North Side of the Tree by Maggie Prince

Author:Maggie Prince [Maggie Prince]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780007393176
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2013-12-09T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

Christmas Day dawns bright, with a crackle of thaw in the air. All the villagers of Wraithwaite, Barrowbeck and Mere Point were in church at midnight, and the carols we sang in the cold, amid the candles, moved me to tears. There were chairs along the side of the screened-off lady chapel for the lame or pregnant, and Verity was there, now majestically large, with all of us around her.

Without light shining through them, the four stained-glass windows above the white-clothed altar loomed mysteriously. The candlelight on the faces of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John gave them changing expressions. At the stroke of midnight Alan Smith, the blacksmith, minus his ram’s horns now, came in bearing the stocking baby and set him in his cradle, and all the village children sang In Dulci Jubilo in their high voices. I tried to stem my tears by remembering these same children stoning the ducks on the pond and throwing snails at the squirrels in the forest, but it did not work.

Now, this morning, I can hear Mother Bain singing carols in the kitchen, and I realise with astonishment that I feel riotously glad to be alive. This is the day when witches are powerless, when elves and goblins hide, and when hope of every sort is alive for a while. Moreover, Widow Brissenden has gone home to spend Christmas with her family.

As I make my way downstairs, Mother Bain sweeps into the thumping rhythm of Personent Hodie. In the kitchen the fire is roaring high. Esther and Dickon pick out the beat of the carol with wooden spoons on copper pans, and dance round the room. “God be with you!” shouts Mother Bain, and thrusts a large goblet of steaming malmsey at me. I return her greeting and kiss them all. John appears behind me, looking rumpled.

From outside, suddenly, come the sounds of shawms, crumhorns and Flemish bagpipes. We all go to the front door, and see the church lutenist dancing ahead of the band of village musicians, his lute above his head. People come pouring out of their houses in their nightsmocks, gowns and cloaks, to follow the band, and sing the Corpus Christi Carol.

Lully lulley, lully lulley

The fawcon hath borne my mak away

He bare hym up, he bare hym down,

He bare hym into an orchard brown.

Yn that orchard ther was an hall

That was hangid with purpill and pall,

And yn that hall ther was a bedde,

Hit was hangid with gold so redde,

And yn that bedde ther lythe a knyght,

His wowndes bledyng day and nyght.

Under that bedde ther runneth a flod

One half runneth watir the othyr half blod.

At that beddes foot ther kneleth a may

And she wepeth both night and day,

And by that beddes side ther stondith a ston

Corpus Christi wretyn theron.

They dance up to the parsonage and Mother Bain passes me the vast tray of spiced cakes which she and Esther have been baking since before dawn. The band and half the village crowd into the kitchen, and the rest fit into the hall, stairs and gallery wherever they can.

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