Julian Rathbone - Kings of Albion

He never ceases to surprise me. our Ali. for now he bustled about like a child with a new game to play, getting us into our best clothes with gold chains and so forth, pulling my second-best robe on over his usual turban and cape, neither of which he divested himself of and generally getting us lined up and ready, me with a small gold goblet encrusted with diamonds and rubies, with elephants carved round the rim – I expect you remember it. a nice enough trinket and not at all special – he with a handful of incense sticks, and Anish with a silver box containing a small slab of bdellium, which we had brought with us as a prophylactic against stomach cramps.

First, let me describe the hall. It was quite large, perhaps as much as fifty good paces long and twenty wide, with a high, pitched roof supported on hammer-beams and corbels. We entered at one end through large double doors (hardwood of the sort they call oak which they use for all timber work where strength is required, though it is nothing like as hard or strong as the woods we use), and were confronted at the other end by a raised dais on which the chief nobles sat, facing the main body of the hall.

This was filled by two long parallel tables at which sat forty or more squires and knights, lesser gentry. In the middle of the wall to our left there was a huge fireplace in which numerous logs were blazing, enough to warm the whole room; on the other side, facing the fire, were doors smaller than the one by which we had entered, which we soon discovered gave access to and from a large kitchen. The whole place was lit with many candles, some fixed to cast-iron wheels suspended horizontally from the ceiling, others in fixtures attached to the walls; nevertheless, the higher beams supporting the roof and the corners remained shadowy and in darkness, a gloom exacerbated by the fact that the place was decorated with branches of evergreens called ivy and holly.

As the night wore on many of the candles died a guttering smoky death, and by midnight almost the only light came from the great fire. However, this did not prevent the carousing and horseplay continuing almost to dawn.

Above us, as we entered, there was an overhanging gallery filled with… I was going to say musicians, but it was scarcely music they produced from their instruments. These were made from brass as trumpets, hunting horns and sackbuts, wood as flutes and a pipe called the hautboy with a reed, which made a nasty squealing noise, and untuned drums, which either gave oft a booming bang or a fierce, grating rattle. Some of the pipes had bladders attached with a second pipe sticking out of them. The bladder was filled with the breath of the piper who then squeezed it forcing air through this second pipe to make a long, monotonous drone.

These musicians welcomed us with a fanfare, and as we walked down the aisle between the two tables all the men stood up and cheered, banging their horn-handled knives on their pewter plates or on the table. Somewhat bemused but sensing that the atmosphere and intentions of all were friendly, I led our procession on towards the dais with as much composure as I could muster and found myself faced with a living picture which I recognised from paintings, stained-glass windows and the like, which we had seen on our way from Venice. It was a presentation, indeed a travesty, of the group they call the holy family – Mary, the mother of Jesus, Joseph, his father, and the newborn Jesus himself, to whom we were to present our gifts.

A travesty indeed. Have I said there were no women at all in this hall? Such was the case, though now I believed for a moment that I was wrong. For, though the figure that portrayed the mother of Jesus was six feet tall and exceedingly well built, he was also dressed in a blue robe with a cowl round whose edge he peeked coyly. Moreover, his fair skin beneath the one lock of auburn hair we could see was smooth and fine, his eyes large, wide and intensely blue: his mouth was painted like a harlot's. Once I realised that this was a man dressed as a woman I could see how two other factors had made the deception momentarily successful: he was young, only seventeen years old, and handsome in a light, winsome way. Behind him stood 'Joseph', an older man, in his thirties, heavily built, strong-looking, and dark in hair, though rubicund in skin colour, but wearing when we first saw him a heavy beard and wig hastily improvised from bits of sheepskin worn woollen side out, with a coarse cloak requisitioned from one of his servants.

Most disturbing of all was the infant Jesus, or rather the creature that stood in for him, carried in the arms of the 'mother'. This was nothing more nor less than a sucking pig, alive, but not struggling, quite content to lie on its back in the crook of the 'mother's' arm, gazing up into the face above it, with every indication of content, save that its snout wrinkled and quested… perhaps for milk?

The hall now fell silent and I did not need the whispered prompting of Ali to treat the show with some seriousness. I approached the group, knelt at the booted feet of the Mary, with the humblest obeisance I could muster, and placed the goblet on the floor. Ali and Anish did likewise, and then, as Anish heaved himself to his feet (for all the privations we have suffered he is no thinner), the whole hall burst into an uproar of laughter and cheers. Possibly this frightened the piglet, which now wriggled convulsively and urinated on 'Mary's' lap. The young man playing the part launched himself to his feet with a bellow, set the piglet scurrying across the floor, aimed a kick at it, which missed. 'Damned creature,' he cried. 'Wasn't he meant to be in swaddling clothes?'

The two men then threw off their borrowed robes and led us to sit at their high table beside them.

'Joseph' acted as host as, indeed, was right since this was Richard Neville, the Earl of Warwick and Captain of Calais (pray do not confuse him with the captain of the guard). He is, and he made sure we knew it, a man of great wealth and power, owning great estates throughout the kingdom of Ingerlond through his marriage to a lady who had brought with her dowry the title he bore. He himself is the son and heir of the Earl of Salisbury, an old man, once a great warrior, who also sat at the table. Neville, then and since, showed a certain arrogance in his behaviour, a wilfulness, an unpredictability that we soon learnt was a general characteristic of all the Ingerlonder nobility, though exaggerated in him. His pride was not without justification. We soon learnt that he had distinguished himself militarily, especially at sea, clearing the channel that lies between Ingerlond and Francia of pirates, though he was known to be both impetuous and indecisive as a general on dry land.

The other younger man was introduced to us simply as March. Or Eddie. Eddie March. I understand him to be a person of some consequence, but not a lot, owing his position in the company to his prowess, his good looks and the friendship of Warwick, rather than to any claim to greatness he might have through blood or inherited lands.

Incidentally, and in this as in so much else I am indebted to Ali for tutoring me, the Ingerlonders set enormous store by wealth and parentage, and little to talent or merit. But that is by the way.

Now the charade was over the feasting began. The food was, again, disgusting. There were huge amounts of beef and mutton, too, hacked from a whole sheep that was spitted above the fire. There was a centrepiece of a swan stuffed with a peacock, stuffed with a cockerel, stuffed with larks; many vegetables of the sort we feed only to animals, such as cabbage and various roots; mountains of bread, made from wheat and just about edible, butter, cream and hard, strong cheeses. But there were also preserved or dried fruits, some from warmer lands, such as dates and figs, and nuts, almonds and cobs.