Scarlet

better.

'What we need now,' declared Tuck when we had cut enough greenery to satisfy tradition, 'is a little holly.'

'As good as got,' I told him, and asked why he thought it needful.

'Why? It is a most potent symbol, and that is reason enough,' the priest replied. 'See here, prickly leaves remind us of the thorns our dear Lamb of God suffered with silent fortitude, and the red berries remind us of the drops of healing blood he shed for us. The tree remains green all the year round, and the leaves never die-which shows us the way of eternal life for those who love the Saviour.'

'Then, by all means,' I said, 'let us bring back some holly, too.'

Shouldering our cut boughs of spruce and pine, we made our way back to the village, pausing to collect a few of the prickly green branches on the way. 'And will we have a Yule log?' I asked as we resumed our walk.

'I have no objection,' the friar allowed. 'A harmless enough observance, quite pleasant in its own way. Yes, why not?'

Why not, indeed! Of all the odd bits that go to make up this age-old fest, I hold the Yule log chief among them and was glad our friar offered no objection. The way some clerics have it, a fella'd think it was Lucifer himself dragged into the hall on Christmas day. For all, it's just a log-a big one, mind, but a log all the same.

As Thane Aelred's forester, it always fell to me to find the log. We'd walk out together, lord and vassal, of a Christmas morn-along with one of the thane's sons or daughters astride a big ox-and drag the log back to the hall, where it would be pulled through the door and its trimmed end set in a hearth already ablaze. Then, as the end burned, we'd feed that great hulk of wood inch by inch into the flame. Green as apples, that log would sputter and crack and sizzle as the sap touched the flame, filling the hall with its strong scent. We always chose a timber too green to burn any other time for the simple reason that, so long as that log was a-roast, none of the servants had to lift a finger beyond the simple necessities required to keep the celebration going.

A good Yule log could last a fortnight. I suspect it was the idleness of the vassals that got up so many priest's noses. They do so hate to see anyone taking his ease. Then again, there was the ashes. See, when the feasting was over and the log reduced to cold embers, those selfsame ashes were gathered up to be used in various ways: we sprinkled some on cattle to ensure health and hearty offspring; we scattered some in the fields to encourage abundant crops; and, of course, sheep had their fleece dusted to improve the quality of their wool. A little was mixed with the first brewing of ale for the year to aid in warding off sickness and ill temper, and so on. In all, the ashes of a Yule log provided a useful and necessary commodity.

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