December 2014 – The Princelings Books: Jemima Pett

29 December, 201430 November, 2017

Yuletide Narrathon – The Twinkletree Fairy

We are in the upper courtyard of Castle Marsh, listening to the Yuletide Narrathon…

King Fred stepped up to the fiddlesticks and stood beside them. He looked around at the happy people in the courtyard. This is how it should be, he thought, and let them chatter on about the last narrator until they saw him waiting, nudged each other, and waited for him to speak.

“Well, everybody, we come to the final story in our Narrathon. I’ve enjoyed it hugely, and I think you have too, haven’t you?”

Cries of ‘yes’, ‘enormously’, and other murmurs rippled round the courtyard, out-competing the cold wind.

“I have a small surprise. It’s customary for an award to be given to the best story at a Narrathon. Given this is our first one with a proper narrator,” he saluted Willoughby, sitting the other side of the fiddlesticks, waiting his final turn, “I felt it was a little obvious that he would win.” Laughs all round, and a sheepish grin from Willoughby. “I hope he doesn’t mind, but instead of giving him the prize, I’m splitting it evenly between our three home-grown talents, who were very brave in tackling the task of entertaining you all.”

Cheers, cries of ‘hear, hear,” and ‘absolutely!’ greeted this announcement.

“So, Geoffrey, Marcus and Marina, here is a small hamper for you and your families to enjoy.” Three of the king’s assistants each took a small basket of food and treats over to one of the home-grown tale tellers, to the applause of the crowd.

“So now we come to the final story in the first real Castle Marsh Narrathon. For the last time this year, but I hope not for the final time, I give you… Willoughby the Narrator!”

Huge applause and cheers, even though most people were huddled in family groups under blankets, cupping hot drinks to keep warm.

“Well, well, thank you, King Fred, and all of you, for keeping a poor Narrator warm and comfortable through a cold winter’s day.” Many laughs: Willoughby had been keeping himself warm by various fires and in the dining hall for most of the day in between stories.

“My last story of the night is one that may give you dreams tonight – if you can stay awake to listen to it.” A loud yawn from one of the younger members disturbed his speech. Appreciative chuckles from the audience, many of whom hugged sleepy youngsters to their sides.

“It was Green Willow’s Eve – maybe it will happen again on this Green Willow’s Eve, who knows – but anyway, people had gathered together under the big Yule Tree in their courtyard,” he waved at the tree decorated with ribbons and lights standing by the steps leading to the lower courtyard. “It was decorated just such as yours, with ribbons, and little lights, but also with small metal sculptures like harps, and flutes, and spiders’ webs, and snowflakes. Underneath the tree lay a pile of presents for the children and the families, all wrapped in pretty paper, and on top of the tree a small figure looked down on everyone. She was very small indeed, not even as big as your hand, little one,” he said, looking at one of the youngsters in the front row. “Even smaller than one of King Fred’s ears!” Most people glanced at Fred, but he laughed, and his daughter Jasmine pulled his ear and then whispered into it, making him smile again. Fred had very large, handsome ears.

“It was, of course, the Twinkletree Fairy on the top of the Yule Tree, and she looked down on everyone, to make sure nobody was left out or unhappy, unless they were like Drood and insisted on being miserable to spite themselves.

“The time came for the presents to be given out, and everyone crowded round to receive their gifts. Of course, there were squeals of excitement as the children tore off the paper (or unfolded it very carefully to smooth it out and put it aside for next year),” general laughter, since Marsh folk were known to be careful to reuse things. “There were toys to play with, music things to blow or play, corn-dollies to look after and play ‘imagine’ games with, and one whole troop of wooden soldiers with painted faces and green jackets.” A few cheers rippled around for the small group of soldiers who had been stationed at Marsh for so long they were considered part of the castle.

“But suddenly there was a snowstorm, and everyone dashed inside, leaving most of the presents where they lay, under the tree, save for a few that children had been holding when the snow came. Since it was late, the children all went to bed clutching those few presents, or empty handed.

“One of the empty handed ones was Clara. She lay in bed thinking about the soldiers out in the snow, wondering if the corn-dollies would get wet and soggy, and whether anyone would think to bring them inside when the snow stopped. The castle grew quiet, since it was late, and Green Willow Day is a busy one, so everyone goes to bed early. The moon got up and Clara could see its light on the snow outside, so she crept out of her bed, pulled a blanket around her – just like you – and tiptoed out to the Yule Tree.

“The fairy on the tree saw her and flew down to her shoulder. ‘What are you doing, Clara?’ she asked.

“‘I’ve come to see if the toys are all right,’ she said.

“‘Wait here with me and watch!’ the fairy said.

“And Clara crept under the boughs of the tree, into the shade, with the fairy on her shoulder, and she watched, and didn’t feel at all cold, because the fairy sprinkled fairy dust over her, so she could see magical things without freezing in the dark of the night.

“The snow glistened in the moonlight, and the moon swung around to light the lumps and bumps that were the toys hidden under the snow. As Clara watched, the lumps began to move, and out of each of them came the soldiers, and the corn-dollies, and the gingerbread voles, and the furbees, and they all danced around and had their own party in the moonlight. And the musical instruments all played, and it seemed to Clara that the toys had grown, or she had shrunk, because she was dancing with them, and the handsome soldier bowed to her and danced her all round in a circle in the snow, whirling and twirling and kicking up snowflakes like a gossamer ballgown.

“Then suddenly the music stopped in a jangle and the corn-dollies started screaming. Mice had run out from the depths of the castle and were attacking the partygoers! The soldiers cried to the rest of the toys to get into a huddle at the bottom of the tree, and they fought off the mice, hand to hand in the darkness, since the moon was setting above the castle walls. Clara joined the huddle, but she could see the soldiers fighting with the mice, and suddenly her dancing partner wasn’t there anymore! The rest of the soldiers beat off the mice, who ran away back to the depths of the marsh, and the huddle broke free and started to chase after them to make sure they had really gone. The soldiers called them back, and they returned to the base of the tree.

“But the party was over. The toys went back into their snow mounds, and Clara found she was her normal size again. And there in the snow was her handsome soldier, his head knocked off his shoulders, all broken.”

Willoughby paused, gauging the tension in the audience. There were a few sniffs, and he could see light glinting in a few eyes where tears had welled up.

“The Twinkletree Fairy came to Clara’s shoulder again and asked why she was crying.

“’My handsome soldier is all broken, and he fought so bravely for me and for all the others.’

“’Thus does it happen, sometimes, my child,’ said the fairy, ‘that people have to fight to defend the safety and peace of the others.’

“’Poor, poor soldier,’ said Clara, and she picked up the pieces and held them together, and kissed them. And the Twinkletree Fairy waved her magic wand and the pieces repaired themselves, and the soldier had his head again, and his arms and legs. Clara laughed and said ‘thank you!’ and skipped back to her bed, the wooden soldier in her hands. And she put it by the side of her bed, and said goodnight to it. And the soldier looked over her while she slept, and for who knows how many years afterwards, to keep her safe from harm.”

Willoughby looked around his audience, judging whether to finish on a happy ending or a moral.

“So keep your twinkletree fairies safe, dear Marsh folk, and be prepared for aggressive mice, but otherwise, have a very happy Green Willow Day, and thank you very much for your hospitality for this poor Narrator, this Yule tide.”

And he bowed deeply, all round, so that each person in the audience felt he had bowed specifically to them, then he jumped up into the air and disappeared in a flash of white smoke.

Header image © Jacquie Lawson.com

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22 December, 201415 January, 2015

Yuletide Narrathon – The Solstice Ghosts (part 2)

We’re continuing our exclusive content on the Princelings website; this is the concluding part of the third of Willoughby’s tales in the Castle Marsh Narrathon.

The Solstice Ghosts (2)

Willoughby jumped back on the table, watched the scurrying of his audience as they resumed their places, and as a hush crept over his audience, he cleared his throat.

“The mean and miserly Drood has received his warning from the ghost of his former partner, Darley, but do you think he’s taken any notice? No, he has not!” he added, answering his own question as some of the audience who joined in with a smattering of “No” from the more alert members near the front. Willoughby gave a piercing glance to those still settling down, and continued where his story had left off before the break.

“Drood found it hard to get to sleep. He was cold, which he was used to, but had no guilty conscience, since he didn’t have a conscience at all. But the sight of his partner, Darley, and the huge chain he dragged around, that bothered him. How could his chain be longer? He did nothing wrong, he worked hard, he did nothing frivolous, he kept himself to himself and asked nothing of no-one. He tossed and turned, and might have drifted off, but he heard the castle clock striking the hour, and on the stroke of twelve, he heard a noise which chilled his heart. His door (which he had carefully locked after Darley’s departure) swung open and a presence entered the room.

“and then….

“very slowly…

“some… thing… pulled the blanket from his head.”

“’I am the Ghost of Solstice Past,” said the pale female who stood in front of him. “Come with me, Drood, and repent.”

“’I don’t want to repent, and I don’t want to come with you!’ Drood replied, but the apparition took hold of his arm and whisked him off through the wall, which was transparent once more, up into the cold night air, over marsh and moorland, till they landed in a castle far from home.

“’Why, this is where I grew up,’ Drood said, and he watched as the apparition showed him a youngster standing next to other youngsters at a Solstice celebration, standing at the edge and refusing to join in the games for fear of making a fool of himself. ‘Is that lonely boy me, spirit?’

“It is you. Before you turned away from friendship. Maybe it was the beginning of your lonely life.’ They waited, watching, until the games were ended and the castle speech was made, and the inhabitants had made their Solstice promise. And, through it all, young Drood said nothing, did nothing. ‘Why did you not join in?’

“’I was destined for other things. It would have been beneath me.’

“’Even the Solstice speech? The king joined in.’

“Drood just shrugged, and the spirit took his arm and they flew to another place, where an apprentice Organiser sat at a desk while all his colleagues enjoyed a Yuletide party organised by their boss. Drood watched as a female sat by the younger Drood and talked to him about joining in the dancing, but he shook his head, and excused himself. Three more times, the spirit showed him Yuletides in the past, where a younger version of himself avoided the celebrations and immersed himself in his work, so as not to notice everyone else enjoying themselves. Then the apparition took him home.

“’So, you mean to show me the error of my ways, I suppose? Well, that is that, and what is done cannot be undone. Bah! Farewell, spirit, and if there is another one, as Darley said, I hope they can do a better job than you.’

“The Ghost of Solstice Past said nothing, but looked sadly at him, and shimmered into the wall and disappeared.

“Drood pulled his blanket back over his head, but hardly had time to close his eyes before he heard the clock strike twelve again. Curious, he thought, and then pulled the blanket off his head as a bright light and warmth filled the room. A huge person stood in front of him, wielding a fistful of herbs in one hand, and a bunch of fresh celery in the other.

“’Well, Drood,’ the stranger’s voice boomed, ‘time for a little fun! Let’s go and see what’s happening outside, shall we?’

“’Er, no,’ stammered Drood, pulling back from the stranger’s grasp, with no success whatsoever. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

“’I am the Ghost of Solstice Present, and I assure you we are going outside and I, at least, will be having fun!’ and he took a huge bite from his celery, tucked the rest into his other hand, and took Drood by the arm. They flew over marsh and moorland, seeing the formal dinner at Castle Buckmore, and the free-for-all celebrations at the Inn of the Seventh Happiness. All around the castles, people were busy, getting ready for the celebrations, putting up decorations, bringing in a Yule log, taking food out of storage and preparing delicious dishes. They found young people playing with carefully prepare gifts from their friends and family, and lovers, old and young, holding hands and exchanging tokens. It was the same all over the realms, even at far-off Castle Haunn, where the princelings of the north were dancing Strip the Green Willow and other dances with the blacksmith’s daughters at their ceilidh.

“At last they came back to Drood’s home, but not to his rooms. The spirit took Drood to his nephew’s room, where they stood behind him and his family and friends as they enjoyed a carefully prepared meal with all sorts of good things they’d dried or preserved from the summer. The nephew proposed a toast, and included his uncle Drood, which caused a great deal of argument about why they should drink to a miserly old meanie. Drood shifted on his feet, but nodded in agreement when his nephew explained that Drood was only doing what he thought best, working everyone to the bone so he could be successful, and not to worry, since when Drood went, hopefully the nephew would inherit the business. ‘Well, maybe,’ muttered Drood.

“Then the spirit took him down to the castle’s lower levels, and they found Bob and his family squashed round a table, and Mrs Bob bringing in the best food they had managed to grow, and even though it was very little for a feast, they helped the little weak one to a big share before everyone else tucked in. And Bob took the weak one to bed and told him a bedtime story, and the weak one said he thought Bob would make a wonderful Narrator. ‘But my job is with Mr Drood, my dear one, and it is him we thank for our good fortune in having food to eat and a place to live.’ Drood nodded as he heard this, but wondered how Bob could live on so little, and with so many mouths to feed.

“After this the clock started striking the hour. ‘I must leave you now,’ said the spirit, ‘but remember, the things you see here are only the Solstice Present, and many other Presents may exist, if you change your ways!’ And before Drood could argue the need to change his ways, the spirit vanished, leaving Drood alone in a cold, dark lane, a place he didn’t recognise, although he thought he knew the castle very well.

“The clock finished striking twelve, and a sinister hooded figure blocked out the remaining light at the end of the lane. Drood stepped forward, hesitating over whether this was the third Ghost that had been promised. Then the hooded figure turned and beckoned to him.

“’Are you the Ghost of Solstice Yet to Come?’ (Willoughby put a tremor in his voice). The hooded figure nodded to him. The apparition was huge, towering over him, menacing and mysterious. Drood squeezed his eyes shut and gulped. ‘Have you come to show me the future?’

“The apparition turned and swept his cloak around Drood. When Drood felt himself uncovered, he opened his eyes and found they were in a graveyard. It was dark, mist was dripping from the leafless tree in the corner, and some people stood around a freshly dug grave. ‘He was nothing but a slave driver,’ said one. ‘Good riddance’ said another. ‘At least we can all be free of him now,’ said a third. ‘Maybe his nephew will be a better master,’ said another, who looked uncommonly like Bob, ‘but it comes too late for my wee bairn.’ He turned away and walked to another part of the graveyard, where he comforted his wife and the rest of his family before they walked sadly back to their home.

“Drood said nothing, strangely moved by the sight of Bob’s child’s grave, and of the one on the other side. The spirit wafted him on, to other places in the castle, where he heard nothing but people pleased to hear that ‘the old miser’ had died. It gradually dawned on him that it was himself they were talking about, it was him that was dead in the first grave. And everyone was pleased. No-one had a good word to say about him. His life’s work was counted for nothing. He remembered what the previous ghost had said. Many other Presents may exist, if you change your ways. He asked his dour companion if that was the case, but the hooded apparition said nothing, just moved forward to envelope him, and Drood felt himself swooning, drowning, sinking into the dark folds of his cloak.”

Willoughby paused. If there were such a thing as a pin to drop, it would have been heard. Willoughby stayed still, imagining the hopeless descent into the depths of the blackness of the cloak, and whispered…

“The Spirit of Solstice Yet to Come faded into the night,” Willoughby raised his voice gradually up to a shout, “but Drood found himself fighting the cloak, fighting and fighting! He didn’t want to die! Not alone! Not like this!”

Stunned silence.

“The cock crowed. Dawn came. Drood unwrapped himself from the blanket that he had got so terribly tangled in during the night. It was all a dream, he said to himself. But as he got out of bed, he stepped on some celery leaves, and a few herbs, scattered by his door.”

Willoughby looked at his audience, half of whom had their mouths open in awe.

“I never did find out if Drood changed his ways,” he said. “But I bet he didn’t risk the fate he’d been shown by those three Ghosts of Solstice. Now let’s all join in a dance, yes, even you, hiding by the back door!”

And despite the crowd they were in, they all stood up and did one of those dances you know so well, where you stand on the spot and do strange moves with your hands and your hips and everyone laughs because it’s so hard to remember what comes next. Willoughby led them for the start, but then someone else jumped onto the table and carried on, and Willoughby slunk away to a nice mulled apple juice in a quiet part of the castle, to rest until his final turn of the Narrathon.

15 December, 201415 January, 2015

Yuletide Narrathon – The Solstice Ghosts (part 1)

Willoughby the Narrator with the third of his tales in the Castle Marsh Yuletide Narrathon. This one is in two parts, and as you will see, owes a huge debt to Mr Dickens.

The Solstice Ghosts (1)

What used to be the castle’s Small Hall was overflowing with revellers, since the snow was blasting round the courtyard and against the eastern walls. Everyone had taken refuge there, which was the best place, since the food was served at one end, and the rest of the area served as the castle’s communal dining room, or refectory. It was big enough to cope, usually, but this afternoon everyone wanted to be there at once, so they sat on tables, benches, and curled up in each other’s laps. The gallery was full too, and they all wanted another story.

“Well, if you don’t mind me going out of turn,” said Willoughby, standing on the emptiest of the serving tables, “I’ll do another one. I don’t want you to go to bed straight afterwards, though, because it’s a ghost story!” His voice went all funny as he said ghost story, and many of the audience went ‘oo-ooh’ in spooky voices. Willoughby waited while the kitchen staff cleared the table he was on, assisted by some youngsters who filled some baskets and scurried back up to the gallery with them.

“If you’re all sitting or standing as comfortably as you’re going to get,” he paused while some latecomers slipped in at the back and wormed their way through, “then I’ll begin. Oh, wait one more minute for George to get settled.” Everyone laughed as Prince Engineer George entered from the side steps in the corner, a short cut from his laboratory.

“Well, then,” started Willoughby. “It was a day just such as this, in a castle not like this one at all. It must have been a Seat of Learning for Business and Organisation, because there were many people there who worked in the business of accounts and paperwork. You’ve never heard of those, have you? No, I thought not. Castle Marsh never seems too worried about paperwork!”

There were lots of giggles, especially among the people who had settled in Castle Marsh from other parts of the realms in recent years. One of the best things about Marsh was its warm welcome with no papers required. The interview with the security team could be quite an ordeal, though.

“In this place was an office ruled by a person called Drood. He had several apprentices under him, and one journeyman called Bob. You haven’t any journeymen called Bob, of course…” loud laughter. Bob was a common name, and several journeymen, engineers and natural philosophers, as well as other castlefolk, were named Bob. “Well, this one had been a journeyman for so long, he had grown a long red beard,” more laughter; people nudged themselves and looked over to where a fine bearded Bob sat with his wife and youngsters. “And he had to work very hard to be allowed enough time to work the fields and make things for his wife and family. He felt he owed it to the castle, since he had a large family, and one of them was a poor wee boy with a crooked leg and a sickly constitution, who received much care from those who knew about his illnesses. Drood didn’t see it like that at all. As far as he was concerned all his apprentices, and his journeyman, should work from dawn to dusk, and later, to make sure that Drood remained as important as possible. He didn’t take time off to make things for his family, so he didn’t see why anyone else should. Of course, he didn’t make time for family because he didn’t have a family, except one nephew, and who would blame any acquaintances for not getting involved with such a mean-spirited person?

“Well, it was Solstice eve, and everyone was getting ready for the festivities to start, except for Drood, who kept his workers working, right up until the finishing bell. He muttered and groaned when they skipped out of the door at the first ‘ting’ of the bell, and called to Bob to finish what he was doing, since he wouldn’t be working on it the next day. ‘Has to be done tonight,’ he grumped.

“Bob sighed, and got back to work, but thought about the wooden toys he needed to finish. He’d manage somehow, he thought. Suddenly the door swung open. ‘Good evening, Uncle, still working?’ said a cheery voice.

“’What else would I be doing?’ grumped Drood.

“’Why, getting ready for Solstice, of course,’ said his nephew. ‘But we knew you wouldn’t so I’m here to invite you to our dinner tomorrow. Will you come?’

“Bah, humbug,’ said Drood. ‘Waste of food and time, having a festival. People should be working!’

“Well, I think one day, or just a few, in the middle of winter, won’t make much difference. And it cheers everyone up!’

“’And why should people be cheered up?’ asked Drood, and turned away so he didn’t have to listen to all the good reasons his nephew put forward. The nephew gave up and left, and Bob stood up soon after, putting his books away. ‘Finished, Mr Drood, so I’ll be off now, and I wish you a happy Solstice and health and peace of the season.’

“’Bah!’ was all Drood said, but he closed the door on the workshop after Bob left and stepped out into the cold night.

“It wasn’t far to go, but Drood lived in a quiet, dark part of the castle, and he kept feeling that something was following him home. Three times he stopped and looked, even calling out ‘who’s there?’ but he could see no-one. He pushed his way into his large, dark room, ladled out some cold water from under the ice in his bucket, scraped some dirt off a carrot, and sat by his bed to eat his evening meal, such as it was.

“What was that noise? He was sure he heard something. A clanking noise, or maybe moaning. ‘Just the wind’, he told himself, and checked the fastening on the window and pulled a blanket round his shoulders.

“The noise came again, definitely a rustling noise, and the sound of heavy chains dragging on the ground. Drood pulled the blanket over his head in the hope he couldn’t be seen.

“Drood’s door opened, and a blast of even colder air filled the room. Then it shut again. Drood felt an eery presence… and then his blanket was slowly pulled from his head.

“’Well, Drood, are you cowering away hiding from everyone, just like the old days?’

“’Darley, is that you?’” (Willoughby stammered in a croaky, quavery voice, a few octaves higher than usual.)

“’Yes, it’s me you old codger. Ten years since I died and you carried on the business without me, ten years I’ve been wandering the wilds, watching you get more and more crabby. Ten years carrying this great chain around with me, the penalty for all the mean things I did in my miserable life. Well, now I have a miserable death. But it’s nothing to what yours will be, if you don’t change.’

“’Why should I change? It’s nothing to me what you are doing.’

“’Didn’t you hear me? Your chain is three times, nay, five times as long as mine, and heavier too. You’ll lead a miserable death if you don’t mend your ways. Believe me, death is no peace, no satisfaction and no reward, and the only escape is to save someone else from their fate.’

“’Bah!’ said Drood, but it was more to keep his spirits up than anything else. He looked at Darley’s chain, thick heavy metal links, dragging along behind him, going out of the door and down the steps. If his was five times longer, then surely it would reach all the way to the courtyard!

“’You have till tomorrow to mend your ways,’ said Darley, ‘and to help you change your mind, because I can see you’re taking as much notice of me in death as you ever did in life, three Solstice Spirits will appear to you, starting at midnight. Take heed! Take he-e-ed..’ and so saying, he walked straight through the wall, which went transparent so that Drood could see him floating off into the sky and joining in with hundreds of other ghosts, ghastly and grey, wafting past, all dragging heavy chains with signs of their misdeeds attached to the links, and a ghastly wailing filled the air.

“’Bah,’ said Drood pulling his blanket back over his head. ‘The carrot must have been off,’ and he closed his eyes, ready to sleep.”

Willoughby looked at his audience, who looked back at him, in rapt attention. “Will he change his ways, do you think? Well, you‘ll have to wait. I’ll finish the story after a short break!”

“Awww,” the sounds of disappointed listeners rolled around the room. The kitchen staff started ladling out more hot drinks. Willoughby stretched and went outside for a quick run. It was his longest story, and he needed to be fresh to tell what happened at midnight.

… to be continued next week….

8 December, 201415 January, 2015

Yuletide Narrathon – The King and the Beggar

Continuing our Yuletide Narrathon at Castle Marsh with Willoughby the Narrator….

The wintry sun was still low on the southern horizon, but had risen high enough to peek above the bank of cloud. Those on the far side of the courtyard were bathed in sunlight, and some even shed their blankets. The marsh was not a warm place in the winter, but the hospitality and good heating inside its earth-packed stone buildings made people happy to be safe inside the castle at Yuletide.

The Narrathon, however, was outside in the courtyard, and Willoughby had spent the last few minutes hiding behind a glowing brazier of pre-burnt wood they called charcoal, listening to the speaker in front of him. Polite applause and a few cheers from his friends greeted the young person’s ending “and they all lived happily ever after!”

Willoughby grinned to himself as the young red-headed person slunk off to join his friends, received by welcoming arms, being patted on the back. They were generous to him; it had been a hesitant, mumbling delivery, but he had done it, in front of all those people, and he deserved full praise.

“Well done, indeed,” Willoughby cried, jumping up on his fiddlesticks and applauding in the youngster’s direction. “It takes courage to come up here and tell stories. Mind you, I’m a natural!” He winked at his audience, and once more he had them in the palm of his hand, his cheekiness and good humour winning over the most discerning of audiences.

“I wouldn’t ask every audience this, but… I bet you think your king’s a good king, don’t you?”

“Aye,” came rippling back from the crowd, who left what they’d been doing and gathered closer now that their guest speaker had returned to his platform.

“I can’t hear you!” Willoughby joked with them and put his hand behind his ear, trying to catch more sound.

“AYE!” came a more robust response, and the rest of the stragglers hurried over to find out what had happened.

“Kind to the workers, considerate to the weak and feeble?”

“Aye,” “He is that,” and more mutters of agreement filtered through to where Willoughby stood.

“Well, he must be, because he invited me to stay for Yule when he met me in the wilds!” Willoughby laughed, and his audience joined in, knowing how hard their king had worked to persuade a real narrator to come to their castle rather than go to one of the richer, warmer ones.

“Let me tell you about another king, called Winkleman. He lived many years ago, when life was even harder. If you belonged to a castle then you really did belong – you were little more than a slave. If you lived in an outlying community nobody cared about you. No support from anyone. If it was cold, you froze, if it was a bad harvest, you starved.”

“Just like Vexstein!” called a wag from near the back of the crowd.

“Don’t say that too loud if there are strangers about, my friend… but I reckon we are all friends here, aren’t we?”

“Aye!” the crowd called again.

Up in a window of the second level, Fred pulled back and looked at George. “The rumours are growing, you know.”

“I know, I’ve heard them too. And we aren’t getting refugees any more. Something’s really wrong, there.”

“I wonder what Willoughby knows. We have to have somebody there to find out the truth.” Fred and George turned back to the window, to listen to the Narrator in their courtyard.

“It was the day after mid-winter, when most were still sleeping off their Solstice Feast. It hadn’t dawned yet, but the snow had that blue, reflective sheen to it that you get when dawn isn’t far off. You’ve never seen that, have you – never up in time!” Willoughby said in an aside to a group of young men, to the general laughter of the rest of the crowd.

“King Winkleman was up and about. Maybe he had eaten one too many carrots, or maybe he was just an early riser. He padded about in his great warm robe and furry slippers, crown slipped casually over one eye, and paused to look out on the setting moon, starry sky and shimmering snow.

“He was just taking in the sights, you know, the lovely round full moon hanging low on the snowy landscape when the sun is not far away? Yeah? Romantic, isn’t it? Well, not for the poor beggar who was out searching for twigs, broken branches, anything he could find to make a fire to keep his family warm.

“King Winkleman had good eyesight, and he could see that the fellow was struggling in the deep snow. He called one of his attendants, and told him to find his steward, but the page came back and told him the steward was in a really deep sleep and he couldn’t wake him. King Winkleman rolled his eyes and muttered you can’t get a good steward these days under his breath” – laughter rippled through the crowd, since their king had been looking for a steward for months now – “then he said to the page ‘well, you’ll have to do.’

“The page drew himself up to his full height, which, since he was barely as old as you,” he pointed at a youngster in the front row “brought him nearly up to his liege’s armpit. ‘Go and fetch some bread and some carrots, and some fuel as well, if we can spare some. Load it onto a sled and then meet me down by the gate. Hurry now!’

“The page did as he was bid, and the king went and changed into his winter travelling clothes, kissed his sleepy wife and told her he’d be back for a late breakfast, and hurried down to the main gate.

“They’d gone maybe half an hour, trekking over the snow towards where the king had seen the beggar, when the moon clouded over, and it started to snow again. The page was really struggling with the sled, King Winkleman took the rope from him and told him to follow in his own footsteps, since whenever he put his big boots he made the snow really firm, until the snow could fill them up again.

“They struggled on for a few more minutes and found the beggar, huddled up against a lonely tree, trying not to end up as a one-person snowdrift.

“’Here you are, fellow, what are you doing out in this wretched storm?’ the king said, as if it was just a minor inconvenience to him.

“Oh, your majesty, sire, I was just lookin’ for somethin’ to keep my wife and kids warm, sire, beggin’ your pardon, sire.”

Willoughby used his voice in an imitation of the security chief’s accent, which caused a good few laughs.

“Well, my good fellow, you’d better take the contents of this sled and get it back to them as soon as you can. Which way do you live? ‘

“’Over yonder sire, a few leagues hence, by the spring that comes out from under the huge rock we calls the Mountain.’

“’Right, then, says the king, ‘will you be all right to get back there on your own, or shall I send my page with you?’

“’Oh, I’ll be all right, sire. The sun’ll be up right soon, and I’ll find my way all right, you be sure of it.’

“’Good, I’ll leave you to it, but if any of your family or friends need anything, you send to the castle and ask for it, you hear me?’

“And the beggar went off, since the snow had now stopped again, and the king watched as his sled left tracks in the fresh snow, showing the beggar was surely going in the right direction.

“’Well, now, my page, shall we get back to the castle and have some breakfast by a nice warm fire?’

“The page was shivering in the cold, and when they started off, he could hardly keep his feet in the fresh snow, which covered up all manner of lumps and bumps. It looked like the king and his page might be stranded out there, save for the sun coming up and lighting the way back to the castle for them, that and the king lifting up the page and putting him on his shoulders.

“So the king brought the page safely home, and ensured he got a nice hot breakfast, and when his courtiers had all staggered down to their breakfasts he called them together and told them off for sleeping while others were stuck out in the snow, and he got everyone to go out and deliver emergency rations to all the people living in the wilds within a league of his castle, just so they could see themselves through the worst of the winter.

“And the people all rejoiced and called him good king Winkleman.

“And that, my friends, is the end of this story – and it’s time for our feast, judging by the smell coming from those rooms over there! Don’t all rush at once!”

But his warning was in vain, for as he finished his tale the first big splobs of snow started to fall again, and people ran for cover, preferably in the nice warm kitchen where everyone was welcome to share in the Yuletide feasting.

Watch out for next week’s episode and don’t forget to enter the Christmas Giveaway.