The household came alive with activities; the darkening afternoons and stinging winds told Rose that Christmas was almost upon them, and Dame Alice would return with packages and complaints. The rushes on the floors were freshened, and the kitchen was a combustion of servants stirring, basting, and kneading. Freshly dressed birds hung from the rafters, a continual fire burned for the preparation of different savouries and breads, and Rose heard much familiar foul language as the servants prepared to celebrate the birth of their Saviour. Sir Thomas pushed everyone to matins each week, but he had yet to tame their tongues, especially when they knew he was absent.
The youngest children were rehearsing each day for a pageant they planned to present at the Christmas feast. Little John was playing Saint George, dressed in a light suit of armour but carrying a sword as tall as himself. When he swung it, he stumbled after its arc, making the actual slaying of a dragon a true miracle. The dragon was Cicely and Elizabeth, in a costume that both fit in but neither could control. The dragon walked as if having fits, none of its limbs in unison, his great serpent head lolling from side to side like a sleeping dog shaking a flea from its ear.
There was the matter of presents, too, which distressed Rose. The household would exchange presents on New Year’s Day, and Sir Thomas was so busy attending to the present he would send to the king that he paid little mind to the household. Rose had no money of her own to buy anything, and Sir Thomas would not allow her to town anyway. Margaret told her not to worry; her father had presents to give to everyone. There would be no need for anything else.
And so the days passed, and More was often absent, attending to matters in town. When he was at home, he stayed in his study, the door closed. Messengers came and went at odd hours, and letters bearing More’s seal went with them.
On Christmas Eve, More emerged from his study looking worn but triumphant. Rose was tempted to peer into the room, to see what unknown adversary he had defeated, but she knew it was empty. Whatever More had faced was battled and won with paper and ink, dispatched through ruddy-faced boys glad for a half-angel coin just before Christmas.
Rose set out her best dress and Margaret’s too. They had been beaten and aired out, with fresh pomanders hung round the waists. Rose inhaled lavender from More’s garden. It was too sharp and sweet to have come from anywhere else. When they emerged from their chambers, they saw the family gathered in the family room. Everyone looked cleaned and fluffed.
The family ate the first feast that night, More giving a long prayer in Latin that all understood except Rose. It was marvelous to her just to learn to read English; the language of angels was too far beyond her. The roast capons were greasy, with blackened crisp skins that snapped under her fingers when she took hold of her portion. She slit the top off her beef pie and set it aside, letting the steam roil up. Everyone was doing the same; they looked to be dining under a cloud, so great was the steam the pies gave off. The illusion disappeared, and the children giggled in awe and returned to their plates. They had sausage, mottled red and brown with a thick waxy-looking casing, but Rose did not have an appetite for this.
Sir Thomas poured everyone’s first cup of wassail. Rose held out her cup, which was a low, wide bowl with a bit of a stand beneath it, so that it held as much wassail as discreetly possible in one serving. She studied it as he continued down the table, pouring generously, receiving fresh decanters from the kitchen as needed. It was a deep nutty brown colour, and from the piercing fragrance assaulting her nostrils, the cook had used a mighty amount of ale and rum to temper the innocent apple cider. Lamb’s wool clung around the edges, the foam of the apples that were mashed for the cider. On top of this, a toasted slice of bread floated, absorbing some of the liquor, she hoped, or the children would not make it through the meal.
More returned to his seat and lifted his own cup. “I propose we toast!” he commanded, and everyone replied by lifting their cups and toasting to him.
“Mary’s travails this night were great, but by morning, she had birthed a Saviour for all nations. Let us not grow afraid when we face our own trials, for God can still work miracles out of our suffering, for the salvation of many!”