Trisha Ashley - Twelve Days of Christmas

‘That’s better than keeping your heart in a block of ice for the rest of your life, isn’t it?’

‘I think you’re quite mad!’ I said, though I could feel a bit of a smile trying to drag up the corners of my mouth. ‘You know, Gran said she hoped I’d meet another nice man and settle down, it was at the back of her last journal.’

‘There you are, then.’

‘I’m sure Jude Martland isn’t thinking about settling down and anyway, he’s not really nice, he’s surly and bossy most of the time.’

‘Artistic temperament?’ she suggested. ‘And he sounds as if he has lots of good things going for him too. He loves his animals, for a start.’

‘I suppose so,’ I conceded reluctantly, and sighed. ‘Not only the circumstances but the signs and portents seem to be conspiring against me, too: we had some Chocolate Wishes after dinner last night, and the message in mine implied I’d found what I was looking for.’

‘So, what are you waiting for?’

‘Ah, but I don’t believe in signs and portents.’

‘Then perhaps you ought to start!’ she told me. ‘Where’s Jude now?’

‘I haven’t seen him since after lunch and he was a bit distant: but then, he was probably psyching himself up for his performance later.’

‘Sounds promising!’

‘His performance in the Revels, I meant, idiot,’ I said. ‘He’s Saint George. . and speaking of the Revels, I’d better get back: it must be about to start soon.’

‘Call me tomorrow, let me know you’re okay,’ she said more seriously.

‘I’ll be back tomorrow, so you will be able to see for yourself,’ I reminded her.

By now it was mid-afternoon and the light was just starting to fade. People had begun to gather around the green and in front of the pub, where the vat of wassail had been carried out and set on a sturdy table, together with my huge basket of Revel Cakes.

Tilda, Noël and Old Nan were enthroned nearby, wrapped in tartan travelling rugs and fussed over by Edwina, but I went with Becca, Nancy, Jess and Michael to stand on the grass with the other spectators after we’d had a warming beaker of wassail, though by then Jess was sulking because Nancy wouldn’t let her have any.

The crowd murmured and then hushed as a torch was put to the big bonfire and carried round to light the circle of twelve braziers spiked into the ground. Now I noticed for the first time that there was also an inner ring of strangely-wrought metal horses’ heads, unmistakably Jude’s work, to which had been attached bunches of holly, ivy and mistletoe and red bits of cloth that stirred in the breeze: the whole green looked like a barbaric henge of fire.

Then, approaching from the direction of the barn behind the pub, I heard the sound of a fiddle and Richard appeared, playing a lively air as he walked and dressed in a long green fur-edged velvet robe over (I hoped) lots of warm clothes.

Following him into the circle of light from the braziers jogged six Morris Men dressed in traditional white, with bells jingling and red ribbons flying, but carrying long swords and with painted black masks across their faces, which gave them a strange, slightly sinister look.

‘Those are the Rappers,’ Becca whispered.

I recognised George Froggat and Nancy’s husband, Will, but not the rest. They formed a set and danced, using their swords a bit like staves (so I hoped they were blunt!), and then fell back into two rows, leaving the centre free for the strange figures who now came forward in procession, each introducing himself to the spectators with a short, rhyming couplet.

There was Auld Man Christmas, the diminutive Nicholas Dagger, in a blue velvet robe, an evergreen crown, and carrying a club almost as large as he was; a scary Red Hoss, painted scarlet and with jaws that could open and close with a loud snap; the Dragon, green and leathery, with a fearsome head and long tail that dragged on the ground and the strange Man-Woman figure. From the front he — or perhaps that should be it — looked just like the Rappers in white shirt and trousers and straw hat; but then he turned around, revealing a woman’s mask over the back of his head and a long skirt.

‘That’s Liam as the Man-Woman,’ giggled Jess, as he began to circle round, handing out circlets of ivy and mistletoe to any woman who seemed to catch his fancy, which included an excited Jess, Nancy and Oriel Comfort. But he didn’t give me one and I felt quite left out!

Richard stopped playing for long enough to bow and introduce himself to the crowd as the Doctor. And then, finally, Jude in his guise as Saint George walked out of the darkness to large cheers: a huge and strangely fearsome figure, wearing a white surcoat with a red cross and a helmet with a nosepiece. He was carrying an even bigger sword than the Rappers. . and in his other hand, a gilded, sparkling circlet of ivy and mistletoe. He strode over and placed the circlet on my head, and I was so surprised by this that I expect my jaw fell lower than Red Hoss’s (who was Henry, by the way — I’d spotted him inside when he snapped his jaws in my face).

Then Jude walked back to the middle of the circle while Nancy, who was standing nearby, giggled. ‘He used to give that to me, not having a lady of his own!’

‘ I am St George ,’ boomed Jude, ‘ a bold and brave knight. In Egypt with a dragon, I did fight .’

‘Why Egypt?’ I whispered to Becca.

‘The Crusades made some of the elements change: other places have Saint George kill a Turkish knight, but we carried on with the Dragon — and here it comes.’

From somewhere inside the great, leathery beast a voice that was unmistakably young Ben’s from Weasel Pot shouted, after a couple of opening roars:

Then he and Jude rushed at each other and a mock fight ensued — only for the Dragon to kill Saint George. The crowd gave a united groan.

‘That shouldn’t happen, should it?’ I asked Becca worriedly, looking at Jude stretched out on the grass.

‘It’s all right,’ whispered Jess, who had edged up beside me. ‘Wait and see!’

Auld Man Christmas, Red Hoss and the Man-Woman, whose roles had so far consisted of working the crowds and scaring small children into fits, now turned inwards to face the tragic scene and said as one:

‘ Alas, poor Saint George!’

The Dragon moved into the middle of the circle, leaving poor Jude lying on the cold half-thawed turf, though fairly near the bonfire, so I hoped he wouldn’t entirely freeze to death.

Richard struck up another air on the fiddle and the six Rappers began to dance again, this time their swords weaving together, to form a series of intricate patterns that culminated in a sort of knot with a hole in its centre. The Dragon approached — and then suddenly they lowered the knot of swords over its head, tightened it with a scraping clash of metal — and the Dragon’s head flew off, to land with a soggy thump near my feet.

I nearly had a heart attack and it was a huge relief when I realised it was hollow!

The dancers fell back into two rows again, revealing the headless Dragon lying on the ground, and there was a round of applause and some cheers.

Richard swung round on his heel and pointed his violin at the lifeless Saint George, declaiming loudly:

Then he took a small bottle out of his pocket and pretended to sprinkle something over the recumbent knight. I watched, riveted, as Jude slowly stirred, sat up and then got to his feet and bowed, to more rapturous applause.