CHRISTMAS
I have mentioned that, long before Oliver Icingla retired to rest on
Christmas Eve, the “Yule log” was placed on the hearth in the old hall
of Oakmede. It was an important ceremony with the English of that
generation--a ceremony the consequences of which they did not lightly
regard. If the log continued to burn during the whole night and through
all the ensuing day, the fact of its burning was deemed a happy
prognostic for the family; if it was consumed or extinguished, the
circumstance of its consumption or extinction was regarded as ominous of
evil. Great, therefore, was the consternation in the home of the
Icinglas when it was discovered, on the morning of Christmas Day, that
the “Yule log” lay on the hearth half consumed, but burning no longer;
and the intelligence on being conveyed to Dame Isabel filled her mind
with the most gloomy forebodings as to the fate of her son; for the
Norman lady, after living long among Saxons, had caught all their
superstitions, and she had brooded so long in solitude over her sorrows
that she had grown more superstitious than the Saxons themselves.
Oliver Icingla was not much influenced by omens. Still his mind was ill
at ease, and he did not think of his journey and its destination without
considerable apprehension of suffering for the sake of a kinsman for
whom, after the conversation of the previous evening, he had less liking
than ever, and on whose conduct he looked with grave suspicion. No sign
of apprehension, however, did he allow to escape him; but, having made
the necessary preparations for his departure, and instructed Wolf, the
varlet, to have the black steed saddled and bridled, he indicated his
readiness to take the road as soon as it was De Moreville’s will and
pleasure to set forth for London. Grim, haughty, and evincing no
inclination to renew the irritating discussion that had been so
unpleasantly interrupted, the Norman baron only replied by a nod, but
immediately issued such orders as speedily brought his men-at-arms,
mounted, into the courtyard, one of them leading the baron’s charger,
harnessed and caparisoned.
Before Oliver Icingla departed under De Moreville’s auspices, Dame
Isabel, having taken leave of her son, summoned her kinsman to her
presence in language which made the haughty Norman soliloquise in a
strain much less complimentary to womankind than quite became a man who
wore golden spurs and had taken the vows of chivalry.
“Kinsman,” began the lady, taking his hand and keenly scrutinising his
countenance as she spoke, “you are about to conduct my son to a place
where I cannot but think that he will be much exposed to peril. Bear in
mind that I do hold you answerable should evil in consequence befall
him.”
“Madame,” replied De Moreville, averting his face with an impatient
gesture, “your fears master your judgment.”
“I place my chief affiance in God,” continued the lady, “and my next in
you as my kinsman; so deceive me not.”
“Fear nothing, madam,” replied De Moreville, his heart slightly touched;
“your son will be as safe as in your own hall.”
“Answer me this question, then,” said Dame Isabel in an earnest and
excited tone. “Is it true, or is it not true, that when Llewellyn of
Wales gave twenty-eight sons of Welsh chiefs to King John as surety for
his good faith, and when Llewellyn afterwards broke into rebellion, King
John caused the hostages to be hanged at Nottingham?”
De Moreville was perplexed in the extreme. He felt that he was in a
dilemma. If he answered “Yes,” what would that woman think but that he
was leading her son away as a sheep is led to the slaughter? If he
answered “No,” how pitiful and contemptible would seem the policy of
himself and the confederate barons, who had industriously propagated a
rumour so damaging to the king’s character for humanity! In his
embarrassment De Moreville remained silent.
“My lord, why answer you not?” exclaimed the lady in peremptory accents.
“I ask again, is it true, or is it not true, that the Welsh hostages
were hanged by command of the king?”
“Madam,” replied De Moreville, when thus pressed, “I know not. I have
heard, indeed, that they were hanged, but I cannot speak with certainty
as to the truth of the rumour.”
Dame Isabel raised her eyes imploringly to heaven, changed colour, and
fell swooning into the arms of her women. Ere she recovered, De
Moreville had gained the courtyard, mounted his charger, and, with
Oliver riding mutely by his side, taken his way slowly up the glade and
over the frost-bound sward towards the great northern road.
And Oliver’s heart was sad; and as he turned his head to look once more
at the home of his fathers he could not help contrasting his departure
with that which had taken place when, full of life, and hope, and
ambition, he left Oakmede, after a brief visit, to embark for Spain. But
as the horsemen set their faces towards London his spirits began to
rise, for everywhere that day the signs and sounds of joy and rejoicing
met the eye and ear, and the faces of the populace of every village and
hamlet through which they passed wore an expression of contentment and
jollity.
In the reign of King John, indeed, as in modern days, no national
holiday nor any festival of the Christian Church was the occasion of so
much merriment and festivity in England as Christmas. Even May Day, when
the inhabitants of every town and village “brought the summer home,” and
lads and lasses danced with jocund glee around the maypole, and even
Midsummer Eve, or the vigil of St. John the Baptist, when great fires
were kindled to typify the saint of the day, who has been described as
“a burning and shining light,” were held to be of quite inferior
importance by the people over whom the Plantagenets reigned. Nowhere
throughout Europe was Christmas so joyously and so thoroughly
celebrated. Other nations in Christendom did, indeed, show their respect
for the anniversary of their Redeemer’s birth with sincere and
praiseworthy enthusiasm. But between England and other countries there
was this remarkable distinction, that while foreigners commemorated the
annually returning season chiefly with devotional exercises, Englishmen
of all ranks gave themselves up to jollity, and good fellowship, and
good cheer.
No sooner, indeed, did the Christmas holidays, after being long wearied
for, arrive, than, from Cornwall to the borders of the Tweed, labour
ceased and care was thrown to the winds, and from end to end the land
rang with gladness and song. On St. Thomas’s Day began the nocturnal
music called “waits,” which continued till Christmas, and everywhere
carols were trolled and masquerades performed. The towns assumed a
sylvan aspect, and the churches were converted into leafy tabernacles,
and in the streets standards were set up and decked with evergreens, and
around them young and old danced joyously to music.
Nor was it only in streets and public places that mirth and joviality
prevailed. Far otherwise was the case. The houses were decked with
branches of holly and ivy for the occasion, and in the abodes of the
wealthy, at least, there was no lack of good cheer. Amid frolic and jest
large and luxurious dishes were not forgotten or neglected, especially
the boar’s head, which was brought to the board and placed thereon in a
large silver platter to the sound of musical instruments. But the good
cheer was by no means confined to the wealthy. Even the poorest did not
on such a day lack the opportunity of being blithe and merry.
Nevertheless Christmas did not pass without its terrors to the
superstitious--in that, as in every age, a large proportion of the
population. It was believed that at night demons were abroad and on the
watch for their prey, and that men were suddenly metamorphosed into
wolves, who were called “were-wolves,” and who raged more fiercely
against the human race and all creatures not fierce by nature than even
the ferocious animals whose shape they were made to assume, attacking
houses, tearing down the doors, destroying the inmates, descending into
the cellars, drinking mead and beer, and leaving the empty casks heaped
one upon another.
In broad daylight, however, and especially where men assembled in crowds
to celebrate Christmas, neither the bold nor the timid, who were
superstitious, cared much for preternatural terrors; and as Hugh de
Moreville and Oliver Icingla entered Ludgate and ascended the hill, and
passed the spot where the grand church since known as Old St. Paul’s was
about to rise from the ruins of the Temple of Diana, no thought of
demons or of were-wolves damped the enjoyment of the Londoners. And loud
was the mirth and high the excitement of the populace as through the
crowded streets, where standards pierced the sky and evergreens waved
and rustled in the frosty atmosphere, slowly and with stately tread rode
the Norman baron and the English squire till they reached the Tower, and
reined up their steeds, and halted before the great fortress of the
metropolis.