Medieval Christmas (2)
Christmas scenes and medieval recipes
In the run-up to Christmas, I’m posting a series of medieval Christmas scenes along with related medieval recipes. The scenes are extracts from my published novels. Below the scene, you will find a related medieval recipe and a historical note on wassailing and the Mari Lwyd.
Today’s extract is from The Drowned Court (Meanda Books, 2023). 1109, Deheubarth, southwest Wales. Nest ferch Rhys is the daughter of the last Welsh king of Deheubarth. Her father was slaughtered by invading Normans. Gerald FitzWalter is her Norman husband and the steward of her father’s former lands. Little Henry is Nest’s son from her affair with the Norman king, Henry I. The event at Cenarth Bychan is a true story recounted in The Chronicle of the Princes.
The Drowned Court
Chapter 8, The Usefulness of a Garderobe
The winter was advancing into December and we were all installed in Gerald’s new castle at Cenarth Bychan for the coming Christmas feast. I rolled from the nest of my bed reluctantly, tickling little Henry’s cheek where he lay in the warm hollow that I had just risen from. He lay on his back with his arms flung out and his eyes screwed shut and crinkled (which meant he was awake). Lately he had taken to finding his way up the stairs and into my bed, complaining of bad dreams and a need to snuggle with his mama. I let him. After all, Gerald did not come to me, so my little son warmed me in his stead. ‘Wakey wakey, up you get!’ He snapped his eyes open, meaning to surprise me. ‘You’re awake already! I thought you were fast asleep!’ He chuckled, and I tickled him under the arm, poking him playfully until he rolled to the edge of the bed, planting his solid little feet on the cold floor. He shivered, and I wrapped his cloak around him, made him sit back on the bed while I pushed woolly socks onto his feet. His legs were short, his feet broad and his toes splayed. The king’s feet in miniature, I realised. Fighting around his wriggling resistance and cries of ‘no, no’, I planted several kisses on his forehead and cheeks. ‘Go and find the nurse and get some warm clothes on.’ He trotted out obediently. I looked at my own clothes rack with disinterest. Gerald no longer cared what I looked like. Perhaps I did not care either.
Amelina poked her head around the door. ‘There’s a visitor below, and the lord asks you to come quickly. Do you need help dressing?’
‘No, I’ll be there directly.’
She withdrew her head. ‘Who is it?’ I thought to call after her, too late. She was already out of earshot and rushing to her chores. I put on my pale grey gown trimmed with black fur and embroidery, brushed my hair swiftly, tied on a couvrechef and went to the stairs. There were voices of men at the table: Gerald and other voices I did not recognise, Welsh voices. I regretted my hasty decision not to have Amelina dress me. My hair was a little dishevelled to be greeting strangers, but there was nothing for it now. It would have to do.
Entering the hall, I looked with shock at the man standing in a shaft of sunlight from a high window. The winter sun slid sparkling fingers through his dense red-blond hair. I flushed, thinking guiltily of the ‘O sea-bird’ love poem among the papers in my chamber.
‘Ah, Nest.’ Gerald handed me to my seat. ‘Prince Owain, may I introduce my wife to you.’
The boy I remembered was grown into a man. ‘Lady.’ He spoke in Welsh. He inclined his head politely and looked back to my face with interest. ‘We met once before,’ he told Gerald. ‘At the court of King William.’
‘That was long ago,’ I said. Neither of us referred to the other occasion we had met, when he had hatched a plan for my escape from the Norman castle at Cardiff.
‘Not so long,’ he said, continuing to regard me so intently that it began to verge on rudeness.
Gerald, discomfited by Owain’s staring, intervened. ‘The prince is here with an invitation, Nest.’
Owain smiled. ‘An invitation from my father, King Cadwgan, and from myself. We would be honoured if you and your husband would share the Christmas feast with us in Powys.’
I exchanged a glance with Gerald to see what his intended response might be, and he gave me a slight nod to indicate that we would accept the invitation.
‘How delightful,’ I said. ‘We are most pleased to accept.’
‘Excellent!’ Owain slapped his gauntlets, held bunched in one hand against his hip. ‘My father will be glad. And I am ecstatic,’ he said, an amused smile hovering at the edge of his mouth.
He did not linger but was soon mounting and riding out again. I walked back arm in arm with Gerald into the hall. ‘Well?’ I asked him.
‘Welsh treachery has masqueraded as hospitality before now, and I don’t trust Owain, or his father come to that.’
‘Yes. I felt a vein of humour at our expense beneath his politeness, but King Cadwgan is an honourable man, I should think.’
‘King Cadwgan is a wily, self-serving bastard,’ Gerald retorted, and I leant my head affectionately against his shoulder. Gerald’s perceptions of his fellow men and women were generally accurate.
‘You think we should find an excuse not to go? Perhaps it is because of Cenarth Bychan.’ I had warned Gerald that Cadwgan would view the building of Cenarth Bychan, so close to the borders of Ceredigion, as a provocation. ‘Indeed,’ Gerald had retorted. ‘And so it is intended.’
‘There’s something not straight about the invitation, for sure,’ he said. ‘I had planned for us all to spend Christmas together here at Cenarth Bychan. We can just go for one night and return swiftly.’ He kissed my hand and left me to welcome the boys who came running into the hall with the nurse. She was carrying Angharad in her arms. Gerald ruffled each of their little heads as they rushed past him, excepting the nurse, of course.
Amelina lined the boys up before her, and I smiled at the sight of them obediently cleaning their teeth with twigs dipped in her fennel concoction. Maurice eyed Henry and William, doing his best with an awkwardly twisting, chubby hand, to emulate the movements of his older brothers.
Gerald and I rode across the wooden drawbridge into the gatehouse of Gaer Penrhôs Castle near Llanrhystud on the frosty morning of Christmas Eve. We had a small, well-armed escort with us. The children were being looked after by Amelina at Cenarth Bychan, a little further south down the coast, a day’s ride away. We dismounted in the courtyard and King Cadwgan, his young wife Euron, and Prince Owain came out to meet us. Cadwgan was nearing sixty years of age. He was not a tall man, but had a muscular stockiness and the bearing of a soldier. Gerald had told me that Cadwgan’s queen, Euron, was his seventh wife. She was of an age with me. A servant led us to a fine room to deposit the few possessions we had brought with us and to wash with a bowl of warmed water that stood waiting. I took off my green leather gauntlets and my fur-lined cloak that reached to the floor. A fire blazed in the hearth and we warmed ourselves, stamping the cold from our feet. Gerald took my hands and rubbed them between his own large palms. Then he surprised me, slipping the couvrechef from my head, stroking my hair and taking me in his arms. ‘Nest.’
I heard desire in his voice for the first time in over a year. I took his face in my hands and kissed him for a long time, letting my body mould into the shape of his. Releasing my mouth to take a gasp of breath, I kissed his neck. ‘How I have missed you.’ We smiled at each other.
‘We should go down, I suppose,’ he said reluctantly.
I made a playful grimace. ‘Yes, we have to.’
‘But we will come back to this,’ he said, kissing me briefly again and then leading me down the winding staircase, my hand in his. He stopped abruptly three times on the way down so that I stumbled against him and he turned and kissed me each time, smiling.
‘I like this Christmas gift,’ I whispered to him. I felt excited. At last he returned to me. I would not make a mess of it this time.
In the hall, the feast was prepared, the Yule Log blazed in the hearth, the bards were tuning their harps and voices, servants rushed to and fro with goblets and jugs, there was a mouthwatering aroma of roasted meat. The hall was hung with the lurid coloured banners of the house of Powys: a rampant dark blue griffin on a bright yellow background, his barbed tail curling tautly, red-tongued, red-eyed, his claws preparing to attack. ‘Our honoured guests, please!’ Cadwgan was indicating the two places beside him on the dais. Gerald handed me up and Cadwgan took my hand. ‘My daughter!’ he said. ‘May I call you that? I have always thought of you in that way.’
It seemed odd to me to do so. I glanced at Gerald, but his expression gave me no clues. Owain was seated next to me and I noticed again how handsome a man he was. His thick blond hair was shot with glints of red and gold. His blue eyes danced with a sardonic humour. We were immediately reminded, or Gerald was, that he was among the enemy, that it was Normans who had stolen Cadwgan’s ‘daughter’ from him, since I had long ago been betrothed to Owain.
We sat down, and I prepared myself for more verbal sparring, hoping that was all we would have to contend with. Gerald’s Welsh was very good by now and I was proud that he was one of the few Norman lords who made the effort to speak our tongue. I looked to the rows of people in the hall and saw that our contingent of men from Pembroke were not seated together. They had been spread around the room and none of them were close to the dais. And they were, of course, all unarmed. All weapons had to be left at the door of a hall. I could not believe Cadwgan would offer us violence in the guise of this Christmas feast, but if there were any such attempt, I knew my husband to be an intelligent, valiant fighter. I had a knife in a leather scabbard strapped to my calf, beneath my gown, and there was a copious array of cutting implements on the table before us. A sudden sound of knives sharpening close behind me made me jump. Several servants, each armed with two long knives, flourished and scraped them against each other, preparing to carve the geese….
The following morning Gerald and I rode out relieved to have put our heads into the griffin’s mouth and no ill had come of it. I was warmed by the sensuous memory of the night with Gerald. We had taken full advantage of our brief time together without the encumbrances of our children, our bustling servants and Gerald’s usually onerous duties.
At Cenarth Bychan, the children were hopping with excitement in anticipation of their delayed Christmas gifts and feast. I liked this new castle. It was well made and comfortable. It occupied a suitable site on a headland with a long, sheer cliff-face down to the river and a deep moat fronting the only means of entry.
I looked forward to resuming a full marriage with Gerald with passion, making up for lost time. Little Henry was chagrined to find himself banished from my bed back to the nursery. He pouted, and I tried not to see the replica of his father in his expression.
On the last night of the year, the children were finally all in bed and Amelina was quietly assisting the maids to clear the table and tidy the hall. Gerald and I sat comfortably in front of the fire, drinking a last glass of wine before climbing the stairs, but we were both eager not to linger. ‘Upstairs?’ Gerald asked, standing and holding his hands out to me. I let him haul me from the chair, my weight suspended from his two hands. He pulled me close and kissed me long.
‘Upstairs,’ I laughed, ‘before it’s too late.’
In the warm chamber, I loosened my hair. I walked to the window that looked down over the river. With my back to Gerald, I dropped my clothes to the floor, allowing them to puddle around my feet. I did not turn yet, as I felt Gerald push his clothed body against my naked back and nuzzle my neck. I was about to turn to him, but in the gloom, I sensed, rather than saw, movement on the cliff-face. ‘Gerald, I think …’ I leant further toward the cold of the window. I could not see clearly, but something swarmed on the cliff. There was a sudden and very loud thud in the hall below. I turned frowning toward Gerald who held up a hand to me, listening. There were muffled shouts and then a piercing scream. Gerald reached for the sword belt he had just unbuckled and flung a nightgown to me, and stalked toward the door. The sounds of grating metal, of clashing weapons, coming from below, were unmistakable. I slipped the white gown over my head moments before the door was kicked open. Gerald dodged to the side and was concealed by the door that hung a little askew on its hinges. Two men stood in the doorway, blood dripping from drawn swords. I recognised Owain ap Cadwgan. He grinned at me. He had not yet seen Gerald concealed by the door and Gerald could not see them. I gripped the edge of the door and obstructed their entry. ‘Wait!’ I commanded, and Owain, to my surprise, hesitated on the threshold. I slammed the damaged door in his face and dropped the heavy bar across it as best I could.
‘What … who?’ Gerald began, moving toward the door.
I held a finger to my lips to quiet him and stepped between him and the door. ‘No!’ I hissed. I couldn’t bear the thought of him killed, hacked to pieces by their swords, and I was desperately thinking of my children, my Norman children. That was how these Welsh invaders would think of them. ‘No, Gerald, I don’t want you killed, please.’ I pushed him backwards.
‘What the hell … get out of the way, Nest.’ Our tussling became serious and he would soon overwhelm me.
‘No! Get out through the garderobe chute. That way you can attack them, take them by surprise. If you go out the door, you will just be cut down. How does that help me or the children?’ I lifted my resisting hands from his shoulders abruptly. He nodded. Cenarth Bychan, as a new castle, had all the latest installations. The garderobe, in the alcove of our room, had a chute that opened out to a short drop to the cesspit below. There was violent hammering on the door and the wood began to splinter. ‘Go now!’ I hissed at Gerald, and he turned. I heard the garderobe lid bang open and the squelch as he dropped into the mire below. Quickly, I went in, stared briefly down at him looking up anxiously at me, closed the lid, and hurried back into the room to see Owain stumble in across the shattered timbers of the door.
‘Lady Nest! Do not fear. No harm will come to you. I am here to restore you to your rightful place, to your people. Please accompany me now.’ He held a hand out to me.
‘I am in my nightgown,’ I said. ‘I have to dress.’
‘No time for that,’ he said, ‘and perhaps no need.’
I stared defiantly at him.
He handed me Gerald’s heavy fur cloak that was hanging from the peg. ‘This will do, and your shoes.’
He pointed at my thin dancing shoes in the centre of the pool of clothing I had slipped off so blithely moments before. I slid my feet into the shoes and walked with as much dignity as I could muster in a nightdress. I stepped across the splintered timbers at the threshold of my chamber. My children! What was happening with my children? I began to rush down the steps, but Owain gripped my arm. ‘No running away now, Lady Nest.’ He walked down with me, retaining a painful grip on my arm.
In the hall, Amelina sat white-faced, holding the three boys to her and seated next to the nurse who was cradling Angharad. The baby was wailing inconsolably. Two men stood on either side of the pitiful group with swords drawn, and the boys were holding tight to Amelina’s hands and knees. When they saw me, William and Maurice began to whimper. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ I called to them softly and as calmly as I could. I looked about me at the disarray in the hall. Tables and benches were overturned, serving maids were corralled by swordsmen in one corner. Two guards lay dead in the doorway and, doubtless, there were more dead soldiers outside. We had only a small garrison here. I counted fifteen men with Owain.
‘Bring the children! Let’s go!’ Owain shouted. He pulled me with him and I looked back to see the men wrestling the children from Amelina and the nurse.
‘No, no!’ Amelina was shouting.
A soldier raised his sword, intending to break her grip that way. ‘No!’ I screamed. ‘Amelina, let them go!’ She looked at me aghast but released them into the rough care of the swordsmen surrounding her.
‘No harm will come to them,’ Owain assured me, but I trusted not one word he spoke.
‘Henry, William, Maurice!’ I called their names to focus their terrified attention on me. My brave boys stared at me, their eyes huge. One of the soldiers deposited Angharad in my arms and she fell immediately silent, her dark blue eyes trained on my face. The silence after her incessant wailing was a relief. I fought to appear calm for my children’s sake.
Owain and his men hustled us out. I was lifted onto a horse that was snorting and pawing at the hard ground. The chill immediately pierced my cloak and thin nightgown. I looked to see what the children were wearing. ‘The boys will freeze to death,’ I shouted at Owain. They were each thrown up onto horses in front of three of Owain’s men and, hearing me, the men wrapped their cloaks around my sons. I held Angharad tightly as Owain settled behind me. The cold saddle froze my naked buttocks and thighs beneath my thin nightgown. The heat of Owain’s body warmed my back. I glimpsed a few men lying motionless in the gloom of the bailey. There was no sign of Gerald. A great hole gaped in the ground next to the gate. Some intruders had scaled the cliff from the river, while others had tunnelled their way in. Owain gave a shouted command, and we were suddenly out through the gate and riding hard. I closed my eyes and held onto my baby and the horse, trying not to think, to calm my mind for later.
Medieval Recipe – Wassail Bowl
A Welsh medieval Christmas would have involved feasting on goose. The 5 January might have involved wassailing the trees in an orchard to ensure the next apple harvest. To make a wassail bowl you will need:
• 1 litre of apple juice
• 1 orange
• 1 apple
• 3 cinnamon sticks or 2 tsp of ground cinnamon
• 1 1⁄2 tsp cloves
• 1⁄2 tsp ground ginger
• 1⁄2 tsp ground nutmeg
• 1 tbsp brown sugar (optional)
You can mix and match spices, depending on what you have in your cupboard.
1. Slice the apple and orange into semi-circles.
2. Put into a large saucepan with the other ingredients and simmer for 20–30 minutes. Give it a taste – you might want to add some sugar or more spices.
3. Use a ladle to serve it warm in mugs or heatproof glasses. You’re now ready to go wassailing!
[adapted from www.britishmuseum.org]
Historical Note
The Mari Lwyd is a wassailing folk custom found in South Wales. A hobby horse made from a horse's skull mounted on a pole is carried by someone hidden under a cloth. A group moves from house to house demanding entry with a song. The householders deny entry, also in song, in a pwynco (musical battle). Eventually the group and horse are admitted and given a drink. (It’s uncertain whether this was a medieval tradition.)
Loved reading this excerpt!