat look. “That’s a distinction without a difference. They received the same gift.”
Arthur rose from his chair. He wandered toward the fireplace and picked up the poker. The fire scarcely needed attention, but he stirred the logs anyway.
“What’s the problem?”
“I thought you understood teenage girls,” Saras said.
Arthur shrugged. “Oh, you’re just jealous because I didn’t get you a gift.”
He returned the poker to its stand. Then, almost absentmindedly, he reached behind the little tree. His hand disappeared for a moment before emerging with a surprisingly large, neatly wrapped package. He held it aloft with exaggerated ceremony.
“Or did I?”
A genuine smile spread across her face as she accepted it. “Thank you.”
She carefully untied the ribbon and folded back the wrapping. Inside was a large glazed ceramic pot.
She stared at it. Her smile quickly vanished.
“What is this?”
Arthur beamed.
“Your very own chamber pot.”
“Aghhh! You’re so annoying!”
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