How Mrs. Claus Saved Christmas

by Jeff Guinn

  In London, Parliament recruited its own army, one consisting mostly of landowners and their workers. Leaders of this rebel army were working very hard to convince working-class people that their lives would be better without a king. For once, the Puritans among them were careful not to threaten Christmas. Instead, they talked about taxes based on what was best for the majority instead of what a single ruler wanted, and how law should be based on the common good rather than a king’s whim. What reasonable poor person could disagree? Other than Charles and Parliament, though, it soon became clear that nobody else wanted this inevitable war. In the end, Charles and the rebels would collectively have about fifteen thousand troops, even though almost a million British men could have enlisted to fight.

  When I heard that Oliver Cromwell was going to make a speech in a public park about the war, I decided to go. He stood on a tree stump so everyone in the crowd of about two hundred could hear him, and he spoke very well.

  “We did not choose to quarrel with the king, and still don’t wish him any harm,” Cromwell insisted. “If he will simply abide by the law and honestly consult Parliament before he imposes taxes or makes new laws, then Charles may come back to London and we will welcome him.”

  “You Puritans just want to take over so you can force your religion on us,” someone called from the back of the crowd.

  “Not at all!” Cromwell replied. “This war, sir, is not about religion. It is about whether the king will listen to the voices of the people. I hope that someday all of you might understand God’s will as we Puritans do. I pray for this constantly. But all we would impose on anyone is a nation where every voice has importance.”

  “So you would not take away Christmas?” I called out.

  Cromwell’s eyes locked on mine, and I knew he recognized me, though it had been eight years since we met in his kitchen.

  “No one is mentioning Christmas just now, missus,” he replied. “The fate of our nation is at stake. Let us discuss Christmas after the larger matters are settled.”

  Cromwell talked a little longer, about how he was raising a company of soldiers in Cambridge and why the able-bodied men listening to him should sign up to fight against the king. One or two asked directions to his estate and set off to enlist. Everyone else drifted away, but not before several muttered to me that they were also worried that the Puritans would ban Christmas if they won the war against Charles.

  I was leaving, too, when Cromwell came up behind me and tapped my shoulder.

  “So, Missus Layla Nicholas, wife of Nicholas Nicholas the colonist, I perceive you still love your sinful holiday right well,” he said, a slight smile on his face. “I had hoped, because you seem to be an intelligent woman, that you might have changed your mind by now.”

  “I’ll never change my mind about Christmas,” I replied.

  “Then you entirely support the king and his Catholic ways,” Cromwell said. “I would not have suspected you for a royalist sympathizer.”

  “My sympathy is for the poor people of England, and I understand, as you apparently still do not, how much Christmas means to them,” I said. “Can you not look all around you, Mr. Cromwell? Most of the people you see are wearing rags. They work hard all day and have very little to eat at night. But they still love God and their special day on December 25 to give thanks for his son while having some brief joy for themselves. Why would an apparently decent man like you want to take this away from them?”

  Cromwell sighed. “Why cannot you understand? I see the same poverty you do. I see the backbreaking labor, the empty stomachs, the desperation. But I also see the everlasting glory ahead for all who renounce this pagan celebration. God will give eternal reward to those who worship respectfully, not obscenely. Christmas represents all the sin in our modern age. It is no surprise that the king and his evil queen love the holiday. One day soon we will remove its temptations from this land, and when we do God will be pleased and bless Britain accordingly.”

  It would have been easier for me to think Cromwell was just using Christmas as one more excuse to go to war with the king, but that wasn’t true. He hated Christmas just as passionately as I loved it, and we both felt we knew what was best for the people of England.

  “You told me you would never simply take Christmas away,” I reminded him. “You said you would try to persuade the people to give it up instead.”

  “And so I will, missus, once the king is brought to his senses,” Cromwell replied. “With God’s grace we will avoid war, the king will listen to Parliament instead of his Catholic queen, and once political peace is restored we Puritans will convince everyone about Christmas and its evils. Perhaps you and I can debate the issue here in the park. But that must come later. As you can see, my friends are ready to leave.” He gestured toward a half-dozen men gathered nearby. Their hair was cut short in the Roundhead style. All but one wore somber black garments. The other man wore black trousers, too, but his cloak was blue.

  “I thought Puritans found bright colors to be sinful,” I said to Cromwell.

  He grinned. “Ah, missus, Richard Culmer wears blue as a sign to the common people that he holds their interests close to his heart. A godly man, Richard, but beware. He is less inclined than I to respect the opinions of others. If he believes you are set on preserving Christmas, he is likely to mark you down for future reference.”

  “Is that some sort of threat, Mr. Cromwell?” I asked.

  “I hope you know that I personally wish you no harm,” Cromwell said, looking directly into my eyes. “But understand there are those who feel the best way to ensure God-fearing, Christian democracy is to eliminate all dissenting voices. It was not wise, Missus Nicholas, for you to raise your question about Christmas in such a public place with men like Mr. Culmer present. If you make that mistake again, it may have painful, even fatal consequences.”

  I looked at the man in the blue cloak. Richard Culmer was tall and thin, and his smile bothered me. It was an odd smile because his lips were stretched in a wide grin, but there was no matching pleasure in his eyes. These remained dark, hard, and cold. I was reminded less of another human being than a shark baring its teeth just before biting.

  “How can you associate with such people?” I demanded.

  Cromwell shrugged. “We must use the tools God sends, missus, and in Mr. Culmer he has given us a hammer. Don’t let yourself become a nail.”

  Blue Richard Culmer

  All during the spring and early summer, both sides prepared for war. It was a leisurely process. This was the way, in those days, that war was often conducted. The two armies gave each other time to get ready, and when they finally did fight it was often in an agreed-upon place at an agreed-upon hour. The king had the support of most of the wealthiest lords, many of whom lived in northern England. The parliamentary, or Roundhead, troops came primarily from the small landowners and other members of the middle class. London was solidly Roundhead, probably because Parliament continued to meet there.

  As the summer days of 1642 grew long and warm, a preacher in London calling himself Praise-God Barebone began delivering fiery street sermons about the sinfulness of non-Puritan worship in general and Christmas in particular. To my dismay, large crowds began to gather and, often, cheer his words. Many of them were the same people who, I was sure, still intended to go out on Christmas day to sing and feast. But to hear Praise-God Barebone tell it, Christmas was a trick devised by Catholics and pagans to lure innocent Protestants into terrible sin.

  “They’re cheering the entertainment as much or more than the message,” Arthur reassured me. “If you listen carefully, his real theme for the common folk is that rich people have too long taken advantage of them and that support for the Puritans is the best way to become powerful and important themselves.”

  “He shouldn’t tell such terrible lies about Christmas without someone standing up and disputing him,” I said. “Perhaps, whenever he is speaking, I should be there, too, and present the other, truthful side.�
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  “You can’t do that, Layla, and for two very good reasons,” Arthur cautioned. “First, you know it is our rule to never personally interfere in major historical events. Yes, Nicholas spoke with Charlemagne, and several of you supported Columbus with Isabella the Queen, but never did you tell anyone what to do in matters of public policy. We are gift-givers, not history-changers. Second, Oliver Cromwell warned you about coming to the attention of Puritan thugs like Mr. Culmer, who is becoming known as ‘Blue Richard’ because of his oddly colorful cloak. If you attract Culmer’s wrathful attention, you do more than place yourself in danger. He might then discover the toy factory, and, from there, begin to guess all our gift-giving secrets. I realize it is hard, but you must remain quiet.”

  I knew Arthur was right, and because of his advice I refrained from engaging Praise-God Barebone in any sort of public debate. But I couldn’t resist joining the crowds listening to Barebone and other fanatics like him. This was a mistake. Over the many centuries of my life, I have made my share, but this was one of the most foolish. True, I never raised my voice to disagree with Barebone, but his Puritan allies, keeping careful watch on those who came to listen, must have noted my obvious disgust. I discovered this in October 1642, when Pamela Forrest again said she had to speak with me, this time because she had dreadful news.

  I swung my small pack onto my shoulder, pulled the hood of my cloak tight around my face, and went out into the London night.

  CHAPTER Ten

  My old friend Missus Cromwell searched until she found me in the market yesterday,” Pamela began after pulling me into a small storage room inside the toy factory. Its shelves creaked pleasantly under the weight of blocks of wood and containers of paint. “She didn’t come out and say that her husband wanted to pass a message to you, but her meaning was clear.”

  “What would Oliver Cromwell want to tell me?” I asked. “Perhaps once again that he’s right and I’m wrong about Christmas?”

  Pamela looked stricken. “No, Layla, it’s more serious than that. It seems that Blue Richard Culmer has your name on a list of possible spies for the king. All the people on this list are to be arrested on sight tomorrow, because the Roundheads are about to go into battle against His Majesty, and they fear a few royalist sympathizers might pass him information about their troops and war plans.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I replied. “I know absolutely nothing about any war plans, and, if I did, I would not take sides in this war by telling the king about them.”

  “I know that, Layla, but Richard Culmer doesn’t,” Pamela said. “Missus Cromwell says he has your name right at the top of the list.”

  “How can he do that?” I replied. “To my knowledge, I’ve only seen Culmer once, and that was when I spoke to Oliver Cromwell after a speech he made. I asked a question there about Christmas, but how, based on that, am I considered a king’s spy?”

  “It’s far worse, I’m afraid,” Pamela said. “According to what Mr. Culmer has told Mr. Cromwell and other Roundhead leaders, you have taken to stalking Praise-God Barebone. Mr. Culmer, it seems, has his people watching everywhere for such acts of dissent. And then there’s what seems to be the worst evidence of all, though I’m sure it can’t be true.”

  Everything I’d heard so far seemed nothing less than ridiculous. “What could that possibly be?” I asked.

  “According to what Mr. Culmer told Mr. Cromwell, for several years you have been seen making visits to the royal residence in London, obviously to inform on Puritan activities to the king and queen.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “Pamela, that is so silly. I would go there occasionally to leave peppermint candy for the queen, since she is so fond of it. I never even see her or her husband. If Blue Richard Culmer bothers to get the full story from his own spies, surely he’ll learn that I was never in the palace for more than a few moments, certainly not long enough to pass any sort of information to his royal enemies.”

  Pamela Forrest shook her head. “All Mr. Culmer needs is the appearance of guilt to accuse you, Layla. He has decided he dislikes you, and that’s all the reason he needs to have you arrested.”

  The foolishness of the whole situation astonished me. “But Pamela,” I protested, “one of the reasons Parliament is going to war against the king is because they didn’t want Charles arresting his opponents without solid evidence of wrongdoing. If Blue Richard arrests me on such flimsy charges, the Puritans are doing exactly the same thing!”

  “But the Puritans are in control now, at least here in London, and so they no longer have to justify their actions,” Pamela said gently. “That is the way of power, I suppose, to feel no real need to explain yourself beyond the general principle of, ‘I am completely right, so anyone who disagrees must be wrong.’ ”

  Well, there was no doubt I was in danger, and I honestly didn’t know what I should do. In all our centuries of gift-giving, none of the companions had ever before found himself or herself being hunted by the authorities. I had to discuss this with Arthur, of course, and asked Pamela if she would go into the factory to get him. I sat down at the small table in the storeroom and rested my chin on my hand, thinking hard.

  When Pamela brought Arthur, we told him about Blue Richard and his warrant for my arrest. For a few moments Arthur was furious on my behalf, and then, with great effort, he tried to calm down.

  “No problem is ever solved with impulsive decisions based on anger,” he said, more to remind himself as anyone else. “Certain facts are obvious. First, we can’t reason with Blue Richard Culmer because he doesn’t care about the basic truth, which is that you never collaborated with the king and queen. Second, you cannot allow yourself to be arrested. Torture and even execution is not uncommon for political prisoners. Third, whatever we do now must not in any way reveal the existence of this toy factory. Pamela Forrest, I hope you understand this. And now, so that you are not placed in further danger yourself, please return to work, with our thanks for this warning.”

  “I’d prefer to stay, Mr. Arthur,” Pamela said firmly. “My loyalty is to you and Layla, not Blue Richard Culmer and his nasty accomplices. Let me help you, if I can.”

  Arthur was about to refuse, but I caught his eye and nodded. Pamela Forrest was placing herself at considerable risk by passing on the message from Oliver Cromwell. Though she shouldn’t—couldn’t—be made aware of all our secrets, she had at least earned the right to involve herself in my escape, if we could think of a way to accomplish that.

  “All right,” Arthur said. “Culmer and his henchmen are to arrest you on sight tomorrow, which must mean they do not know where you live. Maybe you can just stay inside the toy factory for however long it takes them to forget about you.”

  “We can’t take the chance that they will, at some point, begin a door-to-door search,” I replied. “If they found me here at the factory, and if they saw the toys, they might make the connection to Christmas and gift-giving and then you and Leonardo and everyone working here might be arrested, too. No, I can’t stay here.”

  “But you can’t go out on the London streets, either,” Pamela noted. “They’ll have posters of you up on every wall. Mr. Culmer and his helpers are fearfully efficient, Layla.”

  “Then I have to leave London,” I said. “I’ll pack a few things and leave as soon as it’s dark tonight. I’ll quickly make my way to the channel and take the short voyage across to France, and from there I’ll go on to our friends in—” I remembered Pamela must not know much about our other operations. “Well, I’ll go to our other friends and their factory. Blue Richard’s reach doesn’t extend outside of England, surely.”

  Now it was Arthur’s turn to point out something obvious. “If the war is about to finally begin, and if Culmer is preparing to make his first arrests, then Parliament has set guards on all the ports. They expect Queen Henrietta to try and flee across the channel to France, you know, and it’s very likely Culmer has warned the soldiers placed at the ports to watch out for you
and the other so-called spies he intends to arrest. As Pamela has pointed out, Culmer is fearfully efficient. I’m afraid, Layla, that you’re stranded here in England.”

  “But if I can’t stay here in London, then where in England can I go?” I asked. “Truly, we don’t know anyone who might offer shelter.” This was no exaggeration. To protect our privacy, to keep our secrets of being ageless and able to travel much faster than ordinary people, we had not made friends outside our small circle of longtime companions. This now caused a terrible problem. I was going to be a fugitive on the run, but I had no particular place where I could run, no trusted friends somewhere in England away from London who would hide me without asking too many questions. For the first time since Pamela had told me the news, I felt some fear. Perhaps I would be arrested and thrown into prison. I hope my confessing this doesn’t disappoint you too much. But anyone in that dangerous situation would have been afraid.

  “If only Nicholas were here,” Arthur mused. “He might see a way out of this.”

  “I wish he were, too, but there’s no sense wasting time on forlorn hopes,” I said. “There seems to be no other choice than for me to pack a little food, wait for nightfall, and be on my way. I’ll have to trust to God to somehow protect me until this terrible time is over. I’ll try to get word to you, Arthur, when I find a place to take shelter. Meanwhile, don’t write to my husband about this and alarm him. He has plenty to do in America, and in the time it would take him to return here, who knows what the situation might be. In your letters, tell him I’m just too busy to write.”