Mistletoe Kisses and Yuletide Joy

by Jo Beverley

  May it be short.

  Now, into familiar bleak ice had come a searing hot poker.

  Hera.

  Her steady eyes. Her courage.

  Her feet, icy on his thighs.

  His penis shamefully hard.

  Hera.

  He rolled face down, head in arms.

  Had Edith ever guessed that he'd come to his senses too late? Surely not. He'd worked day and night to be sure that she never guessed, never felt less in his eyes. But had she? Women were sharp about these things. They had a special sense for them. Was that what had driven her into the river?

  He rolled onto his back, arm over his eyes, but nothing could block the inner visions.

  He'd kissed Hera.

  There'd been nothing loverlike in that moment. She'd appeared, a witch from hell in a place where he'd hoped she'd never be again, like a weapon driven straight at his guilty heart, and he'd reacted. Defended. Tried to drive evil away.

  Ah, Jesu, Hera was not evil. Hera was the sun in summer and the fire in winter, and he thought, looking back, that despite her interest in the religious life, she'd have accepted him if he'd realized in time.

  He'd have had her, her vital warmth....

  He pushed away thoughts that still seemed sinful.

  He'd never be free to marry again. He'd taken the wrong path, and there was no going back. He was no longer worthy of any woman, but especially Hera. He'd driven Edith to her death and must pay for it in hell.

  Before Christ came, however, before he died, he wanted only one thing. To send Edith's destroyer, Magnus Ravenbringer, to hell ahead of him.

  Chapter Three

  Used to the convent's hours, Hera awoke at first dismal light, though she noted that she'd not woken for the hours of prayer throughout the night. Truly, she didn't think she was suited to the convent, yet now it seemed her fate. Easing her body, stiff from the long walk and hard work, she braced herself to leave the warm bed and face the nippy air. Alfrida was still snuffling in the other bed. Let her sleep a while.

  She spent a little time trying to think of a way to persuade her sister of her folly, but failed. Alfrida had always been willful, and wouldn't accept a mere sister's command. And she was wildly desperate to go to this Magnus.

  What sort of man was he to have such an effect? Despite her spirited nature, Alfrida had never been silly. Big, she'd said. More handsome than Raef. Certainly that was a package to turn any woman silly, but there had to be more to it than that.

  Unless the world truly had turned mad.

  She remembered her sister saying something about the man persuading her into his bed. Not a brute, then.

  Though Hera knew exactly what men and women did together, and had even seen it in passing a time or two, she had little idea what a man might do to persuade a reluctant maiden into his bed. She'd never, thank the saints, been captured, and in her safe home, there'd only ever been one man who could have persuaded her.

  And he'd never tried.

  She squeezed her eyes against the sting of tears. She didn't cry, and she wouldn't start now. There were more important matters to grieve over than the fact that Raef saw her as a sister, but she needed to find a way to lighten his soul. To bring back his zest for life, to help him heal.

  That wasn't likely to happen if Alfrida ran off to Magnus Ravenbringer. Despite Alfrida's protests, who else could have raped Edith? If the man hadn't done it himself, he'd allowed it. That made peace short of death impossible.

  She shivered at the thought of Raef's death, and her thoughts slid to her father. Big, gruff, and fierce, he hadn't been the heart of her life, but he'd always made her feel safe. Soon he'd be gone, and until one of her brothers returned home, Froxton would be in a sorry state.

  Indeed, it was wretched to be a woman in these dreadful times.

  With a sigh, she forced herself out of bed, and hurried into many layers of clothes. There were simpler matters to tackle. Ones where she could achieve something. She let Alfrida sleep. She'd like her help, but as soon as she was up they'd be back to the matter of her foolish longing for a Dane.

  Yawning, her breath misty, she went first to the guarded storerooms and took careful inventory. It wasn't quite as bad as she'd feared because people had eaten the luxuries first. They'd suffer later for lack of preserved fruits and honey, but there'd be enough beans and grains if everyone was careful. Half the hard cheese had gone, but the salt fish remained. The indulgent ones had been after quick food, not that which needed slow and careful cooking.

  When she went outside, however, she found that they'd roasted half the laying poultry. Were people always feckless fools as soon as order broke down?

  She went around taking inventory, calculating how many people they could feed for how long. When the weak wintry sun rose over the palisade, and some servants began to stir, she had one ring the bell to summon them all together. Standing on the steps leading up to the second story of the manor house, she eyed the sorry scene.

  Too few, she decided, and half were hungover from drink, the other half weakened from fasting and prayer.

  Not quite true. Raef and his men had obeyed the summons, and they were fit and alert.

  "These are troubled times," she said, speaking clearly so all would hear. "Some say that the end of the world will come at the solstice today, or at the thousandth Christmas three days hence. But I tell you, the Pope in Rome does not say this, nor does the Archbishop in Canterbury. They say as they have always said that Christ could come at any time, and will come when least expected. On that day, we will all be judged on the state of our souls."

  Some of the people fell to their knees and started to pray.

  Suppressing a groan at their reaction, Hera carried on. "This means that, while prayer is good we will be judged on how we are performing our everyday duties. We will all gain grace by hard work and by trusting in God's wisdom and mercy. Moreover," she added, not looking at Raef, but directing her words to him, "we will be blessed if we refuse the sin of despair. Christ died to save us. He can forgive any sin, and He will come again in mercy—in mercy, note—to save us all."

  She was rewarded by some fervent amens.

  "Therefore, we must all work in our apportioned way through these difficult days, and work hard. And we must remember this is Advent, the time of preparation for the feast of Christ's birth. If we do not fast, we cannot feast. Froxton will observe the Advent fast in these days up to Christmas. We will take only one meal in the evening. There will be no meat, and for drink, only water." Over groans, she said, "And then, on Christmas Day, we will feast as we have always done to celebrate Christ's ancient coming to save us all from Satan's power."

  "But what if He do come again, here and now?" a woman called out. "What then, Lady Wulfhera?"

  "Then we will greet Him with joyous song, Hilda, in a state of grace because of our work and fasting. Remember, if Christ does come to judge us, that will be the glorious beginning of a golden age. An end of pain and suffering, of loss and death, of hunger and cold. For the blessed," she added, looking around the crowd. "For the virtuous. For the honest, the chaste, and the hardworking."

  Some looked downcast, but most seemed cheered by a simple prescription for salvation.

  "So, be about your work. However, I know some of you have already fasted through the past days, and fasted foolishly, so you must eat of pottage and bread before you work."

  "We might be ready for Lord Jesus, Lady," a man said, "but what of the Danes?"

  "Our walls are strong and we have Thegn Raefnoth and his men to add to our own. We will not be taken. Go! Go to your work, and prepare Froxton for Christmastide."

  Obediently, the people scattered. Hera followed those who went into the hall to eat, to make sure that only those who'd fasted in the chapel were there.

  "Well done," said Raef, making her twitch with his closeness behind her. She felt as if heat was creeping up her neck to her face.

  "Thank you," she said without turning. "I exp
ect you and your men to observe the fast, too."

  "I'll see to it. And I'll enforce your will."

  He sounded normal. She wondered if his fatalistic despair had passed with the effects of drink, but she didn't dare face him to see. She just nodded and went to supervise the ladling of the soup.

  Later, however, she had to seek him out. "Raef, we spoke of getting fresh fish from the weir. Is it safe to go out?"

  He did look composed. Perhaps too much so for the Raef she knew, but then, grief must still weigh heavily on his soul.

  "There's no sign of Danes nearby. I have the place locked up mainly to keep people from running away." He glanced at her. "Despite your scolding, I've not been quite as neglectful as you think. Even the feasting was to keep up spirits—lacking your skills with a sermon."

  There was an edge to that, but she wouldn't pick a fight.

  "I'll send some people, then. They can get more flour from the mill, too."

  They discussed practical matters for a little while and she was soothed by his manner. There was no more talk of damnation.

  She picked some servants to catch fish at the weir—people she thought she could trust to come back, and who were strong and agile enough to run back if the watchcorn sounded the alarm. It was only as she saw them off that she remembered Alfrida. It came with a jab of alarm. Her sister must just be shirking work, of course. But...

  Hera rushed into the room to see an empty bed, to see that Alfrida's special possessions were gone.

  She'd promised!

  Thinking back, however, Hera realized that Alfrida had not promised to stay. The words had been something to do with her sister staying until they had a chance to talk. There'd been chance and more. Hera had simply forgotten, and Alfrida had taken advantage of it.

  She ran her hands into her hair, cursing her willful sister then praying for forgiveness for the curse. Oh, but it could be such trouble. With God's mercy, the Dane would just send her sister home, chastened and wiser. The alternatives didn't bear thinking of.

  The alternatives were more likely.

  She turned and raced in search of Raef.

  "Alfrida!" she gasped, finding him grimly exercising with his sword against a man blocking with a heavy shield.

  He paused. "She's gone?"

  "You knew?"

  "No, but I had her locked up for a reason." He returned to savaging the shield, almost knocking the bearer off balance with each blow. "I know the power of lust,"—thwack—"no matter how foolish,"—thunk—"how wicked."

  Thud.

  She jerked as if the blow had landed on her.

  Lust.

  Somehow, even though she'd accepted that he loved Edith, loved her deeply, she'd never quite thought of him lusting after her....

  She thrust that aside. "You have to go after her. She can't have reached Acklingham yet. You have to-"

  He stopped, shaking sweaty hair back off his face despite the chill air. "I don't have to do anything. I'm not risking men for her."

  "Raef!"

  "No." He turned cold eyes on her. "If you're not willing to imprison her, she'll be off again tomorrow and tomorrow. Love, lust, whatever it is, burns like a fire. It must be pleasant dwelling in your cold, unpassionate land, but it isn't where most mortals dwell."

  Struck silent, she watched him stalk off, shoving his sword into its scabbard.

  Cold and unpassionate? Why would he ever think that of her? Because she'd gone to the convent? Didn't he know that true vocations were passionate? And if he thought her unpassionate, it merely proved how dense men could be.

  She saw, however, that she'd lacked passion in the convent. Herndon had been a peaceful place, a haven, but not a place or a life she'd truly embraced.

  There was relief in finally and completely putting it aside. Her place was in the world. But not with Raef. His passion for a dead woman ran too deep.

  What of Alfrida?

  There, he probably was right. Short of true imprisonment, her sister could not be held. The best that could be hoped for was that she'd learn her lesson without too much pain, and come home again of her own accord. Heart sick and suddenly lonely, Hera climbed up to a watch point on the walls and searched the bleak countryside for a solitary figure.

  She saw the servants heading toward the river, where the mill stood, wheel turning in the rapid water. A few other people from the area were out seeking foodstuffs—wild plants and even small animals unwary enough to reveal themselves by day. No sign of her sister, however.

  Was it possible that Alfrida was right, and that Magnus Ravenbringer desired her, and would keep her? That offered little solace. An Englishwoman couldn't be happy with an invading Dane, and Raef truly intended to kill the man.

  Faced with this desperate situation, Hera no longer even knew what to pray for. In the end, she crossed herself and said the simplest and best prayer of all.

  "Thy will be done, O Lord."

  After checking that all necessary work was being attended to, Hera went to spend some time in the weaving shed, seeking the company of the women there as much as the work. She picked up a basket of carded wool and a distaff and spun thread as work and words wove comfortingly around her.

  No dismal talk here. No talk of Danes or of the end of the world. Instead, gossip, chatter of Christmas, and the occasional song.

  After a while, one of the women said, "Sing us a song, Lady Wulfhera?"

  Hera did have an excellent voice—it had been much appreciated in the convent. A gift of God, not to be denied to others. She looked around and smiled. "What should I sing?"

  "Something of Christmas," another woman said.

  "A happy song."

  "The Star of the Magi!"

  Amid a chorus of agreement, Hera laughed and put aside her spinning. She had no instrument, so she took up an empty wooden box and beat a rhythm on it with her fingers, as she began to sing.

  The Star of the Magi was an old tale—some said it went back to the Bible—but she'd put it into song a few years back, and it had become a favorite at this time of year.

  It told of the coming of the wise men, the Magi, to the Christ Child's stable in Bethlehem, bringing with them gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

  Each verse ended with the chorus:

  Stella mirabilis, come from afar.

  Stella mirabilis, come where we are.

  Stella mirabilis, shine night and day

  Stella mulieribus, come light one woman's way.

  The last line didn't make sense until later in the song, but the women like to join in with every one. They loved the song because it was all about womanly power. Women knew they steered the world, but men didn't like to think of it that way, so there were few enough songs that gave the women's view of things.

  Joy growing in the singing, the company, and the message, Hera stood with her makeshift drum to dance as well as sing.

  The first part was all about Bethlehem, and the Magi's arrival, especially Melchior, who brought gold to Christ. When he approached the baby Jesus and bowed over the manger, the fine pendant he wore swung down and attracted the baby's eye.

  This pendant, so the story went, was made of gold shaped like a star, and in the center sat a mysterious blue stone, polished smooth but magically holding within it the image of a bright star.

  Of course, the Holy Child reached out to such a glittering object, and brushed it with His tiny fingers. Immediately, Melchior moved to take it off, to give it to the Baby Jesus, but Mary leaned forward to stop him. As if the child spoke through her, she said that it was now a special gift for women, and he must take it home and give it to his youngest daughter.

  Stella mirabilis, come from afar.

  Stella mirabilis, come where we are.

  Stella mirabilis, shine night and day

  Stella mulieribus, come light one woman's way.

  So, Hera sang, Melchior returned to his northern homeland with his pendant jewel. Of course, the Bible described the Magi as wise men from the
East, but many also called them the Three Kings of Cologne. Hera had long since changed the details to make one of the Magi a leader in England, so the song would mean even more here.

  They women loved it. Some of the younger ones put aside their work and rose to dance with her, hips swaying, clapping their hands, bracelets jingling.

  Stella mirabilis, come from afar.

  Stella mirabilis, come where we are.

  Stella mirabilis, shine night and day

  Stella mulieribus, come light one woman's way.

  Hera sang the sad story of Melchior's youngest daughter, Miriam. She had been scarred as a baby by an accident with the fire and so, despite her warmth and wisdom, no man courted her. Even the man she had come to love did not see her as a potential bride.

  For a moment, Hera almost lost the song. She was not scarred, but she was blighted by a man who could not see her as a woman, a woman to desire.

  She pushed that aside and carried on, dancing and smiling, to tell how Melchior returned to his home to be greeted by his loving family. How there he placed the pendant, with its precious blue stone, around the neck of his youngest daughter, thinking it would give her solace in her single state.

  But lo! within days, the neglectful suitor saw Miriam with new eyes, and soon he asked for her hand in marriage.

  Stella mirabilis, come from afar.

  Stella mirabilis, come where we are.

  Stella mirabilis, shine night and day

  Stella mulieribus, come light one woman's way.

  Miriam married Alric, and his courage and strength was enhanced by her warmth and wisdom so that their lands were a haven of peace and prosperity. Their deep and special love spread like a light around them, bringing harmony to the country and the world.

  Stella mirabilis, come from afar.

  Stella mirabilis, come where we are.

  Stella mirabilis, shine night and day

  Stella mulieribus, come light one woman's way.

  Then—Hera stilled the dance, producing a roll of thunder on her drum—one day Miriam and her husband crossed the sea and a great storm came up. All feared they'd be cast into the deep. Miriam clutched her first baby to her, and held the star pendant in her hand, praying to the special child her father had spoken of, the one who had sent her such blessings.