the rebels shout back – subaltern theory and the writing...

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 1 KK51 N5641462

The Rebels Shout Back – subaltern theory and the writing of ‘A Christmas Game’

Submitted by Cheryl Joy Hayden to the Queensland University of Technology for admission to the degree Master of Arts (Research) (Creative Industries).

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 2 KK51 N5641462 Statement of Original Authorship The work contained in this thesis has not been previously submitted to meet requirements for an award at this or any other higher education institution. To the best of my knowledge and belief, the thesis contains no material previously published or written by another person except where due reference is made. Signature: Date: 31 October 2008

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 3 KK51 N5641462 Abstract The cultures and stories of peripheral populations and conquered peoples,

which have largely been drowned out by the accepted discourse of the nation

states that colonised them, have begun to be recouped and re-told.The

subaltern school of post-colonial theory provides the writer of fiction with a range

of theories from which to devise the means of voicing the unvoiced. Among

these, Ranajit Guha’s work on the prose of counter-insurgency provides the

author with the key to finding lost voices, in particular those of the vanquished

peasant rebel.

“A Christmas Game” is a fictional account of the 1549 Prayer Book Rebellion, in

which the commons of Cornwall and Devon rebelled against the abolition of the

mass and the introduction of the English language prayer book. By analysing

the language and detail contained in the substantial historical record, identifying

that which is missing, and examining sources that detail the religious, cultural

and “folk” elements of daily life, it is possible to see this event and re-tell it

through the eyes of those characters whose stories have never been told and

thereby create a new place from which to further debate and research.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 4 KK51 N5641462 Acknowledgements

I am deeply indebted to a number of people for their assistance and support in

writing this novel. They include: Alan M. Kent, whose comments, feedback,

patience and hospitality have been invaluable and second to none. Also to Tim

Saunders, for writing a “mediaeval” Cornish nursery rhyme and then translating

it into English, just for me; Sue Winslade of New Zealand, for sharing family

research and mythology of the Wynslade family; the Cornwall Heritage Trust for

their interest; John White of Lanreath for inviting me to Tregarrick; and Catherine

Rachel John, Grand Bard of Cornwall, for her support. Thanks and apologies are

due to the Duchy of Cornwall (Trematon Castle), with special gratitude to Morley

for the guided tour. Thanks also to a number of busy people who took the time

to answer odd questions sent, unsolicited, by email: Prof Eamon Duffy, Dr Mark

Stoyle and Dr James Whetter. Thanks also to my writers group, Betty Bingham,

Nancy Campbell, Adrienne Ross and Maureen Cook, who kept the story on the

rails with demands to know why, wherefore and whatever happens next. Thanks

to Julie Burton for the wine, cheese and translation services and the late Andrea

Stretton and her 2006 Daku group for a wonderful week of relaxation and writing

in Fiji. Heartfelt thanks to John and Pat Haynes for their wonderful Devonshire

hospitality and a tour of Sampford Courtenay, Crediton and Exeter that must

have tried their patience, and also to the man on the mower at the old bridge at

Crediton, who made it all worthwhile with the proud announcement that ‘The

Prayer Book Revolution started ’ere’ (God bless him). Finally, thanks to my QUT

supervisors, Dr Sue Carson and Dr Glen Thomas, for their exacting oversight

and encouragement, and to Sara and Peter who did more than they know to

keep me going.


Table of Contents Exegesis: ‘The Rebels Shout Back – subaltern

theory and the writing of ‘A Christmas Game’. 5 The Novel: ‘A Christmas Game’ 43


The Rebels Shout Back – subaltern theory and the writing of ‘A Christmas Game’. 1.0 Introduction This project, an exegesis and a novel entitled A Christmas Game, examines a

16th Century rebellion by the people of Cornwall and Devon against the

introduction of Edward VI’s first English language Book of Common Prayer,

commonly known as either the Prayer Book Rebellion (by the English) or the

Western Rising (by the people of Cornwall). The novel interrogates questions of

Cornish identity and is informed by historical accounts of the rebellion; cultural

studies theories about identity; marginalization and voice; and the discovery of

important archival material. Specifically, the novel examines the power of

language by subverting the prose of counter-insurgency, which Ranajit Guha

(1988) claims has ensured that dominant discourses in history silence the voices

of those who rise against the dominant class or society.

A Christmas Game is a work of historical fiction that draws on historical events

and accounts. Its title comes from the rebels’ description of the new prayer book

in the Articles of Demand they sent to the King, but refers ironically to the sense

of adventure many of the rebels would have set out with, never anticipating the

tragedy about to unfold, and also to the Tudor tradition of Christmas games,

which included allowing the children at Court to rule the country on Christmas

Day: I was taken by the parallel between this tradition and the fact that Edward

VI was only eleven years old at the time of the rebellion. In the novel, narrative

events are depicted through the eyes of their leaders and captains, their peasant

foot soldiers, the women who actively supported them, and the people left

behind. Set in 1549, it tells a story of resistance against, firstly, the English

government’s abolition of the traditional Latin Mass and the sacraments held to

be absolutely integral to worship and, secondly, against interference in Cornish

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 7 KK51 N5641462 life by the Tudor monarchs’ increasingly nationalist approach to government.

The project as a whole argues that, for the Cornish, the compulsory replacement

of Cornish and Latin with English presented a threat to their survival as a people.

A brief historical account follows in order to provide a context for this discussion.

In the summer of 1549, the Cornish ‘rose’ in protest and formed an army of

several thousand men, which meant to march on London. However, just as the

army was readying to leave Bodmin, an equally outraged and violent Devonshire

peasantry also rose in protest over the same prayer book, and the two groups

joined forces. The combined army of about 10,000 laid siege to the city of Exeter

and presented Edward VI with one of the greatest crises of his reign.

Government forces were sent to disperse the rebel army on a promise of

pardon, but, as Julian Cornwall describes (1977, 123), their offers were rejected.

Eventually the rebel army engaged Lord Russell’s troops in battle and the

government sent mercenary forces to ensure the rising was quashed. The

Cornish in particular paid heavily for their so-called treachery when Russell

allowed the Provost Marshall, Anthony Kingston, to conduct a campaign of

terror, including summary executions and confiscations of land, to ‘pacify’ the

civilian population (eg: Cornwall, 1977, 201).

This project argues that since this period, the Cornish and their stories have

been poorly interpreted, misrepresented or completely omitted within the wider

British context. Unlike other Celtic populations, they have never been widely

recognised as the victims of ethnically-based oppression and, as a result, while

they have commemorated the rebellion, the Cornish do not have a tradition of

celebrating its leaders as heroes. Some contend that the State continues to

deliberately oppress expressions and understanding of Cornish culture and

ethnicity. John Angarrack (2002), for example, cites a British school curriculum

that ignores the existence of an indigenous population of Britons or Celts, a

centrist government that refuses to acknowledge the ancient but extant Stannary

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 8 KK51 N5641462 Parliament, and an English Heritage organization that eliminates the Cornish

from the histories of their own historic sites.

Exacerbating this situation is the outsider’s appetite for the ‘sanctioned’ version

of Cornwall: a place that is lost in the mists of its (Celtic) past or ‘a romantically

different, backward and uncivilized place, the haunt of strange people,

smugglers, wreckers and other assorted quaint characters’ (Deacon, 2000, 13-

14).

Therefore, the process of creating heroes of Cornishmen who were hanged,

drawn and quartered as traitors is today still a highly political and contestatory

enterprise. This thesis, then, seeks to represent an alternative view of this period

in Cornish history by discussing the rebellion in the context of Cornwall’s

marginalization (Payton, 2002, chapter 3), the idea of an on-going struggle to

maintain its ethnic and cultural difference (Stoyle, 2002a), and the notion of

particularity in religious practice (McClain, 2004, chapter 6). It is supported by a

creative work that aims to gives voice to the ‘others’ of the rebellion. Therefore,

given that the overall project sets out to give voices to the rebels, it highlights the

legitimacy of their accounts. That is not to say that the accounts of the English

are deemed irrelevant or unlawful.

In this project, I have been a researcher in two ways. To inform the creative

narrative, I have carried out traditional forms of research, such as reading

historical accounts and searching the records for new and interesting clues to

the Cornish perspective. This historical/critical research is complemented by the

application of select cultural studies theories – in particular Ranajit Guha’s work

on the prose of counter-insurgency, which demonstrates how history almost

always ensures that the rebelling peasants are absent from and silent within

their own history – and practice-led research.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 9 KK51 N5641462 1.1 The Research Question Given the suppression of the history of Cornwall’s treatment by the English in

early modern times, and the paucity of attention given to it even within the

realms of contemporary cultural politics and historiography, what process and

what theories might best inform the writing of a novel that centres and explains

the actions of the Cornish rebels during the 1549 Prayer Book Rebellion?

1.2 Method The project comprises an 11,000 word exegesis and a 72,000 word novel. The

exegesis is weighted at 30% of the project, with the novel, drawing on cultural

studies theory, artifacts, journal entries, site inspections, maps, songs and plays,

weighted at 70%.

1.3 Methodology The project is one of qualitative research and deploys literary and cultural

studies theories to analyse representations of this rebellion and Cornish identity

in conventional historical documents and select works of popular fiction. It also

incorporates archival material that is new to this area of study. The privileging of

marginalized Cornish experience maintains the inherently subversive tradition of

cultural studies, which is ‘consciously concerned with transforming the practice

of producing knowledge, with issue of cultural politics, and with asking cultural

and theoretical questions in relation to power’ (King, 1993, 3). My aim,

therefore, is to recuperate the voices of the rebels through fiction by contesting

contemporary British historiography, much of which, I would argue, has made

little effort to understand the Cornish or recognise the interconnectedness of

religion and ethnicity in notions of their identity.

The project draws on the subaltern school of post-colonial theory, in particular

Ranajit Guha’s theory on the prose of counter-insurgency, which is used to test

John Hooker’s 1564 ‘eye witness’ account, which in turn, according to Julian

Cornwall (1977), set the tone for subsequent accounts.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 10 KK51 N5641462 In considering the theoretical arguments, the project draws attention to the oral

tradition of history, religious practices, ideas about the power of language and

ethnic ties to the people of Brittany. It also draws on artifacts such as a

mediaeval miracle play, Arthurian legend and the Articles of Demand the rebels

sent to the King, and examines two primary sources from the 16th Century: one

long-forgotten by students of the rebellion and the other never mentioned. The

first of these, written in French, was believed by Frances Rose-Troup (1913) to

have been written by the rebel leaders to their King towards the end of the

rebellion; the second, written years later by Tristran Winslade, son of a landless

and exiled rebel leader, appears to establish a link between the rebellion, the

Spanish Court and the second Spanish Armada. My interpretation of the

Wynslade family has been informed by one of their descendants, whose

understanding appears to be consistent with contextual historical sources.1

The ideas gleaned from these sources subvert the accepted historical discourse

that paints the ‘rebel’ in pejorative terms and instead presents them as heroes

who, according to Angarrack (2002, 70) ‘…deserve just recognition (for) few

things are more repugnant than the deliberate distortion and systematic denial of

the bravery and heroism of thousands of men who, though severely

outnumbered, stood their ground to fight seasoned soldiers to the death for a

cause they believed in.’

2.0 Review of the literature The literature review, as follows, examines and compares representations of the

Cornish by selected popular novelists, whom I have chosen for the extent of

their popularity and influence, and analyses the historiography of the rebellion

and other recent scholarly work aimed at centering the Cornish experience in

order to identify trends and gaps that might provide opportunities in the creation

of a novel. I have chosen to place more weight on analysis of the historical

1 Thanks to Sue Winslade for clarifying issues of identity surrounding William and Tristran Wynslade and for providing an insight into the physical traits largely thought of as being “Wynslade”.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 11 KK51 N5641462 record as it is here that I will locate the spaces through which Cornish voices

might be heard.

2.1 Historical fiction By and large, most people’s understanding of the Cornish people has been

gained from the pages of historical and romantic novels, or their serialisation on

television, for example, Winston Graham’s Poldark series from the 1940s and

1950s, the novels of Daphne du Maurier, which spanned five decades from the

1930s to 1970s, and Kate Tremayne’s Loveday series, launched in 1999. Such

work reveals, in the main, a preoccupation with representing Cornwall as a place

with a mystic past, curious traditions and dramatic scenery against which to set

stories filled with mystery and romance. In Jamaica Inn (1956), Mary Yelland is

on Bodmin Moor, where, du Maurier tells us

…the wind fretted and wept, whispering of fear, sobbing old memories of

bloodshed and despair… In her fancy she could hear the whisper of a

thousand voices and the tramping of a thousand feet, and she could see

the stones turning to men beside her. (197)

The tantalising allusion to bloodshed and despair, which may or may not refer to

the Prayer Book Rebellion, is lost in the web of prose describing the impact of a

dramatic, even supernatural, landscape. While drawing attention to a ‘dark’

history, she avoids being explicit, but rather plays into a sense of ambivalence

and ‘lost time’ to create a romanticized representation of Cornwall. A tendency

towards anthropomorphization supports this approach: ‘There was a silence on

the tors that belonged to another age; an age that is past and vanished as

though it had never been, an age when man did not exist, but pagan footsteps

trod upon the hills’ (Du Maurier, Jamaica Inn, 32). Here, du Maurier reduces the

pre-Christian pagans to something other than human and, in doing so,

eliminates the ancient Britons – the ancestors of today’s Cornish people – from

their own historical landscape. Such writing plays into the established discourse

that gives the reader the impression that Cornish ‘difference’ has its genesis in

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 12 KK51 N5641462 quaint superstitions, dramatic landscapes and illegal goings-on (eg: as referred

to above by Deacon, 2000).

Du Maurier is not the only writer to position the Cornish through such

representations. In the Poldark series, Graham marks the Cornish with a range

of dubious character traits. In the first book of the series, Ross Poldark (1945),

Ross’s individualism is tainted by a propensity to lawlessness, the dialect-

speaking Jud and Prudie are lazy and superstitious, while Demelza has an

‘other-worldly’ and somewhat quirky quick-wittedness about her.

Cornish-born writers, however, demonstrate a tendency to ‘normalize’, rather

than romanticize or objectify, their people, and often do so at the expense of the

English. In Tregaran (1989), for example, Mary Lide’s characters possess a

broad range of characteristics, from the heroine’s wildness and wantonness (95)

to the hero’s radical political leanings. She also includes an Englishman who

bemoans the fact that ‘I could act as squire a hundred years, (and) you bloody

Cornish’ll never let me belong’ (260), which demonstrates the impact of

objectification: that those who are objectified are not only aware of it, but resent

and resist those who perpetrate it, while those who do the objectification assume

the right to be accepted and are astonished and resentful to find they are not.

Rosamunde PiIcher is another Cornish-born writer who, in Coming Home (1995)

adopts an approach consistent with Geertz’s notion of ‘thick description’: in

writing about the Cornish, she ‘exposes their normalness without reducing their

particularity’ (Geertz, 1983). Pilcher’s Cornish come from all levels of society,

from the gentry to the local pig farmer, and their particularity is displayed through

dialect and the minutiae of lives that might be lived anywhere in Britain but are

clearly lived in a Cornish way. Pilcher’s Cornish also ‘other’ outsiders: ‘You knew

they were visitors because they wore such peculiar clothes, were lobster-red

from the unaccustomed sun, and spoke in the accents of Manchester,

Birmingham, and London’ (1995, 364).

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 13 KK51 N5641462 Pilcher’s sensitivity, however, is rare. In the early 21st Century traditional

stereotypes are still favoured. In Kate Tremayne’s Loveday series, the Loveday

family is spiked with ‘wild blood’ (eg: 2006, 169 & 170), which ensures they are

never entirely freed from the clutches of pirates and other local purveyors of evil.

More interesting, though, is the way Tremayne deals with the English/Cornish

identity issue. In The Loveday Loyalty (2006), Tamasine Loveday is

apprehensive about her formidable prospective English mother-in-law, who

trades on her Norman/Plantagenet heritage. Fortunately for Tamasine, ‘her pride

came to the rescue. She was a Loveday, and unashamed of her heritage’ (2006,

86). Here, Tremayne evades the issue of Cornish identity and anchors

Tamasine’s pride in nothing more controversial than the family name.

In stark contrast to these romantic representations of Cornwall and its people

are Alan M. Kent’s gritty modern urban tales, Proper Job Charlie Curnow (2005)

and its sequel, Electric Pastyland (2007), which are written in broad dialect and

set in the ‘arse end of Britain’ (back cover, Electric Pastyland). An ardent

Cornish nationalist, and clearly appealing to local disaffection with continued

romanticization of Cornwall, Kent tells the story of teenage boys whose lives are

no different from many others living in urban wastelands that were once centres

of industry. Set in a down-and-out housing estate in the former mining town of

Camborne, these novels contest romantic stereotypes of mist-drenched cliffs

and sweeping seascapes with characters whose lives are affected by drugs,

alcohol, poverty, crime and unemployment. By subverting dominant stereotypes,

Kent’s work arguably appeals to a limited audience, but in doing so it highlights

Cornwall’s European Union status as a marginalized and disadvantaged region

and its struggle to maintain its culture. From these examples, it is evident that in

fiction, Cornishness as an identity, ethnicity or heritage, remains veiled by

romantic notions of what outsiders would like Cornwall to represent.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 14 KK51 N5641462 2.2 Historiography It is apparent that fictional accounts of the Cornish vary in the extent to which

they give voice to Cornish matters of identity and difference. Non-fictional

accounts of the rebellion are equally diverse.

The historiography of the rebellion can be roughly divided into three broad

groups. Most common are those that recount the events through a British history

prism focusing on monarchy, government and their policies, which today also

include television documentaries featuring celebrity historians. The second

group examines the rebellion in the context of a particular theme, for example in

the context of religious reform or its military significance. The third group

comprises those histories that centre the experience of the rebels and examine

the minutiae of available records to better understand their actions.

The first group – those writing accounts of Edward VI’s reign and the reformation

– inevitably include some level of analysis of the rebellion as it eventually

brought down the Lord Protector, who was executed in 1552. Many of these

accounts, such as Christopher Skidmore’s Edward VI: the Lost King of England

(2007), rely heavily on John Hooker’s 1564 account, which (as discussed below)

was weighted almost entirely in favour of the government forces. For example,

Skidmore relegates details of the first week of the Cornish rising, including

Arundell’s highly effective rear-guard defensive strategy, to a footnote (2007,

310). Furthermore, his discussion of their list of demands provides no attempt at

analysis, but simply comments on their tone with the statement: ‘It is easy to see

why Cranmer was so incensed by the western rebels’ (2007, 116).

Like Skidmore, Jennifer Loach’s Edward VI (2002) focuses on the government’s

failure to quell the disturbances that swept England that year. She states that

rebellions are ‘readily explicable’ (74) and, on the basis that all versions of the

rebels’ articles of demand ‘show a marked contempt for the new Prayer Book,

described as a ‘Christmas Game’…’ (72), focuses on religion. In doing so,

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 15 KK51 N5641462 however, she ignores the ethnic references in the very Article she chose to

quote, which also says: ‘…we Cornishmen (whereof certain of us understand no

English) utterly refuse this new English’ (Pocock, 169), while ignoring the

Protector’s observation that the Cornish attempt to trade on their ethnicity

through language was flawed because their understanding of English was far

greater than their knowledge of Latin (an argument which was itself flawed,

because in carrying out the traditional Latin mass, priests allowed certain

prayers to be spoken in Cornish, which is what the Cornish wanted).

Furthermore, Loach refers to ‘rioting’ in Bodmin and suggests such behaviour

provoked the Devonshire disturbances (2002, 70), claims I have found nowhere

else in accounts of the rebellion.

Neither of these recent accounts of the rebellion identifies issues of identity or

ethnicity as motivating factors, following instead the tradition established by

Hooker in the 16th Century and continued by Rose-Troup (1913), A.L. Rowse

(1941) and Philip Caraman (1994) all of whom, despite centering the Cornish

experience, explain the rising almost entirely in terms of religion. Others

recognize Cornish difference, but then fail to examine it, such as Barrett Beer in

Riot and Rebellion (1982).

Beer belongs to the second group as someone who examines the Prayer Book

Rebellion in the context of other rebellions. In doing so he raises the issue of

‘Cornwall’s sense of political and cultural oppression’ (42), and refers to their

‘rugged Celtic society’ (40). His analysis, however, is based upon a spatial

‘south-west’ construct – ‘the world of Devon and Cornwall was small, inward-

looking, and parochial’ (38) – in which issues surrounding ethnicity and identity

are absent. More recently, J.P.D Cooper’s Propaganda and the Tudor State

(2003) has used the same approach. Unlike Beer, however, he undermines his

south-west regional framework by paying considerable attention to issues of

Cornish identity and culture, with an entire chapter devoted to Cornish miracle

plays. Others adopting a south-west or ‘west country’ approach to the rebellion

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 16 KK51 N5641462 include David M. Loades (1991) and Joyce Youings (1979), both of whom focus

on economic hardship as an explanation for the people’s discontent.

Also in the second group is Julian Cornwall’s Revolt of the Peasantry 1549

(1977), which examines the Prayer Book Rebellion from a military point of view,

and appears to have been motivated by the intriguing issue of ‘how close the

men of Devon and Cornwall came to reversing the course of the Reformation’

(7). Cornwall identifies local issues as crucial to understanding the rebellion (1)

and devotes an entire chapter to the notion of Cornish identity. He says Cornwall

‘differed radically from the rest of England. Its people were Celts, speaking their

own language…’ (41). His detailed dissection of the rebellion pays particular

attention to the personalities of the leaders, their circumstances and the

strategies they employed. John Sturt’s Revolt in the West: The Western

Rebellion of 1549 (1987) continues this tradition of military detail, and, while

leaning towards a ‘south-west’ regional treatment, betrays a particular sympathy

and admiration for the Cornish leadership.

The third group comprises those historians not only interested in centring the

Cornish experience, but in understanding it from the Cornish perspective. Key

among these is Mark Stoyle, whose West Britons (2002a) examines a series of

Cornish rebellions as symptomatic of on-going ethnically driven resistance to

interference by centralist governments. Particularly pertinent to the writing of my

novel is his declaration of his status as ‘a Devonshire man writing about Cornish

history’ (1). Not only does Stoyle’s position inform the writing of the Cornwall-

Devonshire relationship within the context of the rebellion, it also reminds me of

my own ‘outsider’ position as an Australian, albeit of Cornish and Devonshire

ancestry. Stoyle goes on to state that while the Tamar marks a distinct

boundary, and while relationships have ‘frequently been strained over the past

500 years’, there exists among Devonians a recognition and respect for ‘the

various subtle, and not so subtle, signifiers which serve to set the Cornish apart’

(2002a, 2). Stoyle’s anthropological approach to history reflects Clifford Geertz’s

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 17 KK51 N5641462 work on local knowledge and the notion that ‘to-know-a-city-is-to-know-its-

streets’ (1983, 168).

Philip Payton and Bernard Deacon both centre the Cornish experience in their

respective interpretations of Cornish history. Payton, in Cornwall – A History

(2004), examines Cornwall’s peripheral status vis-à-vis a politically and

administratively dominant England and explains the 1549 rebellion in the context

of protest and outrage against a series of incursions and erosions by the Tudor

monarchs into a range of ‘accommodations’ granted to Cornwall in recognition of

their ‘difference’. According to Payton, the Act of Uniformity, which introduced

the Book of Common Prayer in 1549, was seen as ‘the epitome of Tudor

intrusion’ (2004, 122). By contrast, in A Concise History of Cornwall (2007),

Deacon examines the rebellion through a prism of identity, examining the

religious and ethnic aspects of a range of Cornish identities to conclude that “if

anything, the experience of 1549 produced a sense of common Cornishness

rather than reflected it” (2007, 74), an argument that supports the significance of

this project.

Explanations interested in centering the Cornish experience would appear, then,

to point to religious conservatism and ethnic difference as two strands of enquiry

essential to understanding the rebellion. Lisa McClain (2004), however, goes

even further. In a chapter titled ‘Katholik Kernow’ (Catholic Cornwall) she argues

that ‘Cornwall’s isolation allowed the Cornish to nurture their own language,

culture and even separate religious traditions both before and after reform’

(172). The difference, she claims, lay in its ties to Celtic Christianity (as opposed

to the Roman Church), including a community of saints not recognized by Rome

(172) and also in a strong Celtic-Cornish belief that the land itself was comprised

of intrinsically holy places (186). In short, the rebellion was fought to protect a

religion that was unique within the British context and a hallmark of Cornish

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 18 KK51 N5641462 identity, which is still apparent today with the keeping of reliquaries, such as the

skulls of St Probus and St Grace at Probus Church.2

While these Cornu-centric endeavours provide great insight as to the nature of

the rebellion, the recency of highly generalized publications such as Skidmore’s

(2007) show they have made little impact on British history. Indeed, Bernard

Deacon (2002, 33), commenting on ten years of a new approach to Cornish

historiography through the combined efforts of the Institute of Cornish Studies

and the University of Exeter, has suggested that there has been insufficient

criticism of the current state of Britain’s ‘four nations’ approach to history which

‘often gives Cornwall little more space than did ‘old’ English histories.’ Kent, too,

(2003, 118) laments the lack of attention to Cornish stories, suggesting that by

now ‘we might have expected to see films depicting the 1497 Rebellion, making

heroes of the Cornish ‘bravehearts’ Michael Joseph ‘An Gof’ and Thomas

Flamank…’

Sister Mary Catherine (1959) endeavoured to create heroes of the 1549 rebels

with a novel titled Storm out of Cornwall. This closely follows Rose-Troup’s

account, which in turn draws heavily on Hooker and uses many direct quotes

from his work, such as: ‘the Cornishmen were very lusty and fresh and fully bent

to fight out the matter’ (Hooker, quoted in Rose-Troup, 72), which then informs

Sister Mary Catherine’s description: ‘The Cornishmen were fresh and strong and

put heart into those already wearied…’ (1959, 181). Sister Mary Catherine also

employs some of the romanticisation found in du Maurier’s work, which is

particularly evident in a scene towards the end of the novel where her young

hero, Michael, somehow creates a supernatural force on Bodmin Moor to

distract the Government forces and in doing so, makes a martyr of himself.

Despite telling her story from the rebels’ point-of-view, Sister Mary Catherine

does not offer any new interpretation of events or strategies. Rather, by following

2 Thanks to Probus Church and Alan Kent for a viewing of these reliquaries.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 19 KK51 N5641462 the tradition of Hooker and Rose-Troup, her novel does not contest traditional

representations of the Cornish in the contexts of the rebellion.

It is, therefore, apt to examine the Prayer Book Rebellion through the prism of a

theory that will repatriate silenced rebel voices and make them heroes.

Fortunately, in the case of this rebellion, while rebel voices are increasingly

absent from the rebellion’s historiography, they have not entirely been erased

from the archive.

2.3 Rebel voices in selected original sources There are three original sources, still extant, that carry the voices of the Cornish

in relation to the Prayer Book Rebellion.

The first is the series of Articles of Demand sent to the King. The standard

conclusion historiography draws from these documents – there were four

versions sent to the government, starting with eight articles and increasing to 16

in the final version – is that the protest was entirely to do with religious

conservatism; however, the final 16 also included a number of political issues,

which, as Julian Cornwall notes, seemed ‘preponderantly to have represented

the Cornish case’ (1977, 114). Of particular note is Article 8 which stated: ‘We

will not receive the new service because it is but like a Christmas game. We will

have our old service of matins, Mass, evensong and procession as it was

before; and we Cornishmen, whereof certain of us understand no English, utterly

refuse the new English’ (115). This Article, despite being remarked upon by

numerous scholars, has arguably been poorly interrogated, as McClain’s theory

of Cornish religious particularity and ethnicity would indicate, and particularly

when initial demands from the rebels indicated they wanted a Cornish liturgy

(Deacon, 2007, 71).

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 20 KK51 N5641462 The second original source is the French language pamphlet entitled La

Responce du Peuple Anglois a leur Roy Edouard. This was published in Paris in

1550, at which time it was considered seditious in England. Rose-Troup (1913)

included it as an Appendix, believing it to have been written by the rebel leaders

towards the end of the rebellion, a theory supported by its reference to the 900

prisoners of war slaughtered by the King’s army just after the battle for Clyst St

Mary. Nicholas Pocock (1965, xviii) believes it to be a response to an

unrecorded response by the King to their Articles. According to Pocock, it

focuses in polite language on broad issues of particular interest to the King: their

hurt at the King’s accusation of rebellion; points of doctrine and matters of

precedence; the King’s youth and his father’s will; and the dangers of alienating

Catholic Europe. It was, according to Pocock (1965, xviii-xvix), ‘so sensible and

to the point that probably…did not suit Foxe’s purposes to produce them’ in his

book of martyrs, which Gasquet and Bishop note ends with a claim that no one

suffered for their religion under Edward VI (1928, 219).

The rebels’ document ends with a plea to the King to:

…accept your very humble and very obedient subjects, whose desire is to

be the dogs appointed to keep your house and your kingdom, and the

oxen to cultivate your lands, the asses to carry your burdens… We will

pray the Lord God, who holds and turns the hearts of kings where He

wills, to watch over and conduct your young age... (cited by Pocock, xx)

My own translation endeavours,3 also reveal a desire among the Cornish to

protect the particularity of their Cornu-Celtic form of Catholicism with a reference

to their 1200 year-old religion. This reference takes us back to the 4th Century,

when the first missionaries were bringing Christianity to Cornwall from Wales,

Ireland and Brittany, which would appear to support McClain’s argument about

the particularity of the Cornish church. The document pleads:

3 Thanks to Julie Burton


“It is not thus the devil’s persuasion, it is not the light-headedness of the

people, the simplicity of the ignorant, nor the temerity of the seditious,

which caused us to assemble. It is more the particular responsibility each

of us owes his friend, the common displeasure at seeing the religion that

our ancestors so greatly revered over the vast span of twelve hundred

years, now, at the caprice of two or three, so much changed and reduced

by new ways, that the old men among us will die, and the young people

will reach extreme old age before understanding that which commends

them for salvation.” (Translation of appendix H, Rose-Troup, 1913, 452.)

The importance of this document may lie in the extent to which it reveals the

change in argument and tone put toward by the rebels as the rebellion unfolded.

The anger and audacity present in the articles of demand appear to have given

way to respectful beseeching, even pleading, which (if, indeed written by the

rebel leaders) could be interpreted as a sign of desperation as their attempts to

keep their prayer book spiraled towards disaster.

The third original document was written in 1595 by Tristran Winslade,4 believed

to be the grandson of executed rebel leader John Wynslade and the son of

William Wynslade, the latter left landless and penniless and leading the life of a

wandering harper in the rebellion’s aftermath. Written for King Philip of Spain,

the original Latin manuscript informs the Spanish King on how to invade Britain

via Cornwall and Devon. It deals with ‘top secret’ matters and ‘goes on to name

various Catholic notables of the two counties and the ways in which they could

act or use their influence in an uprising to seize control of England.’ Winslade

also ‘requests that if this should take place, that he be restored to the lands and

income which his family had owned before they lost all from their devotion to

Catholicism’ (Krause, website).

4 The spelling of Wynslade/Winslade varies from publication to publication. In the 21st Century, the family uses Winslade, however, my correspondent, Sue Winslade, agrees Wynslade was more frequent in the 16th Century, and this is the spelling I use in my novel.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 22 KK51 N5641462 Both of these documents need translating and examining, for they are the

silenced voices of the rebels, both during and after the rebellion, and both have

potential to add considerably to knowledge and debate about Cornish identity

and religion during the volatile 16th Century.

2.4 Post-colonial studies The creative work in this project refers to the postmodern theory of the

importance of the ‘interplay of different heterogeneous discourses that

acknowledge the undecidable in both the past and our knowledge of the past’

(Hutcheon 1989, 66). Indeed, as the work and my research progressed, it and I

became increasingly political as I realised the extent to which the English have

suppressed this part of their history.

I draw on the post-colonial subaltern school of theory, which has its origins in

Gramsci’s work on the Italian peasantry. Gramsci labeled them ‘subalterno’

(cited by Gopal as translating as ‘subordinate’ or ‘dependent’ (2004, 141)), and

today subaltern theory continues Gramsci’s argument that ‘wherever there is

history, there is class, and that the essence of the historical is the long and

extraordinarily varied socio-cultural interplay between ruler and ruled, between

the elite, dominant, or hegemonic class and the subaltern.’ (Edward Said in

Guha and Spivak, 1988, vi).

In this discussion, I am particularly interested in Guha’s theories on the prose of

counter-insurgency, which give an insight into identifying and contesting rhetoric

that presents itself as uncontestable truth. Gopal’s work is useful in that it

suggests an alternative to Spivak’s contention (2003) that the subaltern cannot

speak. Gopal suggests that this can be achieved by ‘drawing attention to the

small voice of history’ (Gopal, 2004, 141) and pursuing an interest in ‘the staging

of violence and the narrative construction of crime…’ (Gopal, 140).

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 23 KK51 N5641462 Indeed, Guha (cited by Gopal, 140) is interested in voicing the peasant rebel

through ‘critical attention to plot, character, authority, language, voice and time’.

On the face of it, this model offers a highly appropriate approach to any historical

account, and is particularly apt when it comes to creating a representation of

those whose voices have been silenced. In this project, my ‘peasantry’ is not

only the Cornish peasant class which expressed its collective awareness that

their Cornish religious traditions were under threat by gathering in Bodmin, but

also the gentry upon whom they called to lead them and the priests who

articulated their grievances. As such, my ‘peasantry’ is a group that is better

defined by region and culture than by economic class. Hence, as I endeavour to

examine issues of Cornish identity in the context of rebellion, these works

provide the means for understanding consciousness and motivation (Gramsci,

1971, 196-200; Guha, in Guha & Spivak 1988, 47), and the language of counter-

insurgency (as described by Guha, in Guha &Spivak, 1988, 53), which has

enshrined the term ‘rebel’ and other pejorative forms of language as

incontestable truths. Indeed, as the writing of this paper continues, and as

discussed below, I find myself increasingly frustrated at the lack of a suitable

word with which to replace the word ‘rebel’.

3.0 Case Study – The Prose of Counter-Insurgency in Archival Material John Hooker’s 16th century ‘eye witness’ account of the Prayer Book Rebellion

provides a legitimate study of the prose of counter-insurgency because, as

Julian Cornwall explains (1977, 68), he ‘allowed his pen to get the better of him’

and started a trend other historians, including Skidmore, who, as recently as

2007 could not help but follow, as noted above. Hooker’s language is particularly

relevant to Guha’s concept that

historiography has been content to deal with the peasant rebel merely as

an empirical person or member of a class, but not as an entity whose will

and reason constituted the praxis called rebellion. The omission is indeed


dyed into most narratives by metaphors assimilating peasant revolts to

natural phenomena: they break out like thunder storms, heave like

earthquakes, spread like wildfires; infect like epidemics. (1988, 46)

Hooker ‘observed’ the rebellion from within the besieged walls of Exeter and

wrote his account 15 years after the event. It is improbable that he had contact

with any of the rebels and, by the time he was writing, almost certain that the

political climate of Elizabeth’s reign allowed him to give full vent to his Protestant

leanings. The following three passages demonstrate the politics and power of

omission as established by Guha.

1. Hooker’s description of the impact of the Sampford Courtenay villagers’

success in forcing their priest to don his full vestments the day after they and the

Latin Mass had been banned tells us:

These News as a Cloud carried with a violent Wind, and as a Thunder

Clap sounding at one instant through the whole Country, are carried and

noised even in a Moment throughout the whole Country: And the common

People so well allowed and like thereof, that they clapped their Hands for

Joy, and agreed in one mind, to have the same in every of their several

Parishes… (1765, 35)

2. Later, Hooker shows us Sir Peter Carew’s band of gentlemen attempting to

bargain with armed rebels who had manned and fortified two barns on either

side of the bridge leading into Crediton:

Where upon they alighted from their Horses, and after a little Conference

had, they agreed to go into the Town on Foot, nothing thinking less that

they should be stopped or denied to go in on foot. But when they came to

the Rampires they found the contrary; for they not only were denied to

come near the Rampires, but utterly were refused to be talked withal: No

Offers of Persuasions, nor Motions of Conference at all could be allowed.

For the Sun being in Cancer, and the Midsummer Moon at full, their


Minds were imbrued in such Follies, and their Heads carried with such

Vanitie, that as the Man of Athens, they would hear no Man speak but

themselves, and thought nothing well said but what came out of their own

Mouths. (1765, 39) (Hooker’s italics)

3. Finally, Hooker diverts the reader with a description of the rebel leaders. They

were

the Refuse, the Scum, and the Rascals, of the whole Country; and yet

such there were in this case, as who rule the Roast [sic], and bore the

whole or chiefest sway; and the worse the Man, the greater his Authority

among them. (1765, 57)

Even making allowances for the ebullience of 16th Century writing, each of these

paragraphs is an example of the power of the prose of counter-insurgency. The

first paragraph uses natural phenomena to de-personify the rebel and gives the

reader the impression that some sort of non-human response has occurred in a

being bereft of self-awareness and the ability to engage in rational thought. The

prose further suggests the bizarre possibility that they were hit by the same

decision – apparently to run amok – at precisely the same instant, as though

affected by an explosion or infection. Once this discourse establishes ‘fact’, it

becomes easy for historians to follow and denigrate the peasant rebel as an

irrational or simple fool who either ‘erupts’ or is easily misled into following

spurious or wicked causes. Equally, it makes it easy for the modern reader to

lean towards the government forces, which within such a discourse are rational,

logical and righteous.

The second paragraph demonstrates Hooker’s sympathy with Carew and his

band of gentlemen. The prose fills the reader with confidence that the writer is at

one with his subject and has full knowledge of his intentions, which may have

been the case after the event, as Hooker was Carew’s biographer (Cooper,

2003, 21). Hooker even provides illustrations of their family crests as if to prove

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 26 KK51 N5641462 their worthiness. The fact, then, that the rebels refused to talk to these right and

proper gentlemen appears to have outraged Hooker and apparently justifies the

tone of indignation at the idea that they might have adopted some sort of

strategy. It is a notion Hooker does not dwell on, as he quickly drops that

thread, instead opting to suggest that the rebels’ actions were the result of their

own vanities (while apparently lacking in self-consciousness) and the forces of

nature.

The second paragraph is further understood through an analysis of the

‘components of the discourse’ (or ‘strings of words’), which Guha (1988, 53)

classifies as either ‘indicative’ or ‘interpretive’ (or as reporting or explaining).

Such an analysis reveals how strings of words ‘interpenetrate and sustain each

other in order to give the documents their meaning’, thus creating the ‘truth’.

Hooker’s ‘truth’ – that the peasant rebels were irrational – is created by the

imbrication of the report that ‘No Offers of Persuasions, nor Motions of

Conference at all could be allowed’ with the explanation that ‘they would hear no

Man speak but themselves, and thought nothing well said but what came out of

their own Mouths’. As Guha explains, the hiatus between these components is

‘necessarily charged with uncertainty and “moments of risk” and every micro-

sequence terminates by opening up alternative possibilities only one of which is

picked up by the next sequence as it carries on with the story’ (Guha, 1988, 55).

In other words, the two elements of discourse are intertwined in such a way that

the story spins itself as it is told. Hooker, then, uses the rebels’ apparent

irrationality to explain their refusal to speak to Carew, thus granting Carew and

his actions unquestioned hero status.

Another contributor to the prose of counter insurgency is the historian’s choice of

voice. Hooker uses the active voice to describe Carew’s party and they are seen

throughout this episode to be the ones with consciousness and agency, even

when the passive voice tells us they ‘were refused to be talked withal’. In this

instance, the passive voice denies the rebels their active defiance and any

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 27 KK51 N5641462 decision-making that might have led them to take such a stance; instead, they

are rendered absent or invisible purveyors of an obscure and unreasonable act.

The historian’s denial of their act of defiance also obviates the need to explain it,

and so the rebels’ refusal to parley becomes an irrational act that justifies the

burning of two barns full of hay, which became a key escalation point in the

rebellion.

In the third paragraph, Hooker’s rhetoric has shifted from a discourse of natural

phenomena to one in which the rebels are bad people who have made a

conscious decision to behave very badly indeed. This shift again demonstrates

Hooker’s preparedness to employ inconsistent rhetoric to convince the reader of

his own views.

As noted by Cornwall (above), this trend has been perpetuated by other

historians. Loades, for example, states that the Cornish had a ‘vague intention of

marching on London as their grandfathers had done in 1497’ (1992, 119), while

Youings (1979, 99) says they were ‘by instinct following in the footsteps of their

grandfathers.’ Caraman (1994, 39), however, finds that ‘even before his

success at the Mount, Arundell had begun his march towards London,

determined to enforce the just demands of the commons and obtain security for

their fulfillment.’

Hooker’s prose is also an example of a paradigm in which historians examine

human affairs through clearly delineated prisms such as economics or religion,

which in turn obviate the need to identify any internal issues that might hint at

the existence of rebel self-consciousness. His (or his publisher’s) marginal note

‘the Cause of this Rebellion was for Religion’ (1765, 33) establishes a discourse

described by Jose Rabasa as neutralizing the world of subaltern insurrection

which is ‘ruled by the imagination, marvel, civil society, and poetics’ (2005, 209).

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 28 KK51 N5641462 Guha also identifies the historian’s insistence on the use of the past tense as

another means of perpetuating a discourse of counter-insurgency (1988, 59).

The passing of time between an event and the creation of its written history not

only creates a secondary discourse out of a primary experience (as occurred

with Hooker’s 15-year delay in writing about the rebellion) but it enables the

author to ‘‘dechronologize’ the historical thread’ (Guha, 62) and destabilize the

gaps with uncertainty and bias.

4.0 Creative Practice As a practice-led endeavour, the writing process involved in creating A

Christmas Game constantly bumped against my interpretation and application of

the cultural studies theory I was researching to help me give voice to the Cornish

rebels: namely, Guha’s theory of the prose of counter-insurgency. Delving into

his theory had me constantly questioning the extent to which my own narrative

was either supporting or undermining my own goal, and challenging me to find

creative ways of contesting traditional means of storytelling. This entwined

process I endeavored to record in journal form as a means of reflecting on the

way the project unfolded and evolved. This dual process reflects the two strands

of discourse identified by Bourke and Nielsen (2004) – the use of cultural studies

theory and second-order journal practice.

My challenge was to create a story of the Prayer Book Rebellion that would

enable the reader to enter the hearts and minds of the Cornish men and women

who engaged in this rising and to identify and make heard the events and

emotions that led them from a peaceful march to open warfare. Guha’s analysis

enabled me to identify the spaces in the historiography through which their

voices could be explored. I found these spaces in the absences and silences in

the historical record and in the minutiae of archival material which, as Guha

explains (quoted in Gopal, 2004, 139), is particularly pertinent to peasant

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 29 KK51 N5641462 rebellion as it examines the ‘small drama and fine detail of social existence,

especially at its lower depths’.

For this project, finding the silences created by the rebels’ lack of agency was a

key concern. As Rabasa (2005, 209) states, the prose of counter-insurgency

neutralises peasant insurgency by pursuing the ‘causes and effects of rebellion’,

another paradigm that assumes the subaltern (or peasant) to be passive and

without self- or class-consciousness. Indeed, there are few accounts of the

Prayer Book Rebellion that go beyond an analysis of cause in terms of

resistance to State-imposed change or of protest against conditions brought

about by government policy, such as religious reform or economic hardship,

which are the two most commonly cited causes of the rebellion. This tendency

demonstrates Rabasa’s argument that the State and its history fail to recognize

the struggle of singularity ‘because the discourse that resistance articulates

remains unintelligible to those who presume that their categories are universal’

(2005, 212). This supports Spivak’s claim that the subaltern cannot speak;

however, as Gopal demonstrates, it depends who is listening.

In A Christmas Game, I draw on the widespread belief that, notwithstanding their

intent, the Tudor monarchs were well aware of the ethnically-driven tension

inherent in their relationships with the Cornish (as suggested by Stoyle, 2002b,

109). When my young hero, Margh Tredannack, is interrogated at sword-point

and responds in Cornish, one of Russell’s soldiers refers to him as an ‘ignorant

peasant’. However, as O’Neal (2007, 2) has suggested, Spivak’s question ‘can

the subaltern speak?’ is perhaps better re-phrased ‘When the subaltern speaks,

can he be understood?’ As noted above, the answer must surely lie with the

listener. In this instance, Lord Russell is listening, and as an experienced spy

and diplomat, he knows he is hearing an overt expression of ethnically-based

resistance. He pushes the soldier aside saying, ‘Don’t for a minute believe that,’

and slices Margh’s cheek open with his sword. Later that night, this interchange

plays on Russell’s fears:


(Russell) cast his mind to the jostling Cornish ports crawling with papist

merchants from France and Spain and Portugal. He saw coves and

hamlets alive with dissent. He heard invitations to invade. Quite suddenly,

all of Cornwall rushed upon him out of the darkness, a dangerous enemy

and a terrible threat. (MS, 169)

The prescient quality of Russell’s thoughts draws on the current Winslade

family’s account of young rebel leader William Wynslade joining the Spanish

armada in 1588 (email correspondence) and his son Tristran’s 1595 treatise

detailing for King Philip of Spain the best means of invading England via

Cornwall and Devon, which was apparently motivated by the idea of reclaiming

the family fortune lost as a direct result of the Prayer Book Rebellion (Krause

website).

In order to subvert the prose of counter-insurgency, I have also identified spaces

in the record that provide the rebels with a chance to speak. For my novel, one

important gap in the record is how the Cornish reacted to news that the villagers

of Sampford Courtenay in Devon had begun a riot by killing a supporter of the

new prayer book. The silence created by such gaps in the historical record

informs much of the novel in that it opens space for creatively imagined events.

In A Christmas Game I use this absence of rebel voice to creatively imagine

dialogue and debate. It is a strategy used by film director Ken Loach (2006) in

The Wind that Shakes the Barley to allow his Irish rebels to discuss strategy,

which was ‘not only important to the story (but) important to what was at stake at

the time… (and)…absolutely essential to what we were about, which is because

people did articulate these ideas.’

I follow this strategy in A Christmas Game to enable my characters to articulate

a range of issues and grievances to demonstrate their decision making

processes. A particularly important gap in the record is the Cornish army’s

decision to join with a rebellious Devonshire peasantry, and so I give Arundell

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 31 KK51 N5641462 the opportunity to express the sense of the confusion I believe they must have

felt on learning of this development.

‘Well, this is not a ruse, then.’ He scratched his head. ‘Devon is in uproar.

This changes things.’

‘But, Humphry, this is good news!’ the mayor said.

Arundell swung around. ‘How can we be sure of that?’

‘We have allies. What could be better?’

‘I don’t see that as something we can take for granted, Henry. They’re out

killing reformists while we want to march to London to parley with the

King. What use is such an ally?’

‘Perhaps if we could get them organized, they could march with us?’

Wynslade suggested. ‘The numbers would show a force to be reckoned

with.’ (MS, 74-75)

I also involve my main character, Margh, in the taking of Trematon Castle and

the imprisonment of Sir Richard Grenville at Launceston Castle, an important

aspect of contesting the absence of Cornish history from Cornish historical sites.

Owned by English Heritage, Launceston Castle’s historical display omits the role

it played as a prison for the rebel army’s hostages, demonstrating this

organisation’s apparent penchant (as noted above by Angarrack) for ignoring the

presence of the Cornish in their own history. I subvert the historical discourse of

English Heritage by turning Margh’s arrival at Launceston with his prisoners into

a celebration, and I further the cause by using the traditional Cornish spelling of

the town’s name, Lanson.

‘Margh!’ he heard. And gasped with delight as Gerent’s pale head

emerged on the road in front of him. ‘A’right?’

Margh leapt from the saddle to embrace his friend. ‘Such tales we heard

of your victory at the Mount. You must tell me everything.’

Gerent thumped him on the back. ‘But look at you, Captain Tredannack.

Prisoners, too!’

‘Aye. Sir Richard Grenville among them.’


‘What glorious soldiering. A happy day, Captain.’ (MS, 88)

In terms of locating the ‘small drama’ of history, Eamon Duffy’s (2001)

examination of Morebath’s parish records revealed a number of details that

helped to bring the rebels to life and ‘flesh out’ their activities. In this parish, the

best young men were chosen to join the protest, and they were paid soldiers’

rates of 6d per day. Significantly, these records also held a clue to self-

consciousness: the rebels referred to themselves as ‘campmen’, a term which

connotes a sense of peaceful protest or a modern day ‘sit in’. This also draws

attention to the fact that these people did not see themselves as rebelling, as

demonstrated in their post-rebellion response to the King. Prior to the siege, they

may have called themselves ‘marchers’ or even, as Duffy has suggested,

‘Christian soldiers’, marching as they did, led by priests with holy banners, the

Pyx and relics, and singing hymns. According to La Response (mentioned

above) they had “assembled” and did not see themselves as rebels. And yet,

this is the term I find myself unable to shake off as I write this paper. It seems

that the power inherent in the prose of counter-insurgency has entrenched its

use, rendering everything else inappropriate in terms of describing this

conquered army; terms such as ‘protestors’, ‘freedom fighters’ or ‘liberation

army’ seem absurd in the context of this 16th Century event.

Duffy’s examination also highlighted the confused allegiances demonstrated by

common people. For example, in Ashburton, ‘many must have been sympathetic

to their (the rebels’) cause (but) nevertheless sold ₤10 worth of plate ’with the

whiche money they served the kings majestie against rebels.’ ’ (Duffy 2001, 136,

quoting Sir Christopher Trychay, priest of Morebath parish, 1549.) Cooper

(2003, 68), however, tells us Russell forced this sale, giving rise to the notion

that many people must have been doing one thing while thinking another. This

led me to shift Sir Simon Chiswick’s original position of support for Russell to

one of covert opposition. His ambiguity not only heightened the risk for Jenna,

but elevated the drama of the storytelling. Here, Jenna has heard Sir Simon and

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 33 KK51 N5641462 Lord Russell deep in conversation, and she believes Chiswick to be sympathetic

to Russell’s cause. After Russell has gone to bed, Chiswick calls Jenna to him:

‘Russell says he only has three hundred men. I want you to ride into

Honiton and tell me what you see. His troops are bivouacked around the

town, with a few at Mohun’s Ottery, Sir Peter Carew’s place…. Will you

do it for me, Jenna? For me –’ He coughed and turned his face from her.

When he turned back to look at her his eyes were ablaze. ‘For our

cause?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The world seemed to sway beneath her.

‘You’re a good girl, Jenna. The king has ordered Russell to end this

outrage and send the leaders to London for punishment. But if Russell

truly cannot do it, and cannot convince him that he needs more men, then

I need to know.’ He patted her hand. ‘You’ll do it for me? Find out the

truth?’

Her mind reeling, Jenna nodded. (MS, 132)

I also subvert accepted characterisations by extolling the virtues of the rebel

heroes. Far from being ‘the worse the Man, the greater his Authority among

them’, as suggested by Hooker, I draw on the loyalty Arundell commanded from

his men (Sturt) and the generosity and bravery attributed to Wynslade (eg:

Rowse) and, towards the end of the novel, when Arundell has been captured, I

use the Arundell family crest, which featured swallows, not just as a motif for

flight, but also to denote his status as a member of the gentry.

While Guha’s writings about the prose of counter insurgency provided me with

the means to challenge it, an issue arose with the very fact that there were

several classes of rebel within the Prayer Book Rebellion. While the Articles of

Demand and ‘La Responce’ provide an insight into the education and language

of the priests and gentlemen, I found myself bothered by the realization that the

peasant still had not been heard. How, I wondered, would Jan or Kitto or Billy

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 34 KK51 N5641462 express the need to protest against the prayer book? I used the presence of a

small boy to take the challenge to Kitto and Jan who respond uncertainly, but

with growing conviction (MS, 127-128). In another scene, Jan demonstrates his

insight by observing that ‘it puts a fire in the belly’ to know what the English think

of them. (MS, 97)

The poetics of the novel evolved as I endeavoured to contest traditional forms of

knowledge and storytelling. By 1549, the 14th Century miracle play, Beunans

Meriasek (Stokes, 1872), would have had subversive meaning, particularly the

section that pits the evil King Teudar against the heroic and victorious Duke of

Cornwall. As the political reality of the day would have made its performance a

dangerous pastime, I allowed my characters to perform it in the walled garden at

Tredannack.

The oral tradition of storytelling interrupts the narrative flow of the rebellion

through the voices of the two Williams: Will Wynslade, a rebel leader freed after

a period of imprisonment in the Fleet Prison, and the voice of his fictitious

illegitimate son, William, whose mother is the heroine of the story, Jenna. The

former’s voice appears towards the end of the novel and was chosen because of

the poetics inherent in his post-rebellion life as a landless wandering harper.

During the rebellion, we know him for his boyish optimism, but as we hear him

nine years later, as Elizabeth is ascending the throne, his tone foreshadows his

future life of exile and treachery as a participant of the Armada. The voice of little

William, who is being raised as Margh and Jenna’s son, reflects the stories he

has heard from the family’s retainer, Kerra, and the resentment felt among the

Cornish towards English interference. He also alludes to the sense he has of the

impact of the rebellion on his mother, Jenna, and Margh Tredannack, to whom

she is married.

Other poetic elements came to me in unexpected moments of clarity. The riddle

Will sings to Jenna is mentioned by Dean (1975, 59) as known in the St Columb

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 35 KK51 N5641462 area of Cornwall, not far from Jenna’s home on the Camel Estuary. I was drawn

to the lyric ‘between the salt water and the sea sand’, which suggested the idea

of trying to find the impossible – religious freedom, love – but as the novel grew

it became symbolic of the marginalisation of Cornwall and the cyclical forces of

nature found in its most liminal zone – the beach below Margh and Jenna’s

cottage, on the far western coast. This, in turn, created the scene where a

pregnant Jenna is on the beach, raking seaweed to fertilize the soil (MS, 242).

5.0 Conclusion The power inherent within the prose of counter-insurgency ensures that official

accounts of insurgencies are saturated by the language of the dominating or

conquering force and highly resistant to any language that might attempt to

subvert it. The contestatory nature of Subaltern Studies, however, and in

particular Guha’s analysis of this form of rhetoric, have provided me with the

tools to interrogate the historical discourse surrounding the Prayer Book

Rebellion of 1549 and to find spaces through which the rebels can become self-

conscious human beings and give voice to reason, strategy, fear, and countless

other human emotions. To this extent, the subaltern might be heard. Indeed,

while writing A Christmas Game, I found that by entrenching myself in the rebel

camp, I was able to avoid using the word ‘rebel’ except when writing from the

point of view of the government. A word search of the manuscript shows I used

the word ‘rebel’ or ‘rebellion’ 36 times, almost entirely when writing from the

viewpoint of the Government forces. Only on three occasions did Arundell use

the term, and then only in the context of trying to see events from the

Government’s perspective. And yet, whenever I moved into 21st Century

exegesis writing, the dreaded ‘r’ word was inescapable. To this point in this

comparatively short paper, the words ‘rebel’, ‘rebels’ or ‘rebellion’ appear 130

times – mostly in my own narrative.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 36 KK51 N5641462 In inescapability of the prose of counter-insurgency is further demonstrated by

the way this event has been labeled. While commonly referred to as a rebellion

by those writing sanctioned versions of history, the Cornish, perhaps in an

attempt to contest the assumption that it was illegal, refer to it as a “rising” (eg:

Caraman and Sturt). But the word “rising” is no escape from the prose of

counter-insurgency. It is, in fact, one of Guha’s “natural phenomenon” words,

denying the peasant insurgent his conscious decision-making. So, the trap is

clear: this protest is either an unlawful rebellion or an irrational rising. The

language of history will not allow it to be otherwise.

The prose of counter-insurgency, then, appears almost impenetrable. However,

by applying the theories of subaltern theorists and commentators to the writing

of a work of fiction, I have been able to subvert this overwhelmingly penetrating

discourse. The works of Guha, Gopal and Rabasa have provided the tools I

needed to analyse, contest and search until I found sufficient contradictions,

spaces and archival material to repatriate the long-silenced voices of the

Cornish and Devonshire freedom fighters. So while history may never provide

space for the passion, the logic, the fear and love that must have driven so many

people to fight an army that eventually far-outnumbered them, through the pages

of a novel, it may be possible to hear the echoes of their voices.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 37 KK51 N5641462 References: Angarrack, J. (2002). Our Future is History: Identity, Law and the Cornish Question, Independent Academic Press Ashcroft, B., Griffiths, G. & Tiffin, H. (1989). The Empire Writes Back: Theory and Practice in Post-Colonial Literatures, Routledge, London. Beer, B. (1982). Rebellion and Riot: popular disorder in England during the reign of Edward VI, Kent State University Press, Ohio Bourke, N. & Neilsen,P. (2004). The Problem of the Exegesis in Creative Writing Higher Degrees, Text, Special Issue No 3, April. Brennan, G. (2001). ‘Language and nationality: the role of policy towards Celtic languages in the consolidation of Tudor power’ Nations and Nationalism 7 (3) 317-338. Canary, R. & Kozicki, H. (eds). (1978). The Writing of History: Literary form and Historical Understanding, University of Wisconsin Press, Madison. Caraman, P. (1994). The Western Rising 1549: The Prayer Book Rebellion, Westcountry Books, Tiverton Carew, R. (1603). The Survey of Cornwall, (2004 edition) J. Chynoweth, N. Orme, & A. Walsham (eds), Devon and Cornwall Record Society. Childs, P. & Williams R.J.P. (1997). An Introduction to Post-colonial theory, Prentice Hall, London Cooper, J.P.D. (2003). Propaganda and the Tudor State: Political Culture in the Westcountry, Clarendon Press, Oxford Cornwall, J. (1977). Revolt of the Peasantry 1549, Routledge & Kegan Paul, London Crozier, B. (1974). A Theory of Conflict, Hamish Hamilton, London Curnow. G. (2002). ’ere ‘tez: The dialect of St Just and Pendeen Deacon, B. (2007). A Concise History of Cornwall, University of Wales Press, Cardiff

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 38 KK51 N5641462 Deacon, B. (2003). “Propaganda and the Tudor State or Propaganda of the Tudor Historians?” (review article), Cornish Studies Eleven, Philip Payton (ed), University of Exeter Press, Exeter Deacon, B. (2002). ‘The New Cornish Studies’, Cornish Studies: Ten, (Payton, P, ed.) University of Exeter Press, Exeter Deacon, B. (2000). Foreword to Voices from West Barbary: an anthology of Anglo-Cornish poety 1549-1928, Alan M. Kent (ed), Francis Boutle Publishers, London Dean. S. (1975). ‘The Folklore of Cornwall’, B.T. Batsford, London. De Certeau, M. (1988). The Writing of History, (translation: Tom Conley), Columbia University Press, New York Du Maurier, D. (1956). Jamaica Inn, Victor Gollancz, London (first published 1936) Du Maurier, D. (1972). Vanishing Cornwall: the spirit and history of Cornwall, Penguin Books, Harmondsworth. Duffy, E. (2001). The Voices of Morebath, Yale University Press, New Haven Gasquet, A. & Bishop, E. (1928). Edward VI and the Book of Common Prayer, Sheed and Ward, London Geertz, C. (1983). Local Knowledge: Further Essays in Interpretive Anthropology, Basic Books Inc, New York Gopal, P. (2004). ‘Reading subaltern history’ in The Cambridge Companion to Postcolonial Literary Studies, Neil Lazarus (ed), Cambridge University Press. Gramsci, A. (1971). Selections from Prison Notebooks. (edited and translated by Hoare, Q. & Smith, GN.) Lawrence and Wishart, London Grossman, L. (1975). ‘History and Literature: reproduction of signification’ in Canary and Hozicki (eds) The Writing of History: Literary Form and Historical Understanding, University of Wisconsin Press, Madison, Wisconsin. Guha, R. & Spivak, G.C. (eds) (1988). Selected Subaltern Studies, Oxford University Press, Oxford. Hall, S. (1993). ‘Old and new Identities, old and new ethnicities’ in A. D. King (ed) Culture, Globalization and the World System; contemporary conditions for the representation of identity. MacMillan, Basingstoke.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 39 KK51 N5641462 Harvey, D. (1992). The Condition of Postmodernity. Blackwell. Oxford. Haseman, B. (2006). A Manifesto for Performative Research, Media International Australia incorporating Culture and Policy, themed issue practice-led research no 118, February 2006, pp99-106 Himmelfarb, G. (2004). The New History and the Old: Critical Essays and Reappraisals (revised edition), Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Mass. Hole, C. (1967). Superstitions and Beliefs of the Sea, Folklore Vol 78 No 3 (Autumn 1967) pp 184-189. Hooker, J. (1564). The Antique Description and Account of the City of Excester, Exon, Andrew Brice 1765 Hubback, J. (1997). ‘Women, Symbolism and the Coast of Cornwall’, in E. Westland (ed) Cornwall: The Cultural Construction of Place, The Patten Press and Institute of Cornish Studies, Penzance Hutcheon, L. (1989). The Politics of Postmodernism, Routledge, London Kent, A. M. (2007). Electric Pastyland, Ryelands, Wellington (UK) Kent, A. M. (2005). Proper Job, Charlie Curnow, Halsgrove, Tiverton Kent, A. M. (2003). ‘Screening Kernow: authenticity, heritage and the representation of Cornwall in film and television, 1913-2003’ in Cornish Studies 11, University of Exeter Press, Exeter. Jordan, W.K. (1968). Edward VI: The Young King, George Allen & Unwin, London King, A. (1993). Culture, Globalization and the World System; contemporary conditions for the representation of identity. MacMillan, Basingstoke. Kraus, H.P. (undated). The ‘Invincible’ Armada 1588: Sir Francis Drake: a Pictorial Biography. Library of Congress, http://www.loc.gov//rr/rarebook/catalog/drake/drake-8-invincible.html Lazarus, N. (ed) (2004). The Cambridge Companion to Postcolonial Literary Studies, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Loach, J. (2002). Edward VI, Yale University Press, New Haven

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 40 KK51 N5641462 Loach, K. (2006). At the Movies, ABC TV http://www.abc.net.au/atthemovies/txt/s1743486.htm Loades, D. (1999). Politics and Nation: England 1450-1660 (5th Edition), Blackwell Publishers, Oxford. Loades, D. (1992). The Mid-Tudor Crisis 1545-1565, MacMillan, London Lukacs, G. (1962). The Historical Novel, Penguin Books, Harmondsworth MacCulloch, D. (1999). The Boy King: Edward VI and the Protestant Reformation, St Martin’s Press, New York. MacDonald, H. (2006). ‘Novel views of History’, The Weekend Australian Review, 25-26 March. Mary Catherine, Sister (1959), Storm out of Cornwall: A Tale of the Prayer Book Rebellion, Sands & Co., Glasgow. McClain, L. (2004). Lest We Be Damned: Practical Innovation and Lived Experience Among Catholics in Protestant England, 1559-1662, Routledge, New York McKenna, M. (2006). ‘Comfort History’, The Weekend Australian Review, 18-19 March. Miller, A. (2006). ‘Written in our hearts’, The Weekend Australian Review, 16-17 December O’Neal, C. (2007). ‘The Subaltern Speaks: Ambiguity of Empire in Conrad’s ‘Karain: A Memory’’ Postcolonial Text Vol 3 No 1 Orme, N. (2000). The Saints of Cornwall, Oxford University Press, Oxford. Payton, P. (2004). Cornwall - A History, Cornish Editions Ltd, Fowey Payton, P. (1993). Cornwall Since the War, Dyllansow Truran, Redruth. Payton. P. (1992). The Making of Modern Cornwall, Dyllansow Truran, Redruth Pilcher, R. (1995). Coming Home, Hodder & Stoughton, London Pocock, N. (1884). Troubles Connected with the Prayer Book of 1549, Camden Society 1965, Johnson Reprint, New York

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 41 KK51 N5641462 Rabasa, J. (2005) ‘On the History of the History of People’s Without History’, Humboldt Journal of Social Relations 29:1, pp 204-222. Rose-Troup, F. (1913). The Western Rebellion, Smith, Elder & Co. London Rowse, A.L. (1941). Tudor Cornwall, Jonathan Cape Ltd, London Schon, D. (1991). The Reflective Turn: Case Studies in and on Educational Practice, Teachers College Press. New York Skidmore, C. (2007). Edward VI: The Lost King of England, Weidenfeld & Nicholson, London Smith, A.,D. (1991). National Identity. Penguin Books, London Spivak, G. C. (2003). ‘From ‘Can the Subaltern Speak?’’ in Cahoone, L. (ed), From Modernism to Postmodernism – an anthology, Blackwell Publishing, Malden, Maine. Starkey, D. (2004). Monarchy: From the Middle Ages to Modernity, Channel 4 (UK). Episode screened ABC, 11 December 2007. Stokes, W. (ed) (1872). Beunans Meriasek, Cornish Language Board, 1996 Stoyle, M. (2006). Personal email correspondence Stoyle, M. (2002a). West Britons: Cornish Identities and the Early Modern British State, University of Exeter Press, Exeter. Stoyle, M. (2002b). ‘The Recent Historiography of Early Modern Cornwall’, Cornish Studies Ten. (Payton P. ed) University of Exeter Press, Exeter. Stoyle, M. (2001). The Cornish: A Neglected Nation? www.bbc.co.uk/history/state/nations/cornish_nation_04.shtml Stoyle, M. (1999). ‘The Dissidence of Despair: Rebellion and Identity in Early Modern Cornwall’. Journal of British Studies 38, (October 1999), 423-444. Stoyle, M. (1998), ‘Cornish Rebellions 1497–1648’ in S. Parker (ed) Cornwall Marches On! Keskerdh Kernow 500, Keskerdh Kernow Sturt, J. (1987). Revolt in the West: The Western Rebellion of 1549, Devon Books, Exeter Tremayne, K. (2006). ‘The Loveday Loyalty’, Headline, London

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 42 KK51 N5641462 White, H. (1978). Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism, The John Hopkins University Press, Baltimore White, H. (1975). ‘Historical Text as Literary Artifact’ in Canary and Hozicki (eds) The Writing of History: Literary Form and Historical Understanding, University of Wisconsin Press, Madison, Wisconsin. Whiting, R. (1989). The Blind Devotion of the People, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Willen, D. (1981). John Russell, First Earl of Bedford: One of the King’s Men. Royal Historical Society, Studies in History No. 23 Winslade, S. (2006-8). Email correspondence Winslade, T. (1595). ‘De praesenti statu Cornubiae et Devoniae quae duae Provinciae sunt Hispaniae proximores’ (unpublished manuscript) Hans and Hanni Kraus Sir Francis Drake Collection No 12, Library of Congress http://www.loc.gov//rr/rarebook/catalog/drake/drake-8-invincible.html Youings, J. (1979). ‘The South Western Rebellion of 1549’ in Southern History (1)


A Christmas Game

by

Cheryl Hayden


Bes den heb tavas a golhas e dir

A man who has lost his tongue has lost his land. (Cornish Proverb)

I swear some days, even the Cornish comes out, an ancient eruption of magma, still in there, unrevived,

that sends listeners running scared.

(from ‘Lapsus Linguaeʹ, Alan M. Kent, Love and Seaweed, Lyonnesse Press, 2002)

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 46 KK51 N5641462 Cast of characters Many of the characters in this novel existed. They are: The Cornish and Devonshire leaders Humphry Arundell, minor Cornish gentry and leader of the combined force John Wynslade, wealthy Cornish landowner. Second-in-command before the forces combined. John Bury, leader of the Devonshiremen and Arundell’s second-in-command Thomas Holmes, a servant of the Arundell family Sir Thomas Pomeroy, a Devonshireman Robert Smyth, Arundell’s brother-in-law William Wynslade, son of John. Henry Bray, Mayor of Bodmin The priests: Fathers Barrett, Moreman, Crispyn and Thompson Kestell, Arundell’s secretary The Protestant gentry Sir Richard Grenville Sir Peter Carew Sir Gawen Carew The King and his men King Edward VI Edward Seymour, Lord Protector and Duke of Somerset Lord John Russell, Lord Privy Seal Joll, Lord Russell’s fool


Prologue

Tredannack, Cornwall

July, 1531

Such stellar splendour! Such a brilliance of pulsating light!

To the north and west, the night sky was a diamond-studded royal cloak of velvet

midnight hues, and its beauty clutched at John of Tredannack’s throat. Standing as he

was by the ancient granite carn overlooking the moors, he was humbly aware that God

had blessed him with greater proximity to the objects of his study than any other man in

Penwith. That knowledge gave him no comfort now.

In the south-east, the last of the strangely glowing cloud that had protected

western Cornwall from the evil eye of the comet was clearing away, and he wondered

how long it would be before the fiery portent of doom caught sight of him. The very

thought made his heart tremble and his mind struggled to find the reason he knew he

possessed. The whole country had bowed in awe before this monstrosity. Even without

seeing it, his own household had bolted doors and bent in prayer. And it had taken a

promise of new candlesticks for the vestry to persuade Father Carmynowe to join him on

this smallest, yet most dread-laden, of expeditions. He breathed deeply to quell his own

terror and tried to focus on the stars visible to the west.

‘See, Father, Ursa Minor just there and, further over, Corona Borealis. All part of

God’s most wonderful creation.’ He crossed himself, and smiled to see the priest do the

same, but the priest’s silence suggested a preference for a cup of mulled wine beside his

host’s ample fire. Perversely, it pleased Tredannack to know the Father Carmynowe

craved recognition as a devotee of pursuits that were beyond his ken and that he was

suffering for his vanity.

‘And all of it beyond the realms of the elements, which tonight are quite

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 48 KK51 N5641462 invisible.’ He turned to the southern sky, which was increasing in brightness.

Excitement warred against a rising sense of panic. ‘Come,’ he added, his hand gentle on

the priest’s back. ‘We’ve been out here long enough.’

In that very instant, in the second before Tredannack diverted his eyes, the wind

strengthened and the layer of cloud fragmented.

‘Bless my soul, Father!’ He clutched at the priest’s arm. ‘There ’tes!’

The comet’s fiery head and the sweep of its flaming tail filled the southern sky

and forced the stars to retreat. A celestial terror bearing God’s wrath.

Tredannack’s heart pounded in his breast. He felt dread chill his blood, smelled

terror on the air. This fire in the sky, he knew instantly, was nothing if not an evil omen.

Instinctively he retreated behind the carn. As if to confirm his thoughts, a crescendo of

primordial screaming, coming from the garden below, rent the otherwise peaceful night.

Then, the hound that circled his legs stretched out his scrawny neck and howled. The

priest’s knees slammed into the rocky ground and a desperate tirade of Latin gushed

from between his lips.

‘’A’right Father?’ Tredannack gasped. ‘Praise be the Lord you’re here with us

tonight. You’ll bless my home and all who live within her walls?’

Father Carmynowe needed no encouragement and, in preparation for exposure to

the comet, blessed both host and whimpering hound before crossing himself yet again.

As they rushed towards the house below, Tredannack noticed the eerie orange glow on

the stones of the new garden wall. So many strange shadows appeared before him, he

hardly knew his own estate.

‘This only goes to prove what I’ve been saying, Tredannack,’ the priest puffed,

as a rose thorn snagged his cloak. ‘The King’s desperation to bring that woman to the

throne… This — this monster!’ He pulled the fabric free of the thorn and waved a hand

skyward. ‘’Tes nothing less than God’s wrath. One can only hope that Pope Clement will

make the King see some sense — ’

‘Oh, come now, Father!’ In the protective shadows of the wall, Tredannack had

stopped to wait. ‘In one breath you say the King is desperate, and then you expect him to

see sense. Quickly now! We must not stay out here a moment longer.’

The two men ran through the kitchen garden and pushed on the heavy oak door,

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 49 KK51 N5641462 which swung inwards to the lingering aroma of the roasted beef, onions and swedes they

had enjoyed not two hours ago. Rocking inconsolably by the fire was a terrified kitchen

maid, clutching a whimpering puppy. The young woman jumped to her feet and the dog

yelped to see the enormous hound.

‘Bring some ale into the dining hall, Kerra,’ Tredannack ordered calmly, holding

the wolfhound back. ‘And stop that quivering. We must have faith.’

The girl bobbed meekly and wiped her nose on her sleeve. Then, without a

prompt, she lit a taper and handed it to her master, whose own trembling betrayed him

immediately. He shot her an apologetic glance but said nothing. Instead, he led the priest

into a low stone corridor and through to the hall, where they settled either side of the

ingle.

‘Just how far will the King go to marry this woman, Father?’

Father Carmynowe shrugged. ‘ All the way to Westminster Abby. He’s taken up

St Dunstan’s argument — no man shall marry his brother’s wife. So that means, he’s

saying his marriage was unlawful. He’ll move the heavens if he has to, to divorce the

Queen.’

Silence filled the cavernous shadows and John of Tredannack could not help but

notice the deep folds that ran from the priest’s nose to the edges of his mouth; the fear in

his pale eyes. In the breathless air between them, the candle’s yellow flame was

unmoved. The irony of King Henry finding helpful precedence in the miracles of a

Catholic bishop was, indeed, sublime at a time when he was turning to Protestant Europe

for so many of his answers.

‘And Leviticus would agree with him,’ he said. ‘But how do you explain this

flaming sword in the sky? Surely, if his marriage was not lawful, it would have

appeared before now.’ He raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘I say the answer’s in Deuteronomy;

that it is a man’s duty to marry his brother’s childless widow. What does Cranmer say

about Deuteronomy, Father? Nothing, I wager. He is too busy cajoling the universities of

Europe and translating our prayer book into English. Now there’s something we won’t

abide — an English prayer book. No place for English in the Mass.’

The priest shrugged. ‘News from Exeter trickles down like water from a rusted

pump.’


‘And what will happen when the King has freed himself from the papal vice?

What will God say when the King of England is no longer answerable to His earthly

presence? Surely this is a sign.’

Father Carmynowe leaned forward and rubbed his hands. Thrice daily he prayed

that distance would protect him from the dangers of change, and thrice daily he thanked

the Lord for John of Tredannack’s stance, which had until now protected him against

those among the gentry who had begun to campaign for the King and discourage their

priest’s allegiance to Rome. So far, the church had suffered little. The little wooden St

Michael had lost an arm and the bottom section of St Creed’s window had been

smashed. It wasn’t much. Not yet, anyway. But there were those who would put the

King before their God, and Father Carmynowe knew the path before him was a narrow

one with gaping pitfalls on either side. For now, however, Tredannack and his brother-

in-law, Roger Bosinney, were his allies; for now, their influence allowed his

parishioners to worship as they had always done.

‘You have nothing to say, Father?’

Father Carmynowe cleared his throat. ‘’Tes unwise to express opinions of that

nature these days, John. You tread dangerous ground in such a climate.’

‘But I share my thoughts only with you and with God, and know that I am safe

and forgiven.’ He paused. Dared he pose the questions that had been crawling all over

his heart? ‘There’s a problem with the way the King’s heading, isn’t there, Father? I

mean, what does a man call a King who has declared himself divinely appointed? Do we

speak to him as a man, or as the Lord? If I refuse to pay him my taxes, will he be bound

to forgive me? And when, as a divine being, he hears my confession, will he keep my

sins within the safekeeping of his breast, or hang me as a traitor?’ Tredannack’s cynical

smile skewed the regularity of his features but quickly softened as Kerra set a pewter

salver on the table. The maid was a handsome one and he watched silently as she filled

two tankards with ale, bobbed to her master and left. Perhaps the priest was right.

Perhaps he should still his tongue. He handed a tankard to his companion and smiled.

‘How are the young men progressing with their window collection, Father? It

was draughty in church this morning.’

Father Carmynowe did not have a chance to reply.


‘Husband!’ Mistress Tredannack stood at the foot of the stairs, her face ashen and

gaunt with the strain of advanced pregnancy. ‘Oh, Father! Bless me, I beg you! It saw

me!’ Stricken, she clutched at her swollen belly. Their first child was due any day and

this comet spelled disaster.

‘Johanna!’ Tredannack rushed forward and placed his hands upon her shoulders.

Childbirth was no matter for the priest’s intervention. The midwife had been under their

roof for several days now, waiting. ‘Why are you not upstairs? Where is Mistress

Daniel?’ He seemed to search the room with his eyes. ‘Can you not call upon St

Margaret for help?’

The priest cleared his throat and stepped forward.

‘Saw it did, ’ee?’

‘Yes, Father.’ She crossed herself and said a quick prayer. ‘And it saw me. Just

as I drew the drapes. I feel its curse, even now!’

‘Do you have cloth for the child’s chrisom?’ he asked.

‘Aye, Father.’

‘Then let’s anoint it, and set it ’pon your head. It can stay there ’til the child

comes.’

Johanna Tredannack nodded the unspoken instruction to her maid, and crossed to

the tiny chapel in the far corner of the hall. She lit the candles, which illuminated an oak

cross carved a hundred years ago by one of her ancestors and an even older statue of St

Ursula. She took a tapestry cushion from its hanging place on the wall and, for a

moment, stood unnaturally still. John of Tredannack could do nothing but watch as his

wife sank to the floor, her mouth opened in a scream that curdled his blood.


PART ONE

Cornwall

November, 1558

Em gorr Kerra aʹm eseth worth an tan. Whethel yn kever mebyon yw hebma,

meth hy…

’Ee won’t be understanding, will ’ee? ’Tes Cornish, see, and this is a story that

ought be told in Cornish, but Kerra says ’tes no good because those who need to

hear it will not understand. Kerra says we must speak, we will speak, we will

tell our story. But someone needs to listen, and listen proper, so as t’understand.

Otherwise, there be no telling, just words blown to the wind. I am only eight

years old and I do not know how we can tell our story if we have to tell it in

English. I don’t like to speak in English, and I don’t believe them what speaks

English want to understand. But Kerra says. So that’s how it shall be. So I will

start again, in English. And pray to Sen Yustus ’ee be listenin’ this time.

Kerra sits me by the fire. She tells me that this is a story about sons. ’Tes a story

of stories about sons — my father, the son of John of Tredannack, martyr, and of

William Wynslade the son of John Wynslade, our hero and martyr; hanged,

drawn and quartered for his faith. And ’tes a bit about me, but not much,

because I am only eight and have seen no commotions. And it is the story of my

mother, who was braver than any other woman in all of Cornwall.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 53 KK51 N5641462 Both of my fathers and my mother were there in the commotion. They fought

the men our poor little King sent west to slay his own people. He were only

eleven years old and were sat on a throne in London. I don’t think he

understood.

Anyway, this be a story about sons and it edn’t in a book like the books

gentlemen read by their fires. I hear it sometimes on bitter cold mornings when

the sea is like a pewter plate. Kerra sits me beside her and warms my hands in

the worn, dry heat of her own and curses at the howling east wind. She curses

everything that comes in from the east. She don’t mean Jan’s farm just yonder —

she means the real east. The faraway east, which is England. Where I never will

go. She says there are stories on the air, and in the sea, and in the flames of our

Midsummer bonfires. Air and water and fire — she says any of them can

destroy a book. Kerra knows more truths than she will ever tell — more than

was ever put in a book.

And so, here I sit, next to her, and we drink warmed cider and smell the

oaten bread cooking as the furze crackles and spits and smokes. Our eyes water,

and so we turn the settle away and pull up the rug she has knitted. My mother

showed her how to knit. It was something she learned in the east, during the

commotion. And when Kerra’s back is to the world, she wraps me in her old

arms and croons softly, and it is like her music has come from some ancient time

when the saints spread their blessings and the piskies spread their laughter and

mischief, and life in Cornwall was right and proper.

‘Tes said that our misery — this is how it is named — was forged in the

fires of ’49, when the young King thought it proper to pay his loyal subjects no

mind. I have heard all manner of stories from Jan and Guillo, and although I

believe the words, I cannot taste them. I cannot put my father there, with them,

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 54 KK51 N5641462 inside the horror of it all; even though he has the scar to prove it. There are times

— so many times — when I watch him leading the ox around a field that

produces the worst of stunted barley — when I see death in his eyes, even

though he is alive and walking in the field. Sometimes I hear stories about my

mother, and these I can believe. My mother will never speak of the commotion

time. She has something deep inside her that will not come out. I see it in the

way she does her work. When she sweeps the floor, her back is stiff as a

scarecrow’s. Not like young Mrs Guillo, who swings her body as though

dancing in praise of God and of her life. Not like that at all. My mother tries to

hurry the crops.

Every so often, Kerra pushes me from her warmth and sends me to fetch

more furze. She hates that too. Furze. It reminds her that the vast wood‐fired

ingles of Tredannack’s kitchen are no longer hers.

So, I fetch more furze and build up the spitting fire.

‘Tell me about my father at the commotion time.’ I demand the same

thing, year in, year out.

And Kerra tucks the knitted rug around my legs and wraps her old arms

around me. And as the firelight flickers over the old stone walls of this nameless

place, she clears her knotty throat and says, ‘When Margh Tredannack was a

young man…’


Tredannack

Wednesday, 4th June, 1549

Eselde’s breath caught, ragged, in her throat. Somewhere behind her, a door slammed

and she gasped. The rapid movement of her slippered feet carried her down the stairs and

in careless haste she pulled aside the heavy tapestry that kept the hall warm and the

upstairs rooms stony cold. The hall was empty and she ran across its flagged floor, past

the blackened oak table. She caught her hip against the corner of the dresser and the

pewter platters rattled. There was no time to curse. She bit her lip, lifted her kirtle and

dashed down the kitchen corridor, where the candles flickered in the rush of air left in

her wake.

The heat from the kitchen mingled with the still air and the warmth of the

summer’s day and as she burst into that vast cavern of fire and gleaming brass and

copper, a whiff of currants and saffron teased her nostrils.

She saw Kerra still her wooden spoon. The cook’s cheeks were rosy from heat as

she smiled and shook her head.

Eselde understood and smiled back. Since the wedding, the entire household had

bubbled with the thrill of expectation. A giggle rose in her throat as she ran outside

where the scents of rosemary and roses mingled with that of the gorse and heather and

salty air. Through the kitchen garden and down the stony path. Against the dairy wall,

she stopped, panting, and filled her lungs with the cool freshness of this perfect

afternoon. She closed her eyes and placed her hands upon her lower belly. There, deep

inside, a heavy knot of anticipation had gathered. Any second now, and she would hear

his footsteps getting closer. She smiled in the knowledge that there was nowhere left to

run to. The ground by the carn was nought but granite; the moors nought but prickly

gorse, a ravaged landscape of tin streaming and new mines that went under the ground.

There was nowhere to go but the walled garden. Breathless, she pushed opened the

creaking door and left it ajar.

Margh Tredannack strolled into the kitchen and ran his finger around Kerra’s

cloam bowl. He let his tongue savour the butter and ginger mixture.


‘This way?’

Kerra might clack her tongue and shake her head, but Margh knew. They knew

each other better than any two people in the household. She knew him better than his

parents did and he trusted her with the most secret of secrets. Even if he and Eselde lived

to be a hundred, his wife would never know him as this woman knew him. For who had

sat him upon her lap and comforted him by the warmth of her kitchen fire when he was

stung by a bee? Who told him stories of faeries and piskies and giants, and taught him

childish rhymes? And who, until three weeks ago, had feigned sleep when he crept back

home in the dead still of night, still warm from Eselde’s body. Now, looking into her

eyes, he knew that she was trying vainly to hide her exasperation. Eselde was making a

fool of him. He took a handful of currants from a jar, tossed them into his mouth and,

chewing, grinned. Life would change soon enough when he returned to the garrison.

Hitching up his hose, Margh walked into the sunlit garden and felt his heart soar.

He could not help it. The irresistible temptations Eselde drew across his path were his

daily delights and, fool or no fool, he was determined to live this moment for as long as

he could. Already, they had made love twice today, but it was not enough to quell their

desire. The pout of her lips and the teasing in her blue-green eyes this morning, as Mattie

washed her hair, had been deliberate provocation, and he was held in its thrall. Naked in

her tub, Eselde had arched her back to allow the lavender-scented water to rinse the soap

from her hair. As she did so, her pert and rosy nipples emerged from beneath their soapy

curtain. She knew, of course. She knew exactly what effect any movement had upon

him. Oh, yes, she loved him. But it was a bittersweet reality that he loved her even more.

He fingered the gold cross that hung upon a heavy chain around his neck.

‘Please God,’ he murmured, ‘let her always want me as she wants me now.’

For, while he did not doubt their love, he knew that the certainty of marriage cast

no certainty on its happiness. That much he had learned from Gerent Jewell, whose

parents’ violent quarrels had driven him to the garrison at St Michael’s Mount at the age

of twelve. Margh sighed gloomily. The thought of returning to training next week held

no attraction at all. A month, Humphry Arundell had told him crudely, was sufficient

time to fuck himself senseless and plant his seed.

Telling himself that he was following his governor’s orders, Margh wandered

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 57 KK51 N5641462 along the path that led up the carn, knowing Eselde was waiting somewhere nearby. Last

time — the day before yesterday — he had found her hiding beneath a pile of straw in

the back of the dairy. She would not be there this time. At the walled garden, he stopped

and stared at the door. A knowing smile formed on his lips and he pushed it open across

the long grass. The key had been left in the lock, so he removed it and locked the gate

from the inside. The knowledge that his wife was begging for no escape left him

breathless with wanting her. He ached and burned. Quenching his desire between

Eselde’s pliant legs had never been such a simple pleasure. The fact that it now had

God’s blessing made not one scrap of difference.

‘Wife!’ he called softly as he scanned beds of poppies and daisies, roses and

black knight. ‘Show your face. Your master—’

‘My master what, sir?’

Margh swung around and saw Eselde’s teasing smile, the expectation in her eyes.

She had been hiding behind the door and now stood before him, her back to the hard

stone wall, her wimple in her hand and her long honey-gold tresses tumbling over her

shoulder like those of the maiden she had purported to be just three weeks ago. Her neck

was flushed with heat and her barely concealed breasts heaved with the remains of

exertion. She swayed before him, dancing lightly on the springy grass, turning this way

and that, until Margh could not help but grab her around the waist and pull her into his

hardening body.

‘My master… what?’ Eselde breathed, and she closed her eyes as his lips grazed

her forehead. ‘What do you want of me?’

Their mouths touched and he sank to his knees, dragging her down with him.

Neither spoke another word. They did not hear Eselde’s father, Roger Bosinney, ride

through the gatehouse and trudge up the stairs to his brother-in-law’s study. Nor did they

hear Father Carmynowe pound upon the front door just ten minutes later.

‘Well, ’ere ’tes, then,’ said Father Carmynowe. ‘In all its English glory.’

The leather-bound prayer book thudded loudly onto John of Tredannack’s desk

and sent a swirl of dust motes into the lantern’s flickering glow. In silence, Roger

Bosinney opened it and three pairs of eyes stared in disbelief at the garish display of

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 58 KK51 N5641462 irreverence that greeted them. The language that filled their bewildered gazes looked as

foreign as German. How it would sound on the hallowed air of the parish church did not

bear contemplation.

‘Two shillings worth of blasphemy,’ Tredannack murmured. ‘I cannot believe we

are seeing it. It goes against all that is true and Godly.’ He glanced sharply at the priest.

‘We shall still have our prayers spoke in Cornish, Father, won’t we? They can’t really

mean to take that away from us, can they?’

‘They already have, John. ’Tes all set out in the Act of Uniformity. Seems we are

all English now.’

‘But what about all those poor souls out there who don’t speak a word of it? The

entire service will be meaningless to them.’ Tredannack ran his fingers through his

greying short-cropped hair and wandered aimlessly around the room. ‘Dear God!’

Bosinney flipped through the newly cut pages then slammed the book shut.

‘Dear God, indeed,’ he said, walking to the window. ‘A pity Arundell’s been

called home. I’d have enjoyed the warmth of his dander on this occasion. His wife has

ill-timed her confinement.’

Roger Bosinney was an enormous bear-like man, with a soft, gruff voice and a

brown beard, which every night caressed the cheek of his devoted wife of twenty-two

years. He could not be cross with Arundell’s wife for more than a second.

‘A better Catholic never lived than Humphry Arundell,’ said Tredannack. ‘So,

I’ll wager my new buskins his dander is happily warming itself by the campfires at

Bodmyn. He’ll be daggin’ for a fight. How many men are up there, Father? What does

his message say?’

‘Five hundred and increasing by the hour’s what he says.’ But Father

Carmynowe’s tone indicated his attention had strayed and he started riffling through his

worn parish ledger. ‘The Warden of the Young Men,’ he said, looking straight at his host

and jabbing at a page with his yellowed index finger, ‘has failed to deliver his accounts.

And yet, didn’t they put on an ale night at Spargo’s barn to raise up money for the

candles of Sen Mary Magdalene?’

John of Tredannack looked at his brother-in-law and pursed his lips. Margh had

been warden until his marriage just three weeks ago, but the ale night had been held just

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 59 KK51 N5641462 after Easter.

‘I heard ’twas a grand affair, and yet the proceeds have not found their way to the

chancel.’ Father Carmynowe scratched his head. ‘And I must deliver the accounts to the

parish on Sunday, sir. If you would understand my meaning.’

Tredannack understood the priest’s meaning only too well. His son would be

publicly chastened and humiliated.

‘There are extenuating circumstances,’ he said.

Father Carmynowe pushed his chair back and rose.

‘There are always circumstances,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind much what they are, as

long as the church gets what’s owed.’

‘I shall have a word with him,’ Tredannack said.

The priest said nothing and in the brief silence, the happy sound of squealed

delight came in at the opened window. Bosinney grimaced and pulled it shut with a

bang. Father Carmynowe dragged the prayer book forward and opened it slowly.

‘If Margh cannot meet his responsibilities,’ he said finally, ‘then perhaps he

could repay his church in another way.’

The other two men shared a glance.

‘Happened across Arundell in Penzance,’ the priest continued. ‘Just before he left

the garrison. Said some local support upalong Bodmyn way might be welcome.’

Tredannack stared down at the pages Father Carmynowe was slowly turning.

‘And where was this, Father?’ asked Bosinney. ‘At the Blue Boar? Both in your

cups, were you?’

The priest’s eyes grew cold.

‘Your son-in-law’s reputation could be saved quite simply, Roger.’ He turned

back to Tredannack. ‘He’s had enough training, hasn’t he? Handy with the long-bow,

sword and pike? Used those new guns? What are they? Wheel-locks?’

‘Of course he is. Arundell trained him.’

‘Well, then, I suggest the parish’s young men should make amends for their

reckless handling of its funds. Send him upalong with Jan Spargo. Sancreed is sending

the Trigg twins and young Pascoe and ’awkins , so I don’t see why we shouldn’t join the

effort. Perhaps, when the proper mass is restored, the people won’t mind the leaking

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 60 KK51 N5641462 roof.’ He slammed the ledger closed and set the prayer book upon it. ‘I shall hear from

you by Saturday, as the accounts will be read on Sunday.’ He picked the books up and

thumped the prayer book with his fist. ‘Along with this pile of troach,’ he added.

Neither man moved to bid him farewell. They heard his footsteps fade as he went

downstairs; heard the iron latch on the door mark his departure. Only then, did

Tredannack rise angrily from his chair, fling open the window and roar for his son.

‘He’s a greedy old fool.’ Margh had little else to say. He glanced down at his grass-

stained hose.

‘No, he’s not,’ his father replied. ‘Well, he’s greedy, but he’s not a fool.’

‘Father, you know very well we were raising funds for the gutter over the south

porch. There is plenty of money in the store for St Mary’s candles. What Father

Carmynowe really wants is money for new vestments, and he’s cross because the parish

cannot afford them. I’d say he’s been thieving from all the funds for years and then

accusing the wardens of making mistakes with their accounting.’ Margh blushed and

stared at his father.

‘How do you know this?’

Margh swallowed. There was only one way he could know, and he could hardly

admit to the trysts he and Eselde had kept every Sunday after Mass while Father

Carmynowe was safely ensconced by Tredannack’s generous hearth. No one knew the

presbytery like Margh and Eselde.

‘Father, everyone knows it to be true. For three years, he’s accused the warden of

the Young Maidens of cheating the parish — I know because Eselde told me. The first

time it was only seven pence. Then it was a shilling, and this year it was two shillings.

But he bribes, so as to spare poor folks the shame of being named in church.’

Roger Bosinney regarded his nephew thoughtfully.

‘He’s right, John. As you know, I was Warden for the Young Maidens for several

years. I didn’t tell anyone but I paid the shortfall myself. I couldn’t let him bring shame

upon the girls when he was lying. There was never a coin missing from the maids’ purse,

and never a dishonest figure in those accounts. But I wouldn’t mind a look inside Father

Carmynowe’s ledger. I’ll wager there’s a series of smudges and blotches where he has

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 61 KK51 N5641462 doctored his accounting.’

Margh felt his heart almost stop beating. That ledger was as blotched as Maggie

Poltreen’s piebald pony.

‘That doesn’t explain the problem with the Young Men,’ Tredannack said, and

with a raised eyebrow, elicited from his son the exasperated breath that signalled the

beginning of a lengthy discourse.

‘We bought the pork from Sancreed. Folks won’t come out in the cold and pay

unless it’s Sen Euny’s pork. Anyway, we still owe Mistress Trigg half of the cost

because not everyone who came to the ale night had enough money to pay. Kitto and

Billy was counting on selling an old ewe they bought from Gran Spargo, but it got taken

by a pair of foxes and its hair was matted with blood and worth almost nothing. Jacca

Nankivell did some ploughing for Mistress Trigg but he got paid in honey because

Mistress Trigg’s waiting to be paid for the pork. And old Mother Nankivell took the

honey from him because at Easter he broke her best plate.’ He drew a deep breath.

‘Widow Thomas promised to pay Drew Curnow to milk the cow she shares with the

Widow White. Anyway, Widow Thomas says he was leaving the cow half full at the

evening milking because Widow White’s his mother’s cousin, and she’d get more come

morning. So she’s accusing him of starving her to death and refuses to pay. Instead, he

has to fix the corner of her hedge where it meets the lane to Stevens’ farm, and if he

doesn’t Widow Thomas says she’ll have a word to Maggie Poltreen because trying to

starve an old woman to death is evil.’ Here, Margh raised his eyebrows. Maggie Poltreen

had powers. Any mention of her generally brought closure to a matter. ‘Anyway,’ he

added quietly, ‘I don’t see why Father Carmynowe should be kickin’ up a dido about it.

’Tes a gift to the church, so the church can bloody well wait.’

Roger Bosinney gave a throaty chuckle, but his brother-in-law frowned.

‘Aye,’ Tredannack said. ‘But now someone else is the warden, which means your

term as warden will be recorded poorly in the church records. Your opportunity for

redemption has passed. Neither your mother nor I deserve to have our name tainted. And

neither does Eselde.’

Bosinney growled in gruff concurrence and scratched his beard. He had not

thought of the slur upon his daughter’s reputation.


Neither had Margh. He sat heavily. He did not want to think about it. All he

wanted was to finish his training so he could take over the farm, care for Eselde and raise

their children. The thought of shaming his wife appalled him.

‘I’m sorry.’ Then he turned to his uncle. ‘I’m sorry, Uncle. There is nothing I

would not do to make Eselde — and you — proud of me. You too, Father. And Mother.

But I don’t have the money. It hasn’t been stolen or given away. No one has it, and that

is the problem. There isn’t any money. I saw Billy and Kitto wrasslin’ over a piece of

black bread yesterday. I went to fetch them up for some fishing and there they were in

the lane, fighting for all it’s worth. I thought they must’ve found a good bit of tin, but it

was nothing but a bit of black bread.’ The seriousness of the situation was gripping

Margh as the very words left his lips. ‘Father, I don’t understand what’s happening. Why

isn’t there any money? It hasn’t always been like this, has it? What can I do? Should I

give the church my wedding clothes?’

‘He’s right,’ Roger Bosinney said again. ‘The price of corn is intolerable and our

money is almost worthless.’

‘Our wedding feast must have cost a small fortune—’ Margh went on.

Tredannack waved a hand to silence his son.

‘You are my only son, Margh. And that’s all I shall say upon the matter of your

wedding feast, for it does not solve our problem. Father Carmynowe has suggested that

in lieu of repaying the warden’s dues in cash, that you lead a small contingent of Sen

Yust men and make the parish’s feelings known in Bodmyn.’

Margh’s eyes widened. Never in his wildest dreams…

‘Pa, thank you!’

‘You want to do this?’

‘Aye. If Arundell is going, then so shall I.’

The two older men exchanged glances. ‘Arundell? Does everyone know?’

‘I saw Gerent Jewell down Penzance yesterday, dolly moppin’ with the maids on

the quayside. He’s going today.’

The thought of joining the likes of Gerent Jewell was nothing short of a delight.

After all, what had he been training for if not to march on London, just as his great-

grandfather had done fifty years ago?


‘Could the parish spare Guillo Lapan as well?’

Tredannack smiled. Guillo was a Breton and had fought well for England with

the old King’s army in ’44.

‘Take Guillo and Jan. But we have the harvest to think of. After the past two

seasons, no one can afford to lose one ear of rye. You can go after Whitsun Mass. Then

you can tell young Edward he is ill-advised over his English prayer book.’

Tredannack

Whitsunday, 8th June, 1549

Whitsunday dawned watery gold and soon blossomed with the clear blue of early

summer. Margh picked up the tress of golden hair that arced across his chest and traced

with it a circle around his flat pink nipple. Was he not truly blessed, after all? And he

frowned mildly to think of all the effort he had wasted in denying the evil portent of the

comet that had presided over his birth. For here he was, in his marital bed, and more

than a month had passed since Eselde’s last bleed. Just weeks ago, the whole of

Tredannack had sighed with relief when Mattie displayed to his parents a cloth soaked

with chicken’s blood. Now the lack of Eselde’s blood would be cause for another

celebration. Quite suddenly, it seemed that the world began and ended with the blood of

women. The notion stopped him breathing. Suddenly, while the sweet smell of

honeysuckle and the rays of summer light mingled above the bed, all he could feel was a

creeping sense of dread. Had he dreamt something? Surely this must have come from a

dream. Such bleakness could not have come from life. Not his sweet life; not now…

He kissed the top of Eselde’s head, which rested on his chest, and eased himself

from beneath her. Naked, he padded to the window and looked down upon the gatehouse

and the black sheep that grazed upon the lush sweep of grass just beyond the front door.

He saw his mother come down the path with a basket of the bluebells that carpeted the

woodland’s valley floor. Gathering flowers for the hall was the first thing she did every

morning. He opened the window and heard her singing an old Cornish song.

Heedless of his wife’s slumber, he raised his voice to wish her good morning.

‘Darzona, Ma!’


Johanna Tredannack shaded her eyes and, looking up, saw her son’s bare chest.

‘Darzona, Margh. You must dress at once! We don’t wish to be late for church.’

She paused before adding, ‘Not today.’ A cloud covered the sun.

The rest of the parish clearly shared his mother’s sentiment. Western Cornwall’s

seething souls crammed into the tiny church; men at the front, their womenfolk and

children behind them, and the servants at the rear. Today, though, rank mattered little.

For today, the invisible hand of their English overlords reached out from beyond the

altar and ripped from their tongues the Latin and Cornish that had for centuries washed

the stone walls with devotion.

‘Sounds like Star Chamber,’ Tredannack murmured, as Father Carmynowe’s

tongue fumbled over the new service and his parishioners’ tongues spat out their prayers.

Margh fumed. This was not the Cornish church. It was a travesty. The air was so

thick with rage, he felt sure the rubble-style masonry would crack open and fill the place

with the lilting echoes of a Cornish Lord’s Prayer. If this change proceeded, the day

would come when only the walls would remember.

‘My son —’ he said, and drew looks from all around.

He lowered his eyes. He had not meant to speak. But it was enough — enough to

start…

‘Agan Tas-ny, us yn nef, benygys re bo dha Hanow…’

It was Jan Spargo’s voice. Margh turned and met his friend’s fierce gaze, and

saw the start of a defiant smile. Then, suddenly, all around him, the Lord’s Prayer

erupted like a battle cry. Tonight, he would lead the men of Sen Yust to Bodmyn, armed

with bills and pikes, swords and long-bows, and the heart of big Jan Spargo.

Bodmyn


Only the very old could remember a time when so many people travelled along the

Saints’ Way that led the way through Bodmyn and the sight made their blood tingle with

fear and pride. As the market town’s streets swelled with humanity, the ancients recalled

the last rising, a full fifty-two years ago, and were filled with the bittersweet memory of

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 65 KK51 N5641462 what could happen when Cornish hearts burned with rage. Since Easter, when a few

disgruntled souls grizzled their way around the taverns, the numbers had been rising

steadily. It seemed no one, once arrived, could bring himself to go home. By Whitun’s

Eve, the stirrings of discontent began to emit the fumes of rage and now, with the Mass

already uttered in English, and with the earth and sky still intact, anticipation of their

leader’s arrival filled hearts and made them brave.

‘What if he doesn’t come?’ Two days later, Jan Spargo goaded the drinkers at the

George. Beside him, Margh Tredannack’s gaze was focused on the bustle in the street.

‘He’ll come. A better Catholic never lived,’ someone said.

‘His wife’s confined, they say.’

‘Aye. ’Tes true enough. But she doan need ’im to push the cheald out. He’ll

come.’

‘How do you know? He might be a Catholic, but he’s been a faithful servant to

the King. Fought with the old King in France in ’44.’

‘Aye. And I ’longside ’im. The old King were diff’rent, though.’

‘’Tes true enough. Didn’t see much good coming from all them changes, but I’m

getting used to ’em.’

‘Aye, but this King’s nought but a cheald and don’t know his mind. The crown

sits on a Seymour head. Not a Tudor’s. The boy’s just letting his uncle do what he likes.’

‘Aye, but after all ’e’s seen, what would ’ee expect? Go against the Protector and

just watch him suddenly fall sick with poison.’

Suddenly, a broad hand appeared on the table. Margh glanced up sharply.

‘That’s a dangerous thought,’ the intruder said.

Silence fell and Jan blushed.

‘Sir, the ill advice our King is receiving is about to rob us of our language.’

‘Only in church.’

Margh sighed.

‘It will be the beginning of the end, sir. Surely you must realise that. Should we

lose it at the whim of a few? Are we all to be English, just for the sake of the Protector’s

ears?’

‘You speak the language well enough, young man!’


With that, the man returned to the corner table by a mullioned window, where he

had been reading.

‘We speak Cornish at home,’ said Jan, raising his voice to cover the distance his

adversary had created. ‘In Guillo’s house, I speak Breton, and when I go downalong

Penzance, I ’ear Spanish and Portuguese. In church we have our Latin and when Lord

Godolphin comes a’calling, he talks his brand of French. We Cornish know many

tongues, and English is neither here nor there to us.’

‘Oh, yes, and how often does Lord Godolphin call on the likes of you?’

‘Well he don’t, but if he did —’

‘You’re a liar and an imbecile. Such a confusion of tongues can only have come

from the first sin.’

Margh bristled. ‘A Tower of Babel you will not find in Cornwall, sir. What you

will find is a people who know their place and the place of their neighbours, and we will

speak the language that fits our business. In church, we shall have Latin.’

‘Such impudence from a babe. You, sir, are English and you serve an English

King.’

‘No, sir. I am Cornish and I serve an English King. ’Tes a pity the King did not

know his father better — he might have understood.’

‘Cornish. English. I am both. The difference is not worth fighting for. I will be

English until the day I die, and I will serve England’s King.’

With that, the publican charged through a swing door, elbowed his way through

the crowd and slammed a pewter platter onto the table in front of his refractory

customer.

‘We all serve the King, Sir Jeffery,’ he said, crossing arms that promised brute

strength. ‘And I serve star-gazey pie. I would be much obliged if you’d eat it.’

Laughter rose to the rafters, but faded away as Sir Jeffrey’s face turn pale with

fury. The eyes of the pilchards that jutted through the crust seemed to issue a challenge

and someone sniggered.

‘Your star-gazey pie is one of my favourites, Mr White,’ Sir Jeffrey said with

quiet loathing. But his appetite failed him and he had swallowed only one mouthful

when the door burst open. Margh looked up to see Gerent Jewell barge in.


‘They’ve finally convinced Arundell,’ Gerent said. ‘He’s on his way. He will

talk firstly to the mayor and then he will address us in the marketplace.’

Another blast of fresh air announced the arrival of a man whose demi-gown

indicated wealth far greater than that of the man staring distastefully at the pilchards

thrusting out of his pie crust.

‘You’re Margh Tredannack?’ he asked, his tone friendly.

Margh nodded, and rose immediately. So, too, he observed, did the man who had

refused to eat his pie. But that man walked out the door.

‘John Wynslade.’ The newcomer shook Margh’s hand. ‘Arundell suggested I

find you and Gerent Jewell.’

Wynslade! Margh had heard Arundell speak of him. He was an Esquire of the

White Spur.

‘Honoured to meet you, sir. And this is Jewell.’

‘Excellent. Welcome to Bodmyn. I’d like both of you alongside me.’

Margh knew immediately that John Wynslade would command the respect and

loyalty of every man who marched behind him.

‘Sir, the man who was sitting in the corner — he is gone now, but I fear he is not

for our cause. Did you see him?’

Wynslade nodded, and smiled knowingly. ‘That was Sir Jeffrey Edwardes. We

may need to deal with him.’ Then he turned to Gerent. ‘And you, Jewell, if my memory

serves me well, nearly drowned in my duck pond at Tregarrick, when you were barely

two.’ Gerent’s blue eyes softened. ‘It was just before your parents left my service there

to take over the lease at Constantine. We had a farewell banquet for them. I hope they

are well?’

Finally, Gerent smiled.

‘Yes, sir. If their fighting is any indication. I hear they are still deafening their

neighbours with their endless quarrels.’ Gerent’s smile was as sunny as his eyes had

been glacial. ‘I confess the only thing I remember about your estate at Tregarrick is a

little black dog. A spaniel? I don’t recall anything about a duck pond.’

Wynslade nodded. ‘Aye. That was William’s dog.’ Then, with a hand on each of

the two younger men’s backs, he guided them towards the stables.


‘Ah! I remember playing with William!’ Gerent exclaimed.

‘Well, then, you’re about to renew an old acquaintance. He’s just stabling his

horse.’

Half an hour later they rode through the narrow streets of Bodmyn and along the

northern road. With Gerent and the two affable Wynslades riding at his side, Margh felt

strangely reassured. When the flying swallows of Arundell’s banner emerged from

Helland’s steep-sided valley, leading a party of horsemen, he knew the Cornish army

was in good hands.

Despite the excitement running hot through the marketplace, Arundell spent an hour in

the council room talking quietly with Mayor Henry Bray. Finally, he mounted a crate

placed at the side of the square and looked down at the throng waiting to hear what he

might say. Standing to one side on the platform erected for his commanding officer,

Margh tried to count them. At least two thousand, he thought. Maybe three. But the task

was hopeless, for although the crowd was still and silent, it swelled out into the nearby

streets, and Lord only knew how many were tucked away in the lanes and taverns and

bawdy houses, all just waiting for some action.

They did not wait for long. The burgeoning throng had for weeks made life

increasingly difficult for the good citizens of Bodmyn. They took up too much space,

demanded too much food, and the stench of their waste was worse than the inherent

threat that lay in the vast array of weapons lying dormant but ready in parlours,

churchyards, taverns and alleyway. Bray had agreed, therefore, to allow Arundell to

make camp at Kynock Castle just half a mile out of town.

So, with instructions for an orderly departure and God’s blessing upon their

heads, they bade a final farewell to their wives and mothers, filled the taverns one last

time, then gathered up their pikes and bills, longbows and swords, and carts to carry

sufficient furniture to serve their commander’s scant requirements, and marched towards

the ruin on the hill.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 69 KK51 N5641462 Kynock Castle


Roofless, Kynock’s ancient walls offered little protection from the elements and the rush

lights flickered uncertainly over crumbling masonry. Arundell sat on a blackened oak

chair at the head of an old table borrowed from a nearby farmhouse and surveyed the

men who would form his council. They fell silent, certain of his skills, but uncertain as

to what to expect from this man who had been dragged from his wife’s bedside to lead

an army of Cornish farmers and fishermen and miners. His face was older than its thirty-

six years and his brown hair, cut short, had begun to grey at the temples. At his right

hand sat John Wynslade with his distinguished yet amiable air, then Robert Smyth —

Arundell’s young and handsome brother-in-law — and Thomas Holmes, a servant to his

cousin, Sir John Arundell. On Arundell’s left were his sour-faced secretary, Kestell, then

Mayor Bray and a handful of priests. Standing behind them were five of Arundell’s men

from St Michael’s Mount and William Wynslade.

‘Well, here we are. And there are some who would say we are at war. I must say

at the outset, I feel some trepidation about this enterprise. However, here we are, and

with no choice but to run this army —’ Arundell smiled wryly and waved towards the

thick stone wall that hid from view the mass of men sitting idly on the slopes, ‘— in

proper military fashion. And if we are to reach London unchallenged, we must know at

the outset how many men we have, who their masters are and what weapons they have

brought with them. We also need to clarify our goals and draft some articles of objection

to the prayer book that we can present to the King.’

After Arundell had issued his military orders, the priests set about assuring every

man present that their cause was not only Godly and right, but within the bounds of law.

For the King ruled only by the will of his people, and if his people had a grievance, then

he was bound to listen. And listen he would, when this peaceful Christian army reached

London.

Amid the droning and pontificating, Margh’s thoughts began to wander. Was it

so much concern with God that had driven the men of Cornwall to converge on

Bodmyn? Or was it something more? He was overwhelmed by a sense of their loss; of

their harsh lives becoming hungrier and poorer by the week. The little grey churches that

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 70 KK51 N5641462 dotted their wild landscape might look forlorn, but their candles and stained glass poured

the colours of Heaven into simple souls. Already the altars and rood screens had been

ripped down, and their beloved saints smashed. At Sen Yust, the last thing Margh had

seen was the Nankivell boys angrily whitewashing over the old frieze of Christ’s

warning to Sabbath breakers while a commissioner from Exeter watched. He wondered

whether anyone would ever see it again. It was the same relentless destruction, all over

Cornwall, and the same boiling resentment. For what was the point of worship when it

was as bleak as a man’s earthly existence?

Within an hour, down on the fields, the priests had set up trestles and the men

were lining up to register. The setting sun turned the clouds to a haze of purple and

orange and when a trumpet blast rent the stilling air, the gathered army hushed. As the

Cornish flag was raised, it was picked up by the breeze that was the moor’s constant

companion. Its black background was hard-etched against the pale sky and its white

cross shone.

Father Moreman crossed himself and the Cornish army knelt as one in prayer.

Then silence fell again as Arundell swore allegiance to God and his King. Then, as the

words of the oath erupted from his throat, Margh felt for the leather thong around his

neck and took hold of the hare’s foot Eselde had given him. He had done it. He was

sworn in. A real soldier, and about to march upon the King. Somehow, it did not feel

quite real.

By nightfall, Margh and Gerent had been elevated to the rank of captain and were

assigned to Colonel Wynslade’s division. But while Margh was to serve with Robert

Smyth’s unit, Gerent and some others from the Mount were ordered to return to the west.

‘Word has it the Godolphins have taken refuge at the Mount,’ Gerent told Margh.

‘Nothing’s surer than they’ll try to send word to the King. We’re to besiege the place

before they have a chance to build up any defences, and bring the prisoners back to

Lanson.’

That night the hillside was dotted with small camp fires and the ancient stone of the

castle glowed in their light. The movement of rush lights was ceaseless, betraying the

constant stream of townsfolk. Many of the men stayed to join the cause. Many of the

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 71 KK51 N5641462 women, laden with soup and bread, found a summer night of lovemaking beneath the

clear black sky. Carts from the nearby breweries brought kegs of ale and sympathetic

farmers sent freshly slaughtered pork, lamb and beef. Farm girls came for fun and some

found more than they wanted. Snatches of laughter and song floated on the cool breeze.

Margh had settled around a fire on the remnants of a weed-ridden terrace with

Will Wynslade, Robert Smyth and half a dozen others. They all seemed to know each

other well, with many related by either blood or marriage. But youth drew Margh and

William together, and already they had compared various aspects of their horses’

physiques, with Margh’s big bay, Ruan, accorded a marginally superior shape to the

nose and Will’s chestnut, Zeus, claiming better withers. All in all, Margh conceded,

Will Wynslade’s horse was a beautiful creature. The sort of animal it took wealth to buy.

‘If only we could drink ourselves into a stupor and fall asleep under a cart,’

Margh mused. ‘My friends are in their cups out there somewhere, or snoring their heads

off.’

‘We shall make up for it when all this is over,’ Will Wynslade said. ‘What say

you, Tredannack, Smyth? When we return from London, we shall meet in Bodmyn and

settle by the fire at the George, and drink until the last man drops.’

Margh raised his tankard to toast the agreement and Will turned to one of his

men.

‘Bring me my harp, Jago,’ he said. ‘We shall have some music.’

‘Music my arse,’ a voice said from the darkness. ‘The General is calling for his

council.’

‘If we are going to present our grievances to the King,’ Arundell said, when everyone

was seated, ‘we need to ensure that our words are pretty and cannot be misunderstood.

We need to state our case clearly, but without causing aggravation to this child who rules

us —’

‘Not to mention his dear Uncle Somerset!’

‘A pox on Somerset,’ came a voice from the shadows.

‘Thank you!’ John Wynslade thumped the table. ‘It is true, of course. We are all

aware of the Protector’s influence over little Lord Misrule.’


‘Precisely,’ Arundell said. ‘But let there be no words that can be construed as

treachery. It is Somerset we are concerned with. Already we have a draft of our

demands, but I am not yet satisfied. We must insist that while the King — child as he is

— has the right to rule, he is not of an age to be making changes to the way we worship.

Are we agreed? This is fundamental to our cause.’

The candles flickered in the breath emitted by the general rumbling of consensus.

‘Do we know his age?’ Mayor Bray asked.

‘He turns twelve in October,’ Wynslade put in. ‘Barely half way to his majority.’

The mayor snorted. ‘I have a twelve year-old lad at home and I should no more

take his advice than say ‘rabbit’ in a fishing boat.’

Everyone laughed.

‘All right, then,’ Arundell continued. ‘Lord knows we suffered enough changes

during his father’s reign, but things have gone too far. I submit that we request that any

changes to the way we worship should be deferred until the King has attained his

majority.’

‘We shall demand it, General, sir,’ said Father Moreman. ‘We must be firm.’

‘There are those who would abolish the justices of the peace,’ said Bray. ‘Their

Latin is simply inadequate for the task.’ He glanced around the table uncertainly. ‘So

some are saying.’

Arundell raised his eyebrows. ‘True. And others are complaining about the high

cost of the courts.’ He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘I find myself

questioning whether these issues justify a march on London. It can easily be argued that

they do not.’

‘I agree,’ said Wynslade. ‘But we risk losing some of our support if we do not

recognise all of the grievances sitting out there on the hillside.’

‘I understand that, John, but if our demands are to be considered at the highest

level, they must concern the King. I am inclined to argue that a King not yet attained of

his majority should concern himself with the provisions of his father’s will. Young

Edward would do well to have his Uncle Somerset bear this in mind — for if the

Protector should incite the King’s subjects into rebellion against him, then it is he who

should beware the cry of treason.’ He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. ‘I say that

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 73 KK51 N5641462 when we present our demands to His Majesty, we will make him see that our grievances

are not peculiar to us Cornishmen, but of concern far and wide, across his realm. These

other issues may be seen to be too local, too remote from London, to capture the interest

of either the King or his uncle, and I do not fancy marching all that way without

addressing one or the other.’

‘But it’s the very fact that we are Cornish and not English that drives this,’

Wynslade insisted. ‘To have the English language forced upon us — ’

Father Moreman cleared his throat.

‘I feel it is God’s will that we focus our attention on matters relating to Him and

the way we worship. We Cornishmen have had enough change and we shall have our old

Mass. Our demands must be clear and firm.’

Arundell nodded. ‘Yes, yes. Of course. And that is the issue the King must

deliberate upon, in the context of his father’s will. But we don’t want to vex the boy. I

shall leave the finer details on the religious points to you, Father, and Fathers Barrett and

Thompson. Anything else?’

Margh felt his heart pounding. A strange echo resounded in the deepest recesses

of his mind — the Lord’s Prayer, its Cornish lilt resonating around the stone church at

Sen Yust.

‘So it is clear then? We shall have our Mass spoken in Latin,’ said Father

Moreman. ‘We shall not have English. We refuse it.’

‘Should we not demand it in Latin and Cornish?’ John Wynslade asked. ‘As

always? There are those in the west who know no English at all.’

Margh stared at John Wynslade, scarcely able to believe the oneness of their

thinking, and felt a huge wave of relief as a general murmur of approval rumbled around

the table. Then the talk turned to the demise of priests’ vestments, the loss of monastery

lands, and morality of the gentry who had added to their wealth by buying the latter from

the Crown. All of it had only served to make the penniless poorer and hungrier and

angrier.

A sudden flurry of activity in a crumbling ante-chamber caused everyone to stop

talking and, at a nod from Arundell, Margh Tredannack drew his dagger and strode to

the door. A lad with a shock of hair and terrified eyes was wrestling with one of the

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 74 KK51 N5641462 guards.

‘What’s this?’ Margh demanded.

‘Just barged in, Cap’n,’ the guard said. ‘Says he has a message for the General.’

‘Let him go, man. Now, boy, where is this message, and I shall see if it is meant

for the General or not.’

Sidling away from the guard, the boy took from his pouch a dirty scrap of

parchment and gave it to Margh.

‘’Tes from Matthew White at the George, sir. I’m ’is son, sir.’

Margh put the note into the glow of a rush light and read quickly. He blanched

and felt a thousand possibilities run through his mind.

‘Stay here for a minute, lad.’ Then he looked at the guard. ‘Don’t let him go.

Arundell may have a reply.’

He took a deep breath and strode back into the council room.

When Arundell looked up, he saw coming into the room a soldier whose every

nuance he could read. But this time, in Captain Tredannack’s eyes, he could not tell if he

was seeing dread or exultation. He raised an eyebrow.

‘A message from the George, sir,’ Margh answered the unspoken question. ‘It

seems the people of Sampford Courtenay have forced their priest to put on his

vestments. They’ve killed someone protesting against them.’

The intake of breath was audible. Arundell’s chair scraped on the flags as he rose

to take the parchment.

‘Send the messenger in.’

Arundell took just one look at him and bade him wait outside.

‘But sir —’

‘What Mattie?’

‘I also have news from Helland. Your babe is come. A girl.’

‘A girl?’ Arundell smiled. He was supposed to want a boy. But he had already

been blessed with two sons — three if he counted Giles. A girl child would be one for

teasing and spoiling and would be a good help for Elizabeth. He waved the boy away

and turned back to his council.

‘Well, this is not a ruse, then.’ He scratched his head. ‘Devon is in uproar. This

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 75 KK51 N5641462 changes things.’

‘But, Humphry, this is good news!’ the mayor said.

Arundell swung around. ‘How can we be sure of that?’

‘We have allies. What could be better?’

‘I don’t see that as something we can take for granted, Henry. They’re out killing

reformists while we want to march to London to parley with the King. What use is such

an ally?’

‘Perhaps if we could get them organized, they could march with us?’ Wynslade

suggested. ‘The numbers would show a force to be reckoned with.’

Margh exchanged glances with Will, who shrugged.

‘Do we know if they have a leader?’ asked Smyth.

‘What we know, Robert,’ roared Arundell, ‘is that the situation in Devonshire has

turned nasty, just when we want to march through the middle of it to get to London and

then back again. We do not need this, and I do not like it.’

Margh met Smyth’s eyes and felt the poor man’s moment of humiliation.

‘Holy Mother of God,’ Arundell continued. ‘All of you, leave me in peace. You

priests have more work to do and the rest of you should get some sleep.’ He turned to

Wynslade. ‘I hope you’re not tired, John. We need to talk this through. If we don’t get

this right, we’ll find ourselves on hurdles bound for Tyburn.’

After hours of talk, Arundell dispatched a messenger to his estate in Crediton and

Wynslade ordered his son and fifty men to prepare themselves to follow. The two

leaders sat in silence as the first rays of dawn lit upon the old ramparts and streamed

through vast spaces of missing wall. Then the cranky hee-hawing of a donkey shattered

the peace. Wynslade leaned out through a glassless window. Below him, Jago was

hoisting Will’s harp onto the back of the reluctant animal. Eventually the servant forced

the beast into action and set off after his young master. Wynslade smiled and lit his pipe.

That harp would have some songs to sing when all of this was over.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 76 KK51 N5641462 Bodmyn

Thursday, 12th June, 1549

Not a soul was in his or her usual place of employment on the day six thousand

Cornishmen rode and marched through Bodmyn. Armed with their acclaimed longbows

and a vast array of swords, bills and pikes, and the cannons taken from Pendennis and St

Mawes, they marched behind their captains and priests, the latter carrying banners and

crosses, pyx and candlesticks. Pipers piped and drummers drummed. The air was filled

with the tramping of hooves and feet and the gentle singing of hymns and gladiatorial

songs of victory. The sound of children cheering and women weeping kept them

company until the wild moor and endless sky rose before them and the sound of their

marching feet was accompanied by nothing more than the hollow ring of the wind. It

was some time before anyone dared break the spell of isolation, and then it was a priest

who struck up another hymn.

Two hours later, on a windswept hillside, they came upon a wayside cross that

marked a crossroad. Arundell rode down the line until he came to Smyth’s unit.

‘Good luck, Smyth,’ he said, and shook his major’s hand. ‘Keep Plymouth safe

and deal with anyone who would get in our way. Be tender with old man Grenville.’

Arundell turned to Margh and inhaled sharply.

‘God’s speed, Captain.’ He had no idea what to expect from this untested young

man. Unlike Jewell, he was not a born soldier. If anything, he had the disposition for life

at Court. But it was this very gentleness, Arundell had confided to Smyth and Wynslade,

that would ensure no harm came to the women and children at Trematon. After all,

Smyth’s commission was not merely to capture Plymouth, but to take Sir Richard

Grenville. For with Grenville taken and his servants free to join the march, the King’s

strength in the west would be severely diminished.

Margh saluted.

‘Thank you, sir. We shall take Plymouth, and keep it.’

Arundell nodded and gave the signal to depart. Smyth raised his standard, a

trumpet sounded, and three hundred men slowly turned to the south. From the crest of a

hill, Margh looked back as the tail end of the army they had left disappeared into the

mist coming down over the moors. He felt suspended in space. At the mercy of whatever

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 77 KK51 N5641462 force might go with them. He felt helpless and indestructible all at once. Anything might

happen. He might die tomorrow, or live forever. He looked at the handsome, dashing

Smyth and prayed his new leader was as competent as he looked.

The horsemen among them felt privileged, for the way was difficult and the foot

soldiers were quickly exhausted by maneuvering cannons around bogs and dragging

them up and down steep hills. It was an exhausting journey and everyone was spent by

the time Smyth called a halt in a field outside Liskeard. Their provisions were scant —

just enough to last until they reached the bountiful port — but spirits were high. The

townsfolk brought ale and stories, now sweeping the country, about Jewell’s swift

success at the Mount, where he had used bales of hay to protect his men against attack,

until its defenders had run out of ammunition. By then, they had been close enough to

attack a spent force of defenceless old men and a few women.

When Margh finally settled down in the lee of a hedge, wrapped in his demi-

gown, he gazed up at the mass of stars in the moonless sky. Sleep tried to come, but

failed. Strange thoughts eddied through his half conscious mind. Gerent and his bales of

hay. Eselde. And Father Carmynowe’s accounting books. It took a shove from a friendly

boot to stir him from the deepest slumber, and he was absurdly surprised to find that day

was breaking. Within half an hour, they were moving.

‘Who are you? Who’s your master?’ Smyth asked one group they found skulking

in the shadows of a high-hedged lane.

A young man indicated the keep of Trematon Castle, towering over them on its

motte.

‘Grenville?’

‘Aye. No more though. We’re joining you.’

Margh met Smyth’s glance and raised his eyebrows.

‘Can you deliver him to us?’ Smyth asked. ‘We wouldn’t harm him. Does he

know you’ve deserted?’

‘No, sir. He’s still abed.’

‘Well, well.’ Smyth was grinning. ‘Shall we wake him?’

For half an hour, they waited at the gatehouse while the deserters convinced

Grenville’s remaining guards to fetch their master. Finally, an old man in a dressing

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 78 KK51 N5641462 gown, fur slippers and night cap appeared.

‘Can you storm the place?’ Smyth whispered to Margh.

Margh’s spine tingled. The waiting seemed endless. Grenville beseeched his men

to return to the castle without success and finally, when his guards had lost interest and

he was slumped despondently against the stone wall, Margh gave the shout. They

stormed across the bailey and marched down barely lit corridors. Trematon was at its

most vulnerable hour. Witless servants, sleep-drunk women and children, and boozy

men almost slumped into their arms, as did an impressive cache of jewels collected from

various bed chambers. Still shouting orders and with his blood surging, Margh accosted

the chatelaine and took the keys. With scarcely a whimper of protest, the entire

household allowed itself to be locked in the crumbling keep and the men, Grenville

included, were chained up as prisoners. When everyone and everything was secured,

Margh walked along the ramparts. It was so still. Barely a breeze. To the south, lights

twinkled — lamps on the ships moored in the Tamar’s pitch black mass of water. He

shivered, glanced once more around the crumbling wreck of Trematon, and walked back

to the gatehouse.

‘Take this lot back to Lanson, Tredannack,’ Smyth demanded. ‘I don’t want to be

encumbered by prisoners as we take Plymouth.’

Margh saluted. He was flushed with confidence.

‘With pleasure, sir.’

If this had been so easy, how could Cornwall fail?

Lanskellan, East Cornwall

Saturday, 21st June, 1549

Jenna Rosewarne was hiding from her cousin. Alfred reeked of old onions and had warts

on his hands. And she knew what marriage meant. It meant warty hands on her naked

flesh and his horrid big thing trying to get inside her. It meant being devoured by his

lips and covered by his breath and — St Piran help her! He was coming! Light footsteps

tripped down the stairs. Any second, their owner would brush past the curtain that hid

the ends of the wide stone window ledge upon which she stood. She flattened herself

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 79 KK51 N5641462 into the cold stone architrave and held her breath as the footsteps passed — the light and

lively tread that Lady Penrose equated with English refinement — and faded into the

gloom. Only when she knew Alfred was safely ensconced in the warm embrace of sherry

and the bonhomie of the male half of his family, would she venture downstairs. If only

her uncle had not insisted on locking the gates, she could have gone for a long ride out

onto the moor. But two days ago, Arundell’s army had occupied Lanson Castle and, until

they had crossed the Tamar, Lanskellan was in a state of self-imposed siege.

Jenna sighed and stared at the tapestry of ripening corn, verdant pasture and

vegetable crops that spread away to the south. The cottages, hamlets and hedges, the

lanes, coppices and woods. From her bedchamber, on the western side of the house, she

could see Kilmar Tor’s ragged silhouette thrusting skywards from the moor’s edge.

Beyond it, far away beside the Camel Estuary, was Trevanson. Home. She sighed again.

Damn her father’s sister, and the wealthy man she had married. And damn the wasted

summer that stretched ahead. She could be fishing with her father.

Carefully, she peeped out from behind the curtain. Not a soul. Accompanied only

by the dull whoosh of her amber kirtle, she fled downstairs. She may not be allowed out

to ride — and damn Arundell, too — but she could still steal one of Mrs Woolcock’s

oatcakes for Jonathan.

‘I wish, Jonathan,’ she told the stout black pony, as she stroked his nose, ‘that

you and me could ride out of ’ere and never come back.’

She loved Jonathan because he had made a liar of Alfred Penrose by succumbing

to her lightness of weight and gentle hands. She was the only person he did not toss off,

and riding him every day had become her only real pleasure. It was even better than the

gown of fine red wool Aunt Lydia had made for the Penroses’ summer ball. Now,

though, Jonathan snuffled noisily at her sleeves and bodice, trying to find the treat he

knew she had hidden.

‘You old bufflehead! Won’t even say please! I’m sure you’ve learned your

manners from Alfred.’ She laughed as his warm snorty breath tickled the skin inside her

elbow. She tousled his forelock and retrieved the oatcake from her pocket. ‘A’right! You

win! Here you are!’ She held the offering on her flattened palm. ‘At least you don’t

smell as bad as Alfred. He utterly stinks. I wouldn’t have him if he were the last man on

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 80 KK51 N5641462 earth.’

‘You little slut!’

Alfred’s voice sliced through her like a blade of icy dread. She spun around,

blood draining from her head. He was barely visible in the dimness of the stables, but the

fading rays of the sun coming in through the doors found something upon which to

gleam. Her cousin was holding a small dagger. Surely he wouldn’t…. But she sidled

around Jonathan, desperate for the pony’s questionable protection.

‘You come here as a guest, expecting to be treated as a lady and insult me to my

face.’

Jenna’s face had turned white, but her thinking was quick.

‘I have every respect for my aunt and uncle, Mr Penrose, but I shall never marry

you. I would rather be a peasant than a lady, if it meant marrying you.’ She paused. ‘And

I edn’t no slut.’

Alfred Penrose snorted. ‘So, my little cousin is a virgin, is she? I find that a little

hard to believe.’

Jenna forced a laugh. ‘And yet you want me as your wife.’ Deftly, silently, she

lifted the latch on the gate. ‘I don’t think you know what you want.’ She placed her foot

on the middle railing of the stall and clutched at Jonathan’s mane. ‘You only want

whatever it is you can’t have. Even if it is a slut.’

‘Come out of there,’ Alfred demanded, ‘and apologise.’

‘Say sorry to you? Whatever for?’

‘You said dreadful things about me, and I demand an apology.’

‘Well, I never apologise for speaking what’s true,’ she said, smiling into the

gloom. ‘Your name might smell sweetly, Alfred Penrose, but I would rather put my nose

in a bowl of rotten turnips.’

‘Since when was it a woman’s choice, Jenna Rosewarne? If I’ve a mind to get

my nose in your rose bush, cousin, you’ll have no veto. I’ll not take your refusal, and

when I’ve had you, you’ll have no choice but to marry me.’

He strode towards her, thick thighs rippling beneath knitted hose. Jenna felt panic

strike. Alfred grabbed at the unlatched gate and, when it opened unexpectedly, slipped

on some straw. Startled, Jonathan moved sideways and almost crushed Jenna against the

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 81 KK51 N5641462 railings. But it was the instant of confusion she needed. She put her weight onto her

elevated left foot, grabbed the pony’s mane and swung her right leg over his bare back.

As she urged him forward, Alfred, recovering his balance, was knocked sideways and

left sprawled on the ground.

Never before had Jenna felt such a rush of exhilaration. Yet, even as she gripped

Jonathan with hands and legs and felt his speed beneath her, she wondered how she

would ever escape the evil intent that dwelt within these grounds. The gates were locked.

No one in; no one out. They were Sir Charles’s orders. Arundell and his rebel army was

simply too great a threat.

Then, just as they reached the front of the house and Jonathan was steadying his

panicked run and slowing to a canter, two men dropped from the pear tree by the wall.

Jonathan reared, and Jenna fell in a jumble. The impact shuddered through her lithe

body, but the shock of it was nothing compared to the realization that the point of a

sword was pressing into her neck.

‘What have we ’ere, then?’ a man’s voice demanded to know. ‘Captain! Come

and see this pretty little prize.’

Jenna was stuck leaning back on her elbows with her brown eyes frozen wide in

terror. Towering over her were two armed men, dressed for combat. One, short and bald,

held the sword, and looked as though nothing would please more than an order to slit her

throat. The other had the same look in his eyes as Alfred had just a minute ago.

She dared not move. Where Jonathan had gone, she had no idea. Then, the

silence was broken by shouting, and the sound of running footsteps echoed through the

open windows of the house. Lanskellan was being overrun.

‘Don’t hurt us, please!’ she begged, and tried to ease her neck away from the

blade.

‘Then don’t move.’ This was a new voice. She moved only her eyes to look at

him. Younger. But with authority over the others. ‘You’re a Penrose.’ It was a

statement.

Jenna swallowed dryly.

‘I am a Rosewarne,’ she croaked. And for good measure, added, ‘Won’t ever be a

Penrose.’


Captain Margh Tredannack tried not to smile. Another war of the roses, he

observed, and immediately sided with the one sprawled before him. Her kirtle was in

disarray, revealing fine ankles and shapely calves. A wild rose, he added. And so very

vulnerable. Not a thorn in sight.

‘Put your sword away, Pascoe.’ He reached down to her. ‘Captain Tredannack,

Miss Rosewarne,’ he said, and, when she took his hand, hauled her gently to her feet.

‘Are you armed?’

Jenna gave a little snort of derision.

‘Armed? If I were armed, Alfred Penrose would be as lusty as my father’s little

steer.’

Margh grimaced. ‘I see. Well, then, why don’t you and I sit over here and you

can tell me why you were engaged in such a furious episode of riding.’ He looked at his

men. ‘You two, stand guard. The others will deal with the rest of the household.’

Beneath the pear tree, and rarely sat upon, was an ancient stone seat, carved with

Cornish knots and covered with lichen and moss. He indicated to Jenna to sit, yet

remained standing, his arms folded across his padded doublet, his stockinged legs apart.

‘Now then—’

‘Sir, before you start — ’ Jenna trembled.

‘It’s all right,’ Margh said. ‘I don’t plan to harm you.’

But the barely suppressed horror that was Alfred Penrose had already surged

through the layer of shock Jenna felt at being waylaid by soldiers. She would have her

revenge.

‘It’s not that, sir. It’s Alfred, you see. Sir Charles’s son. He was in the stables just

two minutes ago, if you want to take him.’

Margh sensed trouble. What ambush was being laid here?

‘You would hand in your kin? You are kin, are you not?’

Jenna tightened her jaw and stared at her inquisitor’s hose. They needed

mending.

‘He is not my kin,’ she breathed through clenched teeth and returned her

stubborn gaze to his face. ‘I have disowned him.’

‘Why?’


‘He —’ Jenna could not say it. Tears filled her eyes and she watched the grass at

her feet blur. ‘He has threatened to force me to the altar.’ She covered her face with her

hands. Her hair fell forward in long twisting black-brown tresses. Searching her pockets,

she found a piece of string and started to tie it back. ‘Rather die, I would,’ she said,

viciously tying a bow. ‘He can go to the devil, he can. If it wasn’t for Jonathan —’

‘Jonathan?’

‘My pony.’ She flicked her hand towards the gate.

Margh raised his eyebrows and turned to find five of his men entranced by the

dishevelled sight before them.

‘Well?’ he challenged.

‘We have Sir Charles, Captain.’

‘He has a son. Alfred. Search the stables. Find him and take all the horses —

including the maid’s pony, if you can find it. All the gates to this wretched place are

locked, so neither of them can have gone far.’

‘Go with care,’ Jenna blurted out. ‘My cousin is carrying a dagger.’

Captain Tredannack bit his lip to suppress his wry amusement. Cousins, after all.

He had married his.

‘A’right,’ he told his men. ‘You heard. Go with care.’

A strange silence descended over the garden. In the distance, Jenna could see Sir

Charles, stumbling at sword-point towards the gate and fumbling with his keys. Sounds

of sobbing, screaming and hysterical pleading floated down from the first storey rooms

and a surge of fear welled inside her. She didn’t care what they did with Alfred. But she

paled as she thought of her aunt and cousins.

‘If you hurt my aunt — ’

‘Your aunt? Well, well. I shall not hurt your aunt. Despite what you’ve heard, we

don’t want to hurt anyone. But we need to take men supporting the Prayer Book into safe

custody.’ He paused. ‘Stand up, please.’

Jenna’s heart thundered in her chest and her blood ran cold. Her legs had lost all

strength. She could not move.

A triumphant cry came from the rear corner of the house. Across the lawn, they

could see three soldiers with a stumbling and cursing young man with light brown hair.


‘The cousin who is not your kin?’ Margh inquired, and noticed the dagger Pascoe

was waving at him.

‘Yes. Told nothing but the truth, I have, Captain. Now let me go.’

Margh had never felt so wretched. He should be letting her stay here with her

aunt. Instead, he wanted her — and her pony — with him. He put his hands on her

shoulders to quell her trembling.

‘I said, stand up. I meant it.’ He grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet.

Deftly, trying to ignore her trembling, he took the string from her hair and tied her wrists

behind her. He did not like doing this. She would be safer this way. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said

loudly. ‘I don’t believe your story and cannot leave you here. You will have to come

with us.’

Alfred’s laughter could be heard coming from across the lawn. ‘We shall always

be together, cousin,’ he mocked. ‘Have her follow me, you rebel scourge. She is

promised.’

‘No!’ Jenna shook her head in desperation and struggled vainly to free herself.

‘Don’t lock me up. Please. I couldn’t bear it.’

‘I won’t. And I promise I shall not harm you. But you will come with me, Miss

Rosewarne. As a prisoner.’ He drew her closer and lowered his voice. ‘That way, when

Cornwall is free of the Protector’s interference and we have all gone home, you can deny

betraying your cousin.’

It was the best he could think of, but it did nothing to sway her.

‘I care nothing for what my cousin thinks, whether it be of me or of the King or

the Protector.’ Jenna’s throat burned. Her voice was low and tight, filled with venom. ‘I

would happily betray him if it meant I never had to see him again, and I don’t care if he

knows it.’

Margh wanted to believe she was no threat to their cause. Indeed, with that wild

little pony beneath her, and if she could be trusted, she could be of use. He bit his lip and

absent-mindedly watched his soldiers pushing their prisoners through the gate and out

onto the road, where they would be tied to various carts and horses. From inside the

house came the sounds of female distress and beside him, the girl responded with a raw

sob. He closed his eyes as though their lids might shut out the sound.


‘Come with me,’ he said softly. ‘I shall prove to you that my men are not hurting

your aunt.’

With a firm hand on her back, he urged her towards the front terrace, up a flight

of shallow steps and into the coldness of Lanskellan’s cavernous hall.

‘Aunt!’ Jenna hands might be tied, but nothing could bind her anger. In the

sudden gloom, she almost stumbled on the floor rug. There, by the window, was the

pathetic sight of her Aunt Lydia — Lady Penrose — sunk to her knees, red and wet of

face and begging a scrawny, sword wielding member of her captor’s henchmen for

mercy. The two little girls, also tied, sat on a rug, tears streaming down their reddened

faces.

‘Hawkins!’ Captain Tredannack strode across the room and snatched the sword

from the man’s grip. ‘You have been warned before. There will be none of this.’ He

turned and helped the wretched soul to her feet. ‘Are you hurt, m’lady?’

Jenna wanted to rush to her aunt, wrap her arms around her. Instead, she stood,

silent and still, in the middle of the room. Waiting.

‘No,’ her aunt bit in reply. ‘But I thank you for asking, whoever you might be.’

The young captain nodded curtly.

‘And neither you shall be. We march for Cornwall and will brook no resistance

or betrayal from those families who would stop us. But neither shall we harm our

misguided brothers and sisters. That is not what we wish to do.’

‘Then you shall not hurt my husband?’

Margh shook his head. ‘We merely wish to keep him safe until this matter is

resolved and his opposition no longer a threat. You are friends of the Grenvilles, are you

not?’

When Lady Penrose nodded, Jenna could not help smiling. Never had such a fuss

been made. The Grenvilles. The gown. The Grenvilles. The rubies she had been allowed

to wear. The Grenvilles. Now remembered, the whole thing was like a bad fairytale.

‘Well, then,’ Margh continued. ‘Sir Charles and Alfred shall accompany us. As

will Miss Rosewarne. You, madam, shall remain here, under guard, with your daughters.

And as long as you make no attempt to leave your home, you shall be safe. Isn’t that

right, Hawkins?’


Margh glared at his subordinate, who murmured his assent. Whether Lady

Penrose had heard his assurance, let alone believed it, he could not be sure. She stood,

her face flushed, not only with the remnants of tears, but with rage. She stared at his

prisoner with eyes that might cut glass.

‘You treacherous little harlot. After all we’ve done for you.’

Jenna was so astonished she could not speak. Couldn’t the stupid woman see her

hands were bound? She opened her mouth to protest her innocence, but was drowned

out by her aunt’s fury.

‘After all the attention our Alfred bestowed upon you. Not to mention what I

spent on that gown. The beading on that would have fed us for a week.’ Then she turned

to the rebel captain. ‘I wish you every joy of this wretch. Take her! Take her and leave

me in peace. And may all of you be damned to hell.’

Cornwall, November, 1558

And so Margh of Tredannack took my mother away from danger. That is what

Kerra tells me. Jenna must have sensed his kindness, because all she saw before

her was a soldier with a sword and a dagger, and ’e weren’t looking kindly. She

could not have known anything about how Margh of Tredannack liked the farm

and the animals and how he even cared for the church sheep. See, sometimes,

my father would find a parish lamb starving, or left as bait for the foxes because

a farmer had nought to spare for ‘un. And so my father would take the poor

creature home and tend to it, while the farmer said nothing to anyone because

he was happy to be rid of a grass‐hungry lodger who paid no board. Kerra says

it kept Father Carmynowe from pestering the farmers about how much grass

and hay the parish sheep were getting. But Kerra says it was all he ever wanted

to do. To take care of Tredannack and the animals and crops and raise his

children. And he is raising me, too.


Of course, when he met my mother and tied her hands with silken

ribbon, he was just Captain Tredannack, and in love with his beautiful wife.

And he had no idea some idiot from Devonshire was burning the village barns

at Crediton. I heard my mother talk of Crediton once. A smile came to her face

and her gaze softened, as though she were being taken away to the clouds. But

that can’t have been the case because Kerra says Crediton was a bad, bad affair.

She says a hot‐headed imbecile led a group of gentlemen from Exeter into

Crediton to talk to the men who had fortified the town. This hot‐head was Sir

Peter Carew and such an ally the King did not need. It is wrong that people who

burn the barns of the common folk should be rewarded for their efforts. But he

was. He got away with it, good and proper.

There are a great many stories about Sir Peter Carew. My mother met him

because of Sir Simon Chiswick. She did not mind Sir Simon, but she loathed Sir

Peter, and Sir Simon didn’t like him much either. Kerra says my mother told her

a story about Sir Peter, which she heard in Sir Simon’s kitchen at Cheriton. The

commotion was a time of whispers and secrets, but everyone knew the story of

Sir Peter and the she‐dog. It told of how Sir Peter’s father despaired at his

truancy, and tied the boy to a servant and forced them both into the streets of

Exeter, where his disgrace was there for all to see. And how, when the lad was

finally dragged home, his father tied him to a bitch in pup, which was obliged to

let the wretch suckle her to appease his hunger. A peddler selling bright silk

ribbons came by when I was little and he knew all about it. Only he said it was a

sheep.

The thing was, the people of Crediton weren’t about to parley with a

famous imbecile and their judgment was proved correct. Only an imbecile

would try to talk peace by setting fire to barns stuffed full of hay. If the common

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 88 KK51 N5641462 folk of Devonshire ever thought about laying down their weapons and going

home, they stopped thinking like that when Sir Peter’s folly filled the air with

the smoke and ash of next year’s fodder.

Imagine their joy to see Will Wynslade with his little army of

Cornishmen.

Lanson

Saturday, 21st June, 1549

The sun had set by the time they reached Lanson. Margh’s eyes ached for want of sleep,

but he was so filled with pride, he knew he could not have slept a wink. He had taken

Trematon and Lanskellan, and had Sir Richard Grenville as his prisoner. He also had

Miss Rosewarne, who sat in front of him upon Ruan’s broad back, as well as her little

pony. He had been unwilling to untie her and was obliged to hold her around the waist to

prevent her from falling. Her unrestrained hair blew into his face and made him sneeze.

But he knew that the cool night breeze was cold upon her shoulders, and so he ordered

one of his men to part with a cloak.

He had sent a messenger forward to confirm Arundell’s occupation of the castle,

and now, perched high on its motte, the keep rose blackly against a darkening sky.

Below the south gate, lantern glow revealed a bustle of armed men and a flurry of

banners, while above, the occasional rush light flickered over grim walls.

‘Margh!’ he heard. And gasped with delight as Gerent’s pale head emerged on

the road in front of him. ‘A’right?’

Margh leapt from the saddle to embrace his friend. ‘Such tales we heard of your

victory at the Mount. You must tell me everything.’

Gerent thumped him on the back. ‘But look at you, Captain Tredannack.

Prisoners, too!’

‘Aye. Sir Richard Grenville among them.’

‘What glorious soldiering. A happy day, Captain. For I have brought someone

with me, too. Two someones.’ He indicated his companions.

Margh looked at the other two men, older but distinguished in their colours, and

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 89 KK51 N5641462 was overwhelmed by the joy of familial recognition.

‘Father! You’ve come. And Uncle. A happy day indeed!’

‘A day worthy of a warrior, my son,’ John of Tredannack said. ‘You have done

Cornwall proud and Arundell is well pleased.’

‘Here then, is he?’ Margh smiled at them both.

‘Aye,’ Bosinney said. ‘He wanted the satisfaction of locking up Grenville, but is

preparing to leave for Crediton. But Lanson is yours tonight, captain. Food and drink

await you. So let these lads take the horses and we shall make our way inside.’

‘Tell me, Uncle — how fares my wife?’

Bosinney glanced up at Jenna, still sitting on Ruan’s back. ‘Eselde fares well

indeed, my son. But tell me, who is this pretty prize?’

Margh saw Jenna turn her head away from his uncle’s curious scrutiny and

placed a steadying hand on her arm.

‘A fiery maiden I would dare not trust, Uncle. A cell apart for her, if there is

room.’ With that, he dismounted and handed Jenna over to one of his men. ‘Lock her

away from the other prisoners. See that no harm comes to her or the little black pony.’

‘I can’t imagine the old North Gate would be too good.’ Bossiney’s voice

suggested a jest. ‘What say you, Tredannack?’

‘Oh, I should give priority to Grenville,’ John of Tredannack advised dryly.

Three hours later, Margh’s boots had been dragged from his feet and he had soaked in a

tub of water heated over the castle’s kitchen fires. Now, ensconced in a tiny chamber in

the keep, he was filling the void in his stomach with pork pie while John Wynslade stood

at the window watching the activity below in the bailey. Margh’s hair was still damp and

he was conscious of the smell of soap that wafted up from his steaming linen shirt and

filled the tiny room. Any closer to the fire and it would ignite.

‘Tell me about this girl you took at Lanskellan,’ Wynslade said. ‘Take a fancy to

you, did she?’

Margh shrugged. ‘She’d have gone off with the Devil himself to get away from

Lanskellan. I merely begged her pardon, tied her wrists with a bit of string she had, and

sat her on horseback in front of me.’


Wynslade laughed. ‘And what, pray, do you propose to do with her?’

‘Well, sir, I had thought to send her home to her father, over Wadebridge way.

But she has a pony.’ Margh smiled at the memory and his eyes sparkled as they met

Wynslade’s. ‘And she rides it like one possessed.’

There was an abrupt knock and Gerent strode in.

‘Colonel, the girl from Lanskellan is refusing to talk,’ he said stiffly. ‘She wants

her friend here.’ And nodded in Margh’s direction.

Margh felt a blush heat his cheeks. ‘Has she eaten?’

‘Eaten? She’s barely answered a question.’ Gerent stared coldly. ‘All she does is

ask them.’

Margh smiled wryly.

‘Captain Jewell,’ put in Wynslade, ‘Miss Rosewarne’s uncle is one of Russell’s

tenants. She may well have some intelligence her uncle is not prepared to divulge. She

may have intelligence she’s unaware of having. Bring her up here and have the kitchen

send up some of that pork pie and a jar of cider. Then I suggest you make sure your men

are ready to depart for Crediton at first light. And get a good night’s sleep.’

Wynslade saw Gerent Jewell’s cold eyes freeze over as he turned on his heel; a

young man who would kill his own grandmother for military reward. He sighed and

watched Margh Tredannack pull his jerkin over his damp shirt and comb his hair with

his fingers.

Jenna was too hungry and too tired to care who watched her eat. The oatmeal pastry was

still doughy, but the meat was hot enough to burn her tongue. Her captain lolled about

the hearth wearing a loosely unfastened jerkin over a white linen undershirt. He still

wore his tatty, mud splattered hose. The other man, older, had a distinguished and mildly

detached air. He stroked his beard a lot and was more interested in whatever was going

on outside. She felt threatened by neither.

Jenna pushed her plate away and looked Margh in the eyes.

‘Is my cousin locked up?’

She saw the two men exchange smiles. The older man chuckled.

‘Aye,’ Margh replied. ‘You wish to see him?’


Jenna stood, alarm widening her eyes. ‘No!’

Margh turned away and grinned into the flames. ‘Then you shan’t,’ he said.

‘You are making fun of me.’

The fire crackled and spat. Jenna sighed and sat down. ‘What do you propose to

do with me? I will help you if you keep him away from me.’

Wynslade let the tapestry drape fall over the window and leaned against the wall

with his arms crossed.

‘Mar— Captain Tredannack, bring in the guard. You and I need to speak to

Arundell.’

Jenna felt her insides squirm. Less than a minute later, she was left alone with

another of their wretched guards. She picked at the remains of the under-cooked pastry

on her plate.

Outside in the corridor, Margh turned to Wynslade.

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, sir?’

Wynslade smiled. ‘That she would be a perfect spy to send into Devonshire?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then it would seem that you are thinking what I am thinking. Do you think we

can trust her?’

‘We have her cousin, sir. I believe she will be loyal if we promise to keep him

away from her. She is frightened of him, of that I am certain.’

Wynslade thumped Margh heartily on the back of the shoulder and led the way

down the stairs and across the bailey and Margh grinned. What a day it had been! Just

then, in the dim orange of rush lights, he met the gaze of a prisoner being marched up

from the cells. Something in the pit of his stomach lurched. The fury in those eyes was

familiar. Why? Where had he seen that man before?

‘Did you see that man, sir?’ he asked. But John Wynslade was re-tying the laces

on his shirt.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 92 KK51 N5641462 Lanson Early morning Sunday, 22nd June, 1549

Arundell was in deep discussions with two of the priests. The articles were a damned

sight better than they were this time yesterday. Yesterday, they had meandered like a

skein of Elizabeth’s wool, all come undone. Now, thanks to Father Thompson, they were

more to the point. That was what he wanted. Succinct and clear. He wanted no

misunderstanding. Suddenly the door burst open and he looked up crossly.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said, looking Wynslade directly in the face. ‘Good. I was just

about to send for you. And Captain Tredannack, too. A good day’s work, captain. Well

done.’ Arundell pointed to an old bench by the wall. ‘Sit while I finish with this, would

you?’

The two men sat silently, and Margh surveyed the banners standing against the

walls. The Tredannack standard, with its black, white and red quadrants, featured the

adder, fern brake, three hurling balls and St Piran’s cross. It was vigorous and bold

beside Bosinney’s green and gold. As was the Wynslade chevron and spurs, silver

against black. Against them, Arundell’s gold swallows on their blue background looked

benign. He heard the echo of Arundell’s praise and felt pride rise in his throat. A good

day’s work, indeed. And carried out in the name of his family’s banner which, until now,

had hung like any other decoration in the hall at Tredannack.

Finally, the priests departed, and Arundell beckoned them to take the chairs in

front of his trestle.

‘Gentlemen, we have a problem. I have just had a message from William that

Crediton has been turned on its head. It is imperative that we get over there as quickly as

possible. We will use Yewton Arundell — my estate at Crediton — as a base.’

‘What’s going on?’ Wynslade asked.

‘It’s more of a who. Sir Peter Carew is who. He has apparently burned down the

barns by the bridge at Crediton. Not only were they full of newly mown hay, they were

full of townsfolk. Will says the town is in uproar. And so is Clyst St Mary. The men

there have taken guns from the ships at Tophsam and blocked the Exeter road.’

‘Is Yewton Arundell safe, sir?’


‘We’re an army. We’ll make it safe. But he says…’ Arundell searched through

his papers. ‘Here it is. Will says the Justices of Devon have been told to offer the King’s

pardon to those you have refused to receive the prayer book if they will return to their

duty and allegiance.’

‘Do you think they will, sir?’ Margh asked. ‘Return to their duty and allegiance, I

mean.’

‘Apparently they are refusing,’ Arundell said. ‘And so we find ourselves not only

marching into a situation of unrest, but of one that is in open defiance of the King. Not to

mention the fact that our own articles of demand will also be seen to be in open defiance

of the King.’

For several seconds, the silence between them was complete. Except for his own

breathing, Margh could hear nothing.

‘What you’re saying, Humphry,’ Wynslade said softly, ‘is that we now face the

decision of whether to proceed. For to do so could be seen as treason.’

‘I don’t believe that at all. We are within our legal rights—’

‘I know, sir. I know. It’s a matter of whether the King will have the will to

recognize our rights to proceed peacefully when the countryside is already in turmoil.

His uncle may not allow him a choice. He may choose to see the whole protest as

rebellion, when in fact it is not.’

‘Exactly. Therefore, our dilemma becomes clear—’ Arundell broke off. ‘What

did you come here about? I find myself telling the two of you what I intended to tell the

whole council.’

Wynslade cleared his throat. ‘Just the girl, Humphry. Jenna Rosewarne. She’s

prepared to help us in return for our continued custody of her cousin. I thought we might

send her to Chiswick’s place up near Honiton. I know that part of the world well enough,

and it’s hard by Carew’s place at Mohun’s Ottery — and if there’s any intelligence from

London, it’s bound to reach Chiswick Hall.’

‘Good idea. Excellent. I will brief her tomorrow morning after Mattins. Tonight,

though, John, I want you and one other — a good horseman — to get over to Crediton. I

don’t like leaving Will in charge of the situation over there. He’s too young. I want you

to go now.’


Wynslade stood and slapped his hand against Margh’s upper arm. ‘Proper job

today, Tredannack. Take the girl back to her cell.’ He turned to Arundell. ‘Thank you,

Humphry.’ And he left the room.

Arundell sighed wearily and looked thoughtfully at Margh. ‘Do as he said,

Tredannack. You need some sleep. I shall see you and the girl in the morning.’

‘Yes, sir.’ He did not move. ‘Sir, may I ask if there’s been any word from Major

Smyth?’ Margh’s own success and his admiration for Smyth’s dash and decisiveness had

combined in a powerful urge to serve with him again.

‘Major Smyth has taken Plymouth, although the castle has held out. He will leave

it well guarded and meet us in Crediton. So with that taken care of, and with St Mawes,

Pendennis and St Michael’s Mount in safe hands, we will soon have our own stronghold

in which to worship as we please.’ Arundell smiled at his young protégé. ‘Take the girl

back to her cell and go to bed, Captain.’

In the silence following Margh Tredannack’s departure, Humphry Arundell re-

read William Wynslade’s message. The Justices of Devon. Not the Justices of Cornwall.

Just Devon. The Lord Protector, and hence the King, had received no warning, no word,

about a Cornish army. His early rear-guard offensive had worked. Urgently, he scribbled

a note and gave it to Kestell.

‘Make sure Wynslade gets this before he leaves,’ he said.

Kestell wandered through the soldiers’ camps. The first rays of dawn guided him

as he stepped over legs and feet to reach the dying embers of a fire. Crouched on his

haunches, he stoked the fire and quickly read his master’s note. Then he fed it to the

flames just as the bell for Mattins rang.

Mattins was held in the bailey, with the entire army gathered before Father Barrett. Jenna

could hear it from her cell and let their voices, amassed in Latin prayer, wash over her.

This was what the King wanted to take away. This soft and holy prayer. She fingered her

rosary and closed her eyes. She could almost see her mother, her grey head bent in

prayer in St Breock’s church, where a strange little stream babbled inside the length of

its granite walls.

An hour later, she was fact to face with Arundell himself, forbidding in grey

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 95 KK51 N5641462 sleeves and a black padded jerkin. She listened intently, and with increasing terror, as he

described her mission. They wanted to send her to the east of Exeter? But she had never

even been out of Cornwall. Exeter was beyond her ken, let alone whatever lay beyond it.

She could not imagine a place bigger than Lanson. But she had no choice. The thought

of Alfred was too awful.

‘How far is it, sir? And how should I live? By the roadside? In the mist and rain

and wind?’ It was on the tip of her tongue to beg for a return to her father.

‘Not at all,’ said Margh.

‘We would not request anything so unreasonable,’ Arundell said. ‘We will send

you to a suitable family in the area — someone who would believe your allegiance to Sir

Charles Penrose and Sir Richard Grenville’

‘How can I prove that?’

‘One of our officers is at this very moment negotiating with your uncle. Sir

Charles, I am quite sure, will use his connection with Sir Richard Grenville to ask the

Chiswicks at Cheriton to take you in, pleading that you cannot return home because of

illness in the family. No one need ever know that your uncle is a prisoner. You will leave

tomorrow morning. Any later, and your journey will have been too slow to have been

undertaken by a girl who escaped the sacking of Lanskellan.’

‘But, sir! I don’t know how to get to Cheriton. I don’t know where it is.’

‘No fear. Captain Tredannack will travel with you.’

Margh looked at his commander in panic. Jenna looked at the captain.

‘If you travel via Crediton, Tredannack,’ Arundell said, ‘Will Wynslade can

make sure you are fed and have a place to sleep. He will provide you with a guide for the

rest of the journey.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ At least that was a pleasant thought. He liked William

Wynslade.

‘What do I have to do?’ Jenna demanded. ‘And where is my pony?’

‘It’s quite simple, Miss Rosewarne,’ said Arundell. ‘There is nothing more

certain — Sir Simon will be hearing all sorts of gossip and information. I need to know

who among his gentlemen friends is for our cause, and who is against. And I need to

know what, if anything, the government might decide to do.’


‘That is spying.’

‘No, Miss Rosewarne, that is obeying orders and the price I demand for keeping

you free of your cousin. Kestell, take her to the kitchen for some breakfast.’ He watched

her leave. ‘Tredannack, come here.’

Margh took four brisk steps to approach his General’s desk.

‘We are here.’ Arundell pointed with a graceful finger. ‘Over here, to the east-

north-east, is Crediton, which, thanks to Carew, is now firmly in the hands of Will’s

small troop and a horde of angry locals. Between us and them, of course, is Dartmoor.

The obvious way to go would be to the north of the moor, via Okehampton. However,

England’s reformists have been frightened by the commotion, and they’re on full alert.

Our scouts have tested the route across the centre. You should cross the Tamar here, near

Tavistock. Try to stay hidden, as the Abbey has a good view of the river. It is Lord

Russell’s land, so don’t trust anyone in that area. If anyone questions you, you can show

this letter. Miss Rosewarne will carry it. It is addressed to Sir Simon Chiswick, and it

will be proof of her loyalty to the King. When Miss Rosewarne is safely ensconced at

Chiswick Hall, you shall return to Crediton.’ He pushed a sealed letter across the table.

‘It lacks the Penrose seal, of course, but as you can see, Sir Charles Penrose very kindly

pressed his initials into it with the handle of his spoon. The contents are, of course, of my

own composition and written by Sir Charles while I watched him.’ Arundell gave Margh

the letter. ‘Tonight, you will find shelter at the barn just this side of Two Bridges. You

will be expected. You will know the greeting when you hear it.’

With that, Arundell rose and Margh turned to find his father and uncle had

entered the room.

‘I thought we should say farewell before you leave, boy,’ John Tredannack said.

Margh did not understand. ‘But I’ll see you in Crediton, surely?’

‘Your father and uncle will remain here at Lanson in command of the castle and

the prisoners,’ Arundell explained. ‘You will see them when we return to Cornwall,

victorious with our Latin prayer book. The extra men they have brought with them, I

shall take with me across the moors, and they shall serve with you under Major Smyth.’

Margh was suddenly enveloped by darkness as the shadow of something sinister

passed over him. Was it the memory of the gaze that had met his in the corridor last

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 97 KK51 N5641462 night? The thought of the comet filled his mind. As he pushed it down, he saw Eselde’s

face.

‘Thank you, sir.’

They rode southwards, a small troop of travellers, with the Tamar to their left and the

sun, when it appeared from behind a flurry of puffy clouds, shining in their faces. To

ensure their safe passage, Arundell had sent three of Margh’s own men to accompany

them as far as the Tamar crossing, and so the young captain rejoiced in the company of

Jan Spargo and Kitto and Billy Trigg, the twins from Sancreed. Guillo would remain

with Wynslade’s men.

But, riding in single file along the narrow, high-hedged lanes, Jenna felt hemmed

in. Margh led and Kitto followed him. Jenna, following Kitto, had a view of an unkempt

thatch of sandy coloured hair, a frayed jerkin and shirtsleeves that betrayed a worn

peasant’s smock. Behind her, Billy and Jan guarded their rear. Disguising the serious

nature of their mission was an ever increasing amount of nonsense: songs she did not

know, riddles she could not decipher; old rhymes that somehow sounded familiar, but

which lay buried, forgotten, beneath a pile of passing years. Jan Spargo had started it.

“I am a Cornishman, ale I can brew

“It will make one to cack, also to spew.”

Then Billy and Kitto broke in simultaneously,

“’Tes thick and smoky, and also ’tes thin.”

The three laughed and finished Boorde’s verse in unison.

“’Tes like wash that the pigs had wrassled in.”5

‘You chuckle-headed buccas!’ exclaimed Margh Tredannack. ‘Reciting such rot.

What would a Saxon such as Boorde know of Cornish ale?’

‘’Tes a powerful thing, Cap’n, to see ’urselves in their eyes,’ Jan Spargo said.

‘Cuz, when we see that they sees us like that, it puts a fair fire in the belly.’

‘Oh, I’ve a flame in me belly!’ sang Kitto. The others laughed and the rhyme

erupted once again, imbued with the renewed fire of fun and fury.

5 Boorde, A. (c 542). ‘Iche cham a Cornysche Man’ in Voices from West Barbary: an anthology of Anglo-Cornish poetry 1549-1929, Alan M. Kent (ed), Francis Boutle Publishers, London, 2000.


‘I’ll wager they know nought about our pigs’ wash, either,’ laughed Billy.

‘Aye,’ said Kitto. ‘Least our pigs is big strong wrasslin’ pigs, with their own

saint to look after their bacon.’

Jenna giggled, yet, there was something in their far western accents, in their

lilting intonation, something that spoke to core of her very being. Her grandmother had

spoken no English at all, she recalled. Her whole family had spoken Cornish in her

presence. But Granny had died years ago and, since, Jenna had had little cause to speak

her native tongue to anyone but the blacksmith’s wife. But even her visits to the forge, to

see the gentlemen’s horses being shod, had declined as she had grown older. If only she

could remember the little melodies, recite the poems and rhymes that Granny had taught

her.

As a happy Jonathan plodded plumply along beneath her, Jenna’s thoughts

burrowed into the vague depths of her childhood, fumbling for clues; for the key to the

code. She knew it was there, somewhere, and her thoughts were still unravelling the old

saints’ plays and the threads of old tunes when the pony pulled against her hold on the

reins. Sharply, she focused on her surroundings again and saw the short, high-hedged

lane that led to Lanskellan. A shambling display of foxgloves, dandelions and early

heather coloured their way, and to the right, the pear tree thrust up from behind the wall

and beyond it were the gabled roof of thatch and the six chimneys. Jenna shuddered

violently and pulled Jonathan back into line. But her efforts were futile, for Captain

Tredannack was leading them towards the manor’s gates and Jonathan followed with all

the pull of the Camel on the out-going tide.

‘Food,’ Margh said, sensing an imminent protest. ‘I’m sure your uncle would not

have you go without food. The kitchen at Lanson has enough mouths to feed.’

Jenna trembled. The very thought of entering Lanskellan’s cold stony corridors…

the thought of seeing her aunt… She opened her mouth, but Kitto raised his bugle and its

piercing tone sliced the air.

Within seconds, Hawkins appeared, the keys hanging from his girdle clanking

like a gaoler’s, and unlocked the iron gates. Margh led his party through the small

orchard and on towards the front door, where he dismounted before helping Jenna to do

the same.


‘You too, Kitto — bring Miss Rosewarne’s clothes. Jan and Billy, stay here with

the horses. We don’t want anything to happen to them now.’ He gave Jan the pony’s

reins. ‘Especially this one. He seems to recognise home.’

When it was over, it was as almost as though Jenna had been holding her breath.

Like a whirlwind crossing Bodmyn Moor, they swept through the kitchen, filling sacks

with fuggan and saffron cake; with parsnip wine and beer; with early apples and figs,

and a round of cheese. Anything that would not require a fire, Captain Tredannack said,

and stuffed a smoked trout into his sack. They saw no one. Aunt Lydia and the girls had

probably shut themselves away upstairs. Part of Jenna longed to make sure they were all

right. Part of her longed to stay shut up here, with them. After all, they were kin and the

men she travelled with were fighting against the King. Ruffians, they were… She

glanced uncertainly around the room, as though seeing it for the first time. For an

unnerving second she met the stern expression in Margh Tredannack’s eyes. She took

two tin plates and mugs from the shelves and tossed them, crashing against each other,

into the sack.

‘Surely that’s enough,’ she said.

A door slammed above them and footsteps marched across the creaky

floorboards. Jenna swallowed. Her aunt’s sitting room was above the kitchen, warmed

by the fires that burned in its vast ingles. Within seconds, the door was swung open.

‘You scoundrels! What do you think you’re doing now —’ Lady Penrose’s livid

face froze in a venomous stare as she beheld the sight before her. ‘You!’ She pointed at

Jenna, almost breathless with rage. ‘Dressed like that. A traitor. Get out of my house

now!’

‘Aunt Lydia, please—’

‘I am not your aunt. I shall not be your aunt. I shall not be your father’s sister.

Not any longer. Get out. You are disowned. I am ashamed to think I ever bore the name

of Rosewarne. Take your filthy sack and your rebel friends and go.’ She pointed

hysterically towards the front of the house and screamed, ‘Get out now. All of you, and

leave me in peace.’ She sank onto a hard wooden stool and covered her face with bony

white hands. ‘Dear God! To think of my Alfred, seduced by your evil black eyes and

lying between your legs — whatever was my poor boy thinking?’


The accusation delivered a stony silence that was broken only by Jenna’s small

cry of shock. Lies! It was all lies! She turned to the captain. He knew how frightened she

was of Alfred. Surely he would protect her from this slander. Instead, he was scratching

his head and had a silly grin plastered over his face.

‘Well, Miss Rosewarne. Is there anything else you wish to fetch before we take

our leave?’ he asked. He paused, as though to let her anger cool sufficiently to grow

revenge. ‘Any jewellery or silverware?’

Lady Penrose’s raw sob of objection was all Jenna needed. She ran up the stairs

and reappeared fifteen minutes later wearing a kirtle and carrying a small velvet purse.

Not another word was spoken.

It was a different journey now. Margh insisted on silence as the narrow road

wound south. The riddles and rhymes and songs of just an hour ago were a lifetime

away, gone with the wind that blew in from the south-east, leaving them to the

accompaniment of the horses’ sure hooves and the comforting clack of tackle. After an

hour, they veered left and saw, below them, the rippling Tamar as it bent westward to

meet them.

Finally, they joined the Exeter road and crossed the river. Leaving Cornwall

behind them, Margh was overtaken by a prickle of uneasiness. For low in the valley,

they were surrounded by the woodland that hid Tavistock Abbey, part of an enormous

land grant the old King had given to Lord Russell in ’38, after the dissolution of its

monastery. Here, with the closed countryside hiding hostile eyes, it was tempting to

retreat to the shadows. It took every ounce of Margh’s nerve to keep to the road.

Innocent visibility, a soldier’s reason told him, would support the contents of the letter

Jenna carried.

When steep moorland rose around them, they breathed easier. Their shadows

lengthened across the yellowed grass and they took comfort from the isolation of the

bogs and old stone circles. Just as the sun was sinking behind them, a small boy

appeared on the road, apparently from behind a rocky outcrop. A few words were

exchanged and the boy smiled. From there, he led them to higher ground where the

ponies picked their way between rocky outcrops and wet tussocky bog. The sun had set

when the tumble-down outline of a disused barn appeared before them. It looked

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 101 KK51 N5641462 incapable of protecting a Dartmoor pony.

Midnight, and heavy clouds covered the moon. An icy wind drove in from the east and

rain fell in sheets. Jenna stared upwards into the black, her heart thumping wildly. Her

chafed and aching legs kept her tossing from side to side. Nearby, lying with his back to

her and breathing heavily, was Captain Tredannack, sound asleep, while she lay cold and

resentful. He hadn’t even allowed a fire. She turned stiffly and tried to straighten her

legs. Then she gasped in surprise when a raindrop found its way through a gap in the

thatch and fell on her face. She should never have left Lanskellan in the first place. No.

That wasn’t right. She should never have left Trevanson. Home was where she

belonged…

In her mind’s eye, sheep grazed on the green hills that ran down to the Camel

and, beyond the sandy beach, the seines bobbed at their moorings. She saw her father,

his crook in his hand, trudging up the muddy slope towards her, his blue eyes smiling

from beneath his black brows. ‘What’s new with my maid today?’

What’s new, my sweet maid?

Her father’s words swam through her mind, and there she was, answering; telling

him everything as she searched the strange mist of dreamland to find the lost remnants of

her memories, seducing them into the light.

Dyweth gwesper, deweth cumplyn, Sens reth wetho bes yn mytyn: Cusk en cosel fest eth lesk, Tebel spregeon veth en mesk.6 When she woke, the words were still there. She smiled and closed her eyes again,

against the wet, grey dawn.

6 End of vespers, end of compline May Saints keep you until morning: Sleep very quietly in your cradle May there be no evil spirits among us. (written for this project by Tim Saunders)

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 102 KK51 N5641462 Near Okehampton, Devon Tuesday, 24th June, 1549

On a wind-blown hill, Arundell watched as John Wynslade dismounted. He listened,

relieved, to hear that all was well in Crediton. But all was not well in Exeter, and he

tossed a missive from the city’s mayor to the breeze.

‘Wicked!’ he said. ‘Dear me! Can you believe it, Wynslade? According to the

good Catholic mayor of Exeter, we are nothing short of wicked!’

He cast a vengeful gaze upon the backs of half a dozen of his best archers who,

under the supervision of Gerent Jewell, were training a group of boys to use the Cornish

low bow. Much use they were in these hands! It took the powerful arms of strong farm

labourers to pull back on the longbow, and only the knowledge that he had many such a

strong, willing Cornishman among his ranks allowed him to smile wryly at the efforts

being displayed before him now. The furze-filled sacks that served as butts for Jewell’s

cadets would have made successful soldiers in their own right; they were extraordinarily

adept at remaining unharmed.

‘He leaves us with little choice.’ Wynslade grabbed his young servant’s arm and

sent him after Mayor Blackaller’s letter, which dipped and swooped on little puffs of up-

draught.

Arundell watched the chase, expressionless. ‘I don’t like it,’ he said. ‘I had been

counting on Exeter’s men and weapons to guard our rear and assure our safe passage

home.’

‘I don’t like it either.’ Wynslade knew they had both envisaged a peaceful

demonstration of Cornish might entering the castle at Richmond to parley with the King,

or, at the very least, the Protector. Six thousand men, successful and joyous in their

unity, petitioning for the right to their Latin Mass, the right to utter the Lord’s Prayer in

Cornish; and equally, the right to refuse English in their churches. Six thousand men,

returning home to their wives and children, victorious, their rights restored, their way of

life unsullied by the ways of the English. Heroes, the makers of legend. But a safe return

home was dependent on no resistance en route, either way.

‘I’m thinking that if Blackaller doesn’t back down, we may need to lay siege to

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 103 KK51 N5641462 the place,’ Arundell said. ‘From what Will is reporting, our numbers are increasing by

the day. It should be possible.’

‘We have no choice but to continue, Humphry. My own men tell me we’ll be

chased down and slaughtered if we abandon this, and our houses will be burned.’

‘Oh, I’ve already heard those threats. But you’re right. We have no choice. We’ll

simply have to make sure we win.’

They looked at each other bleakly. According to a message delivered that

morning, much of Devon was already in a state of siege. The outrage caused by Carew’s

barn burning had ensured the road between Crediton and Exeter remained well sealed

and guarded and Clyst St Mary had joined the cause. Exeter was becoming isolated and

Devonshiremen were joining the Cornishmen in their hundreds, complete with strong

and well-defined leadership.

‘Well, perhaps Blackaller will change his tune when he sees the size of our

army,’ Wynslade said. ‘After all, if we control access to the city, it shouldn’t take long

before our sympathizers open the gates.’

A roar of delight came from below and, as a recruit ran to retrieve his arrow from

its target, a woman rewarded him by revealing a shapely ankle. Arundell smiled.

‘Jewell!’ he yelled and his captain turned. ‘Recruit the rest of those prickly little

butts, will you? We could do with an ounce of their luck!’

Gerent laughed and saluted, and Arundell, his joke appreciated, turned back to

Wynslade.

‘What’s Smyth up to? I should like him back if he’s able to leave Plymouth

secured.’

‘He’s on his way, sir. We can’t afford to be without him now. He’s proved too

valuable.’

‘I agree. Meanwhile, we shall up-camp and make for Crediton this very day,’

Arundell continued. ‘I wish to speak with the men who lead our friends in Devon.’

Behind them, a ragged boy panted up the hill, victoriously waving Blackaller’s

letter.

‘Colonel Wynslade, sir!’

Wynslade turned and smiled, and clapped his hands. The lad grinned. It was all

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 104 KK51 N5641462 the reward he needed.

‘Tell me, John,’ Arundell said, ‘do you think our men will fight alongside men

from the other side of the Tamar?’

The question seemed to hang in the soft, summer air and John Wynslade closed

his eyes in a silent prayer of thanks.

‘I think that if their respective leaders can strike an accord, there is enough rage

to make anything happen.’

Arundell snorted a laugh. ‘My friend, I am just beginning to believe that Exeter

will rue the day it turned its back on Cornwall.’

Wynslade placed his hand on Arundell’s shoulder and they turned back towards

the council tent.

‘Humphry, Exeter has had its back to Cornwall ever since Athelstan forced our

foul race to the Tamar’s western bank.’

‘Mmm.’ Arundell fingered the letter in his pocket. Elizabeth was gently seeking

his advice on naming their daughter. He was suddenly struck dumb by the thought that

he might never see the child. ‘What should I call my daughter? Elizabeth, after her

mother? Mary? I do quite like Kathryn…’

John Wynslade was not listening. A horseman was thundering across the field

towards them and within seconds had dismounted.

‘News from London, sir,’ he said, looking at Arundell. ‘Lord Russell is on his

way with orders from the King to put down the unrest.’

Arundell folded his arms and adopted an amused stance. ‘Russell? A bit old for

this sort of thing isn’t he? Is he alone, or does he have soldiers?’

‘He has soldiers, sir.’

‘And this news comes from where, exactly?’

‘Your cousin, sir. Sir John Arundell. He said you should treat it seriously, sir.’

‘There is no note?’

‘No sir.’

Of course not, Arundell thought. His cousin would never take the risk.

‘And you are?’

‘Coffin, sir. A servant to your cousin. And he says I am to remain here in your

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 105 KK51 N5641462 service.’

Arundell looked at Wynslade and raised an eyebrow.

Yewton Arundell, near Crediton Wednesday, 25th June, 1549

The ride to Crediton beleaguered them with chill winds and short, sharp showers that bit

at their faces. Jenna was numb with the endless riding. Numb with cold; numb with

aching. And yet, she could not have walked. It was as though her body had been

stretched around Jonathan’s fat middle, never to be released. So when they finally

reached Will Wynslade’s base at Yewton Arundell, she was incapable of dismounting

without help. Instead, she slid helplessly into the arms of the old man who greeted them

and, fighting tears of shame and agony, allowed him to carry her inside.

‘Your little band has grown, Will.’ Margh looked out at Yewton Arundell’s

garden, which overflowed with Devonshire men who had remained there since fleeing

Crediton’s burning barns and the men who scoured the town for them.

‘If you’d come two days ago, you’d have found the house empty — seemingly

empty, anyway,’ Will said. ‘Carew’s men were in a murderous rage. We had to run for

our lives.’

‘Where did you go?’

Wynslade smiled. ‘Most fled the town. But there’s a decent cellar beneath the

kitchen, so a few of us spent the night there. The steward told Carew he’d had no contact

with Arundell for months.’

Margh frowned. Already, the situation was dangerous and Will was pacing, much

as his father was inclined to do when troubled.

‘I am worried there is going to be war,’ Will confessed. ‘News came through

yesterday that Lord Russell is on his way.’

‘How many men does he have?’

‘We don’t know. But I don’t like the way this is unfolding. This whole place is in

uproar. There are men leaving their masters and walking into Crediton with scythes and

pikes and I don’t know how we can do anything but join forces with them. For without

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 106 KK51 N5641462 us, they are doomed. And without them, our way is not clear and our return very likely

blocked.’

‘Well, our way isn’t clear now, is it? Not if Russell’s on the road from London.’

‘No. It makes me think our choice comes down to going home or joining with

them.’

‘Who leads them?’

‘Fellow called Bury. My father was here the other night and met with him in the

town. Not sure I like Bury.’ Will sighed. ‘Well, he’s a’right, except he’s demanding

Arundell make him second-in-command. I’m not sure my father is pleased at that. He

rode back to meet with Arundell yesterday. Anyway, you must tell me. What have we

gained in the way of artillery? Did St Mawes and Pendennis yield much?’

For more than an hour, the two young men talked weapons, men and strategy and

only ceased when Jenna, woken by shouting in the garden, struggled down the stairs.

‘I can barely walk, Captain,’ she said, as she hobbled towards them. ‘I have

ridden much before, but never such a distance.’ She looked curiously at Will.

‘Nor on such a fat pony, I wager.’ Margh smiled. ‘Will, this is our general’s

latest weapon. A spy capable of winning radical hearts, learning their secrets and passing

them back to us here. Miss Jenna Rosewarne. This is Will Wynslade. You met his father

at Lanson.’

Will Wynslade’s visage was of high colour, and in his blue eyes Jenna saw the

same firmness and kindness she had found in the man who had tried to interrogate her.

To Will’s added advantage, however, was the elegant slenderness of youth. She liked

him immediately, but the smile she attempted as she curtsied was twisted by a grimace

of pain. He saw, and smiled back. He held her gaze for too long.

‘My sympathies are with you, Miss. Please, you must not curtsy to me. You do

us a great service in going to Cheriton, as Lord Russell is reportedly already on his way

to Honiton. You will be close by to him, and we are all in your debt.’ With that, he sent

for food, ale, cushions and his harp, thus ending talk of spying or weapons or warfare.

Mrs Hamlyn brought in pasties and ale and when all was eaten and drunk, Will drew the

harp close and filled the air with gentle notes.

‘The weather might be of winter, and we unfit for dancing.’ Will smiled at Jenna

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 107 KK51 N5641462 and her body seemed to melt. ‘Our barns might burn instead of bonfires, and

Midsummer has passed us by, but we shall have our song.’

In the ever-darkening room, amber fire-glow played over the harp’s carved

polished wood. Long fingers plucked at the strings, almost rippling over them, and soon

the instrument’s heavenly tones lulled the house into peace. In a clear tenor voice, he

sang a love riddle.

Can you plough me an acre of land?

He looked at Jenna and found his smile shyly returned.

Every leaf grows many in time

Between the salt water and the sea sand?

And you shall be a true lover of mine…

Jenna wanted to believe the heat in her cheeks had come from the fire. She

looked into the flames and let herself imagine a lover who would sing her such songs.

And yet, it was a riddle. A riddle that told of love that would never be… that was not

returned. What did he mean, singing it to her?

He sang another song. This time in Cornish. Jenna sat perfectly still and rested

her tired eyes on the carvings in the harp’s woodwork. A circle of piskies danced around

the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak tree. And there, on a branch, an owl sat. In the

firelight, the tree bent and danced to some ancient rhythm. The owl blinked. Or perhaps

Jenna had almost fallen asleep. She glanced around the room and found Captain

Tredannack gone.

For a moment, she thought she, too, should retire. But she could not move. It was

as though she succumbed to an irresistible desire to stay. As though the honey that

dripped from his harp’s strings had wound around her heart and held it captive. But

neither could she resist slumber. While the music stirred her desires, warmth and

exhaustion closed her eyes. Sleep claimed her, and as she sank through its layers she felt

a blanket cover her legs. And the harper vanished into the night.

Jonathan had endured the journey from Lanson without a care and was grazing on lush

wet grass when Margh and Will went to saddle the horses early the next morning. In the

stable, they found a gingery freckle-faced boy tenderly running his hand over one of

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 108 KK51 N5641462 Ruan’s hind legs.

‘Something wrong, Tommy?’ Will asked.

The boy nodded and stood aside as Margh ran his hand over the heat burning

through the tightened skin of the horse’s hock.

‘Ouch. I can’t ride him like this,’ he said. ‘Poor old Ruan.’ He straightened and

stroked his horse’s nose.

‘You’re returning here as soon as Miss Rosewarne is safely at her destination,

aren’t you? Why not take Zeus?’ Will said. ‘He’s been nowhere for a few days now, and

could do with the exercise. Tommy Finch, here, will go with you, and I’ll be staying here

anyway, so I’ll get a poultice onto it. Yarrow should do it. There’s plenty of it around

and he should be a’right by the time you return. Tommy, saddle Zeus for Captain

Tredannack. And the pony — bring it in and saddle it for Miss Rosewarne. You’ll be

leaving shortly.’

‘It’s very generous of you, Wynslade,’ Margh said as they strolled back to the

kitchen. The smell of fresh oatmeal bread made his stomach rumble. ‘I should be

reluctant to hand Ruan over to a stranger.’

‘We are brothers in arms,’ Will smiled. ‘Anything to further our cause. By the

way — just another thing to further the cause. Has any sign of affection passed between

you and Miss Rosewarne?’

Margh laughed. ‘Indeed, I think not. For one, I am quite in love with my wife,

and apart from that, well, Miss Rosewarne — well, she has not forgiven me for putting

her into a cell without the convenience of a bucket.’

Will Wynslade frowned.

‘You fancy her for yourself?’ Margh prompted.

‘No, no.’ Will’s cheeks flushed. ‘She’s a fine maid, without doubt. But can we

trust her? Might she not seek revenge?’

‘I don’t know. What for? And anyway, what can I do?’

‘On this journey to Chiswick Hall, show Miss Rosewarne your finer side.

Apologise to her, treat her with the utmost kindness and kiss her.’

‘Kiss her? Why would I want to do that?’

Will laughed. ‘She is free of pockmarks and she has lovely dark eyes.’ He

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 109 KK51 N5641462 slapped Margh on the back and grinned. ‘Shall Zeus and I go in your place?’

Margh was shocked. ‘You’ll do no such thing. This is my mission. Given to me

by Arundell himself.’

‘Well, then, if you want to make him proud of you, I suggest you make Miss

Rosewarne fall in love with you.’

‘How —’

‘It will not be difficult. I learned very quickly last night that she is lonely and

frightened and craves the affection of a good man.’

Margh thought of Alfred.

‘I could have had her myself then and there, had I wanted,’ Will went on. ‘But

the sad fact is, she needs to be in love with you. Make it happen before you reach

Chiswick Hall. That way, you shall have her loyalty. Without it, our cause is in great

jeopardy. She will be too close to Russell’s allies for comfort, unless she is prepared to

die for us. A’right?’

Richmond Friday, 27th June, 1549

A large bay horse staggered across the drawbridge and as its rider dismounted its flanks

heaved and trembled with exhaustion. It was immediately led away as the fool who had

ridden it almost to death was questioned at the gatehouse.

From the other side of the bailey, in a sunlit hallway adjacent to the studded

doors that led to the King’s rooms, Edward Seymour — Duke of Somerset and Lord

Protector — angrily rapped his left wrist with a roll of parchment. He had no patience

for people who abused their animals. Suddenly, the doors behind him opened to release a

gaggle of gowns from the various halls of Oxford and Cambridge.

‘Good afternoon, my lord.’ It was the King’s chief tutor, Sir John Cheke, flanked

by a gaggle of minions.

Somerset nodded curtly. ‘And how goes my noble nephew this afternoon? Any

better than yesterday?’


‘Much better, my lord. With your permission, sir, I should like to suggest some

deer hunting tomorrow, if the weather should allow it. He has worked hard today and

done very well. The fresh air will aid his thinking.’

Somerset raised an eyebrow. To be an eleven-year-old king. To have every right

to eat this, wear that, play with one and toy with the other… and all the while expect

your dead mother’s brother to deliver peace, prosperity and religious order. The past

eighteen months had been difficult and Somerset felt he was ageing by the minute. At

least, unlike his foolish brother, he was still able to age. But even that thought, in the

dark of so many uncertain nights, was capable of inducing nightmares. And now, just as

he was ready to send a vast army into Scotland, the idiotic peasants of the west country

were in uproar over a prayer book written in their own tongue.

‘Very well, Cheke.’ Somerset brushed past the tutor. Regardless of what

tomorrow might bring, it was time for His Majesty to apply his education to matters of

State.

‘My lord?’

The Protector turned. ‘What, Cheke?’

‘Sir, I trust I have your approval for the two essays I wish the King to embark

upon. One on the atrocities of war, the other on its glory.’ The tutor paused. ‘What, with

the situation with France, sir — I did think it timely that His Majesty should be

encouraged to give clear thought to both sides of the issue.’

‘Yes, Cheke. I have read your proposal. Feel free to proceed. His young mind

must be—’

He stopped as the sound of running footsteps approached. Both men turned to see

page turn the corner and pull himself to a dignified walk. Somerset sighed.

‘It’s a safe bet, Cheke, that this coming matter of urgency is not something that

shall keep you from your sleep tonight. Let me know when the King has written his

essays. I shall be interested to read them.’ He dismissed the tutors with a nod of his head

and watched the gowns retreat like a swooping mass of vultures in search of carrion, past

a harried page who bowed low.

‘My Lord Protector, I am sent to inform you that Sir Peter Carew has arrived

from Devonshire.’


‘Has he indeed? Kindly find accommodation for him and send for the Lord

Chancellor.’ Somerset’s thoughts returned to the wretched animal he had seen not

twenty minutes ago. Somehow, the blame for this uprising must be laid squarely at

Carew’s feet and Lord Rich would know precisely how to frame an accusation that he

had overstepped his authority. For the Lord Protector’s stomach was telling him that

while he might sit at the King’s right hand, on his own right hand was an executioner.

Chiswick Hall, near Cheriton Saturday, 28th June, 1549

The journey from Crediton had been a nightmare. The whole of Devon was rising

against the outrage of the burning barns and Heaven help them if any of its primitively

armed peasants should waylay them and find Jenna’s letter. Fearful of being questioned

by either side, Margh, Jenna and Tommy had spent daylight hours hiding quietly in dim

fern brakes, thickets, copses and in the dappled depths of dark woods. Last night, it taken

all of Tommy’s wits to keep his bearings as they wound a tortuous path through hilly

woodlands, across splashing streams and laughing rills, and down narrow lanes until,

finally, they looked down upon a hamlet of scattered buildings.

‘There ’tes,’ said Tommy. ‘Chiswick ’all.’

It was time, Margh thought. And he had done nothing to make her love him.

‘Who are they?’ Jenna pointed.

Margh stared at the small cluster of cavaliers gathered in the courtyard. ‘They’re

the King’s men. I’m almost certain of it. But I cannot see their standard from here.’

His words were quiet enough, but their meaning resonated on the mild breeze

that wafted around the trunks of the beech trees. Standing beside him, Jenna shivered

and he placed a hand upon her shoulder. It was time for her to go. Dressed in her worn

amber kirtle and tatty slippers, she could easily pass for a maid on the run. But was she

ready to spy upon the King’s men?

‘Are you afraid, Jenna?’

She turned to him. It was the first time he had used her Christian name. She

sighed and turned away again.


‘Yes.’ Her reply was soft. ‘I wish I could just go home to my father and mother.

I truly do. How I wish this was not happening.’

Margh swallowed. ‘I wish it, too. But if Cornwall is to resist this ungodly

onslaught, we must make a stand. We must all be brave. We have given up much of our

religion to the English, but we shall not lose our language as well. We cannot let them

force this prayer book upon us.’ He turned, startled by a noise behind him. A squirrel,

scratching among the leaf litter. ‘If you wish to be released from this task, I will let you

go and tell no one. No one has the right to force you to do this.’ And then, as he tried to

quash self-loathing, he took her hand and kissed her fingers, before interlacing them with

his own. It was a despicable thing to do, but it worked. She blushed, then withdrew her

hand to take Jonathan’s reins.

‘Jenna.’ Margh’s voice was soft. ‘Something to remember — Russell is blind in

one eye.’

‘I’ll remember,’ she said. ‘Which one?’

‘I don’t know. One other thing.’

Jenna looked at him. ‘What?’

‘They don’t know a thing about Arundell and a Cornish army.’ He placed a

finger on her lips. ‘So, not a word to betray us. The sacking at Lanskellan was done by

boys from Devonshire, and they frightened you and your uncle. A’right?’

She nodded. She could still feel the warmth of his lips on her fingers.

Only a narrow strip of sloping rock-strewn grassland separated the wood from the

manor’s patchwork of cornfields and as Jonathan traversed it with his slow, sure steps,

Jenna pushed aside her anxiety to focus on her surroundings. The closest fields were

planted with barley, which rippled like a sea of green in the breeze. Barely a worker was

to be seen and she wondered whether they had all joined the trench diggers. Before a line

of poplars was a field of potatoes, and beyond it she could just see the ravens circling a

squat church tower. Sensing the slope was about to deprive her of her view, she pulled

Jonathan to a halt and surveyed the house, which was in a hollow to her right. It had

eight chimneys. Two more than Lanskellan. The roof was thatch, but she could see it

was being replaced by slate. From her vantage point, she could also see that there were

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 113 KK51 N5641462 two courtyards: one inside the gatehouse, and another enclosed on all sides by the house

and its outbuildings.

Breathing deeply to calm herself, she urged Jonathan onwards. The high ground

was soon behind her, and she found herself on a narrow chaffy path between two

sections of farmland, each of which comprised a dozen or more narrow cornfields. Fear

of the unknown, the unseen, crawled across her skin. Each of Jonathan’s gentle steps

was taking her closer to the people she would have to convince. Strangers who had no

reason to trust her, no reason to believe…

She passed a couple of labourers watching her — the first she had seen — and,

despite her proudly held chin, felt herself begin to tremble. Captain Tredannack would

be pleased, she thought, trying to raise a smile to her lips. He wanted her to pretend to be

terrified, lost and alone, but as the limestone wall of the house rose before her and the

pressure of unfamiliar territory weighed heavy upon her shoulders, she knew that

pretence was not necessary.

Lord Russell gnawed hungrily upon his shin of beef, unaware that some of its juices had

gathered in his beard. He was tired of Lady Chiswick’s small talk. If she apologized

once more for Sir Simon’s inability to host their dinner or told one more account of her

husband’s entry into the hall just yesterday, with blood gushing from a scythe-slashed

thigh, he would make the poor man a widower. As for the rebels who had caused the

injury — he would deal with them tomorrow.

‘Excuse me, my lady.’

Russell barely glanced at the maid servant who had had the audacity to disturb a

lull in Lady Chiswick’s prattle.

‘What is it, Susan?’ she asked.

‘My lady, a girl has arrived. She says she has come all the way from Cornwall

and has a letter from her uncle. A Sir Charles Penrose.’

Russell put his hand out for the letter, and read it quickly.

‘Bring her in.’

This was, he thought, fortuitous indeed. Cornwall’s silence had a sinister air

about it. He heard her footsteps on the flags and turned.


Jenna blanched at the sight of the man. The turn of his head seemed exaggerated

and his expression was enough to make her quake. Was this Sir Simon? No. For this

man was blind in one eye.

‘Miss Rosewarne, is it?’

Jenna curtsied. ‘Yes sir.’

‘And Sir Charles Penrose is your uncle, is he?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘How was he when you left Lanskellan?’

‘Frightened, he was.’

‘Of what, exactly?’

She swallowed and felt the blood flow back into her cheeks as she desperately

tried to remember Margh’s instructions.

‘Of more sacking, sir. So many little bands of men roaming the countryside.

Coming into Cornwall from Devon, sir.’

‘Bands of Devonshiremen, eh? And no little bands of Cornishmen?’

Jenna’s pulse quickened. She was about to lie.

‘No, sir.’

‘No big ones, either?’

‘No, sir.’

‘I see. Well, that is good news.’ Lord Russell picked up his goblet and drained it.

‘And you had no trouble with the rabble gathered at Clyst?’

‘No, sir. I rode high, into the forest.’

‘Without getting lost? Were you not frightened?’

Indeed, with Margh at her side, Jenna had not been — but she was frightened

now. Frightened her lie would be detected. With her desperation barely concealed by

false calm, she traced the truth as closely as she dared.

‘No, sir, I am used to riding through woods and there is nothing to be frightened

of.’

The fire crackled and spat, tickled by a wisp of wind that reached down the flue.

Then, Lord Russell stifled a yawn. The Lord Privy Seal, Lord Lieutenant of the Western

Council, High Sheriff of Cornwall and one of the wealthiest men in his young King’s

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 115 KK51 N5641462 realm was among friends, on his own land. His stomach was full and his aching bones

were warm and his one sighted eye wanted to shut out the whole weary world.

Tomorrow, he would return to his soldiers at Honiton, but tonight he would travel no

further than the bedchamber that awaited him upstairs.

‘I think, most gracious lady, I shall retire to my chamber. Perhaps Miss

Rosewarne might fetch my stole from the hall and light my way.’

With only the creak of the stairs to accompany them, Jenna followed Lord

Russell up the stairs. How slowly, how heavily he moved. She wondered why the King

had sent such an old man. She could scarcely keep to his pace. When they reached the

corridor at the top, Jenna was about to reach out with her arm, to offer him the heavy fur

stole that weighted it down. Instead, he turned to the right and she was forced to follow

until they reached his room. Then, he turned with his exaggerated turn, in order to focus

his good eye upon her.

‘The King has issued a pardon to these rebels, Miss Rosewarne. All of the

Justices have been told to offer his forgiveness and pardon if they will only return to

their homes, to their fields. They will not be punished. Sir Simon has not had the chance

to issue this pardon, so tomorrow I shall go to Clyst and talk to them myself.’ He stared

at her. ‘Perhaps you would like to come with me?’

Orange light flickered over Lord Russell’s face and Jenna realized that her hand

was damp and shaking. The candlestick slipped. Jenna grabbed it, but not before the

flame licked at the fur. With cool deliberation, Russell took the stole from her and

looked down at the smouldering fibres. Then, leaving it to send up a spiral of smoke, he

returned his interrogating gaze to her face.

‘Just a little brute force, Miss Rosewarne, is all that is needed to snuff out this

irritating problem.’ He isolated the patch of scorched fur and squeezed it with his thumb

and index finger. ‘You see. It is over so very quickly, and so little chance for resistance.

Hell’s fire has no chance of survival beneath the pressure of a good man’s thumb.’ He

flicked away the burnt fur. ‘This is a foolish little attempt at an uprising, Miss, and they

will get nowhere. So tell me — who are their leaders, and where shall I find them? Tell

me, so that I might talk to them. Then, when they return to their homes, they shall have

their pardon.’


Jenna did not even blink.

‘My lord, I know nothing of them, or their leaders. I am Cornish. I come from

beyond Bodmyn and have never been in Devon before. And I wish I wasn’t here now.’

Lord Russell’s expression was inscrutable. ‘Well then, Miss. I bid you

goodnight.’

Jenna curtsied.

‘Goodnight, sir. I hope you sleep well.’

Then, shivering beneath the chill of a cold sweat, she took hold of the banister

and forced her trembling knees to take her down the stairs. She was on the third tread

when she heard his door close.

An hour later, Lord Russell stood at the window in his nightshirt, staring through the

diamond panes at the long grey shadows that stretched across the courtyard to the

gatehouse. One of the many courts and gatehouses that belonged to his many estates.

How strange, he thought, that Sir Simon had so suddenly come to be blessed with such a

pleasant and obliging houseguest as Miss Jenna Rosewarne. A little forthright, perhaps

but then the Cornish had so little interaction with people of any standing and the best of

them were gauche to say the least. This girl… a girl Lady Chiswick could scarcely recall

meeting; who had only a referral from an uncle who, surely, should have been able to

send her to another Cornish family. He smiled and shook his head, bemused by his

paranoia. He had spent too many years trying to walk a blameless route through the

treacly paths of covert plotting and intrigue that had entrapped so many at the old King’s

court. But had anything changed since young Edward had come to the throne? The

malice between the Seymour brothers had been something to behold: the elder, Lord

Protector, the Duke of Somerset and virtual ruler of the Kingdom; the younger, a jealous

Lord Admiral who had done more than most to have himself sent to the block and, in

March, had succeeded most spectacularly. If there was anything he might learn from the

upstart Protector, it was the art of expedience. He sighed, and put himself to bed. How

tempting it would be to simply stamp out this little uprising and retire happily to

Woburn. Anne would like that. But no. It would never do. He had spent a lifetime at

Court, at fighting wars, at spying and diplomacy. And although he disliked the Lord

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 117 KK51 N5641462 Protector, the little King was the old King’s son, and it was his allegiance to His

Majesty, Henry VIII, that drove Lord Russell to fulfil the task laid out for him.

‘Well, Jenna.’ Lady Chiswick sighed and smiled and turned her little parasol around. ‘I

thank the Lord for your arrival. Almost all of our servants have joined the rabble up at

Clyst and I expect most of those who have stayed are stealing food for them. You can

help Susan and Hilda in the kitchen and look after the kitchen garden. Today, I shall

want rose petals brought in for nosegays and rosewater and tomorrow the herber will

need attention. You will eat with the others in the scullery.’ Lady Chiswick strode off in

a swish of silk, her silk slippers leaving the gravel path unmarked and her lavender

perfume fighting with the scent of roses.

Alone in the garden, Jenna was overcome by a strange mixture of relief and

abandonment. She rested her basket on a stone seat and stared vacantly around her.

Above the garden wall, in the distance, was the hilly woodland from which just

yesterday she and Captain Tredannack had looked down upon this house and watched

Lord Russell’s men. This morning, she had seen his men ride towards Clyst and, after

lunch, she knew, the old man would return to Honiton.

She sat in perfect stillness, surrounded by the hum of bees and the scent of mint

and rosemary and lavender. She tried to empty her mind, but it filled with questions.

How could she spy if she was stuck in the kitchen and the garden? Then, the plaintive

tone of a young girl’s voice floated across from the well.

‘Pick this, chop that, pickle this, preserve that, boil it, roast it, braise it — ’

‘Hush, Hilda! Her ladyship will have your hide if she hears you!’ It was Susan,

the young housemaid.

‘I feel like lacing it all with some essence of bitter almonds!’

‘You’ll be strung up for treason if you poison the King’s soldiers. Though the

King might welcome it, after all the good they did this morning. Didn’t even get past

Ottery. Chased off, they were, by a hundred men with scythes and picks and bills. Well,

do they expect they’re going to be allowed to destroy us all without a fight?’

‘’Tes an insult to think they’re expecting to rout us with just three ’undred men.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 118 KK51 N5641462 Lord Bloody Russell will get what he’s askin’ for!’

‘Aye, and in the meantime, he’s askin’ for food, and we’re expected to give it to

’im. Are we to work our fingers raw, just so as to give them the strength to cut down our

menfolk and have their way with us? Well, I know who’ll be getting the best out of this

garden, and it won’t be anyone who wants to take away our rosaries.’

Jenna smiled and sauntered back to the kitchen. Only three hundred men. She

simply had to get back to her captain. But the task seemed impossible. There was so

much to do. Yet, even as her eyes streamed from onion fumes, Jenna knew that

Providence had dealt her a favourable hand. Already, a sack of bread, cheese and apples

was hidden beneath an old gardener’s cloak that hung behind the door of a small hot

house. And, as the potted cucumbers and young orange and cumquat trees that were

brought into its protection each night were now her own responsibility, there was little

risk that her stash would be discovered. Even if it was, there was so much food being

smuggled out of the manor to the rebels blocking the road to Exeter, any one of the

servants — even one of the rebels — could easily be blamed. Jenna Rosewarne’s guilt

was a mere sapling in a vast forest of resistance.

But Providence had not given her everything. Firstly, it had deprived her of sleep.

All night, Lord Russell’s knowing inquisition had hammered inside her head and today

that head felt not quite right upon her shoulders. And now she had the dilemma of

Captain Tredannack, for it was all very well to have a sack of food ready for him, but

how was she to deliver it? As she splashed her burning eyes at the garden pump, her

mind was churning. What could she do for Lady Chiswick that would get her out of the

kitchen? Jenna knew she was not as competent at the tasks required of this kitchen as

Susan, who was preparing a swan for roasting. So, surely it would be easy enough to

contrive to be out of doors. Again, her thoughts turned to Margh Tredannack and this

time something warm dug deeply into her belly. He had kissed her hand. Would he kiss

her again?

Her breathing stopped as she remembered —

She scarcely noticed Hilda come outside with a tub of clothes and pump water all

over them. For several minutes, she watched unseeing as the pounding of powerful arms

churned the water and then hung four pairs of hose and four smocks on the warm stone

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 119 KK51 N5641462 wall to dry. Suddenly, her thoughts snapped to attention. She did not need an excuse to

go into the woods. She needed a disguise.

Arundell’s young captain looked up through the softly swaying branches and listened to

the soughing of the wind in the leafy canopy — the ever changing green roof of his

secret world. If only some of that gentling zephyr would spiral its way to the forest floor.

Instead, the July heat seemed to gather here around him, festering in the humid

undergrowth, permeating the soft tissue of his brain and rendering him all but useless.

He had eaten his last piece of stale oaten bread last night. Now, the sun had crested its

orbit and had begun its descent into the deepening glow of the afternoon. The sun had

crested its orbit. Had it? Was he really lying on an object that moved with such stealth

through the heavens that its passengers felt nothing? Hunger was sending his thoughts

into strange places that would not help the cause. This morning, he had lain among the

bracken fern, watching the ditch diggers destroy the road between Exeter and Ottery St

Mary. He had seen three soldiers ride in from the east and try to parley with the men and

women gathered there, only to be spurned by disbelieving laughter and a nasty spray of

stones and rubble. And away they had ridden; three soldiers now bearing unwelcome

tidings unto his Lordship.

Can you plough me an acre of land? The words sidled into his head. Where was

Jenna? Every leaf grows many in time. If she didn’t come today, what should he do?

Perhaps he would stay here, lying supine in the forest with the golden summer filtering

through the treetops. He closed his eyes and listened to the gently drone of insects.

Between the salt water and the sea sand.

Suddenly, he jumped to his feet. He had not trained for this. He clambered down

the rocky slope to the stream, where just yesterday he had swum with a family of otters.

Sobs of frustration tore at Jenna’s throat. Half an hour after the sun is highest, he had

told her. It must be after four o’clock! Once again, Lord Russell had arrived

unexpectedly; this time just an hour before lunch, and, once again, the kitchen had been

tossed into the sort of disarray that accompanies an urgent need to impress. She did not

know why she was sobbing. During the past two days, she had been interrogated, she

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 120 KK51 N5641462 had lied to the King’s general, been demoted from guest to kitchen hand and

eavesdropped on conversations that were not hers to hear. Her composure had not

wavered. But now… And all because of Lord Bloody Russell and his late lunch.

She forced down the desire to rush onwards. Instead, from behind a slender,

silvery tree trunk, she looked back at the way she had come. Had anyone seen her? Had

she been missed? She knew Lord Russell did not trust her. He did not trust the Cornish

at all. This afternoon, she had heard him telling Sir Simon that there had been no news

from Sir Richard Grenville, nor from any of his tenants west of the Tamar. Not a word.

Sir Simon suggested that messengers were being waylaid by rebels. Lord Russell

admitted it was possible, but was unconvinced. He did not trust this Cornish silence — it

was the sort that might inexplicably erupt.

Jenna gazed at the world below, basking in the golden afternoon. It was eerily

still. The birds were quiet; no one worked the fields. The crops, such as they were this

year, would shortly need harvesting, yet those who would reap were digging up the road

at Clyst, living off the stealthy disappearance of provisions from the kitchens of Devon.

As her breathing steadied and her keen eyes traversed a landscape that slept before its

time, she was overwhelmed by a sense of expectation. It was just as Lord Russell had

said. It was as though the whole world was awaiting the cataclysm.

Onwards she went, into the forest, towards the hollowed oak. But Margh

Tredannack was not there. A squirrel scampered along a branch and looked at her with

quizzical eyes. Jenna felt her face arrange itself into a smile. It felt strange. She licked

dry lips and continued onwards, towards the sound of the stream that laughed and

gurgled its way down the hillside; a stream they had sat beside, sharing stale and meagre

provisions.

Margh shivered, then froze. A boy, just emerged from the depths of the woods, had his

gaze fixed firmly on Zeus. And if that boy should look any further to his left, he would

find a pile of clothes, a bow and arrows, a sword and Zeus’s tackle. The entire inventory

of Margh Tredannack’s military possessions, his key to survival, lay there on the ground,

just feet from being taken. And when taken, his only possession would be a pair of dirty,

holey hose and his shirt, which he had kept on, just in case Jenna finally came. He

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 121 KK51 N5641462 trembled violently. For icy water poured all over him, its silver white curtain hiding him

from the world, yet allowing him to watch the bank. Then the boy moved. Towards

Zeus. Oh, no! Margh could not let anyone take Will Wynslade’s horse. Not only was it

Will’s beloved animal, it was a mark of leadership and a vital weapon of war. If Captain

Tredannack lost this horse, his entrails would fry over his general’s fire and his name

would forever be dragged through the prickly hedge of Cornish wrath. Taking a deep

breath, he slid into the swirling brew at the base of the falls and swam beneath the

surface until the shallow reaches of the muddy bank forced him to surface. Gripping a

dry ledge of rock, he held himself perfectly still. The boy was upstream from him,

nearing the horse, whose expression reflected a gentle curiosity befitting of an animal

that had never known a harsh hand.

Now!

The quick slap of wet feet on rock was silenced by the sound of rushing water.

Then, the softness of grass. And when the jarring thud of contact whipped the wind from

his lungs and sent the horse thief crashing into the hard, unforgiving earth, he did not

even hear the feminine cry of shock that burst into the air.

Jenna had heard nothing. The impact might have come from an explosion, such

was its unsignalled force. Her lungs were empty and her gasps were stifled by the force

of weight that pressed her into the ground. It took several seconds to realize that the

power that rendered her useless was human; that a man’s hands were tightly fisted

around her waist; that a powerful leg pinned hers to the grass beneath her.

‘Get off me!’ The power to struggle emerged and struggle she did. ‘For mercy’s

sake, get off me. You’ll break every rib in my body.’

Relaxation of the grip was instant and she rolled away before daring to sit up and

stare at him in horror. He was wet through; she, too, almost soaked.

‘Jenna!’ He gulped and gasped for breath. ‘Holy Mother of God! Jenna!’ Relief,

regret, surprise. Everything was there, in his voice. Then he laughed. ‘What a boy you

are!’

Crediton Monday, 30th June, 1549

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 122 KK51 N5641462 The stench of burned hay and charred wood filled his nose, and as Margh urged Zeus

across the stone bridge he was conscious of being watched. Silent people lined the road.

Men showed off rusty weapons scavenged from old barns and dug up from secret places

beneath the ground, old women wore masks of fear. Everyone had paused to watch him

ride by and their suspicion sat on his shoulders like a hair shirt.

They watched until he turned down the lane leading to Yewton Arundell, where

he dismounted and led Zeus though a familiar gate and into a familiar courtyard. It was

so full of men, there was barely a patch of grass or earth to be seen. Men, sitting in

clusters on the ground, standing in circles beneath trees, leaning against walls and

trellises, even against an old wain that was to be returned to duty. But not all was

idleness. The ring of metal on metal betrayed smithies and armourers at work and,

indeed, on close inspection it could be discerned that many of the men who filled the

garden were waiting for their swords, daggers, bills and scythes to be repaired, reshaped

and resharpened, for rivets to be driven into armour. Margh searched the swarming place

for any sign of the regiment he had last seen at Trematon Castle, when he and a few

others had left Robert Smyth and taken Grenville into custody. Smyth, however, was

nowhere to be seen. Instead it was a joyful Jan Spargo who tossed aside his leather water

pouch and rushed to embrace him.

‘Captain, sir! Our armies are as one! A vast army of Devonshiremen and

Cornishmen! But sir, we Cornish are supreme. For in strength and weapons we are not to

be bettered, and so Arundell remains our commander. Come sir, I shall take you to him.’

Margh allowed himself to be led to a guard who stood at the side entrance to the

house. Eventually, after minutes of explanation and a further five minutes of waiting

alone, he was ushered inside.

Arundell’s council of war was gathered in the room where Margh had listened to

Will play his harp; where Jenna had first aroused his jealousy.

‘Ah, it’s Tredannack,’ Arundell observed dryly. ‘What have you to report?’

Margh had expected a warmer welcome, but there were men here he did not

know. The rough-drawn map spread before them on the table suggested a walled city.

‘You may speak freely, lad. John Bury, here, leads the Devonshire regiments,

along with Pomeroy and Coffin. Wynslade and Holmes you already know.’


Margh’s thoughts were racing. With such an army, the news he had to share

would be welcome indeed.

‘Sir, our friend has successfully ensconced herself at Chiswick Hall, as ordered.

She has already been interrogated by Lord Russell and has held her nerve.’

‘Has she now?’ Arundell was clearly amused. ‘And Lord Russell suspected what,

exactly?’

‘Russell is suspicious, sir. He’s had no news from Cornwall.’

Holmes snorted. ‘Hardly surprising, given how well secured it is.’

Margh relayed the news passed on by Jenna.

‘She told him some Devonshire knaves sacked Lanskellan!’ Bury’s indignation

was impossible to disguise.

‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ Margh said. ‘Her story was merely part of the

subterfuge. I was, in fact, one of the Cornish knaves who sacked Lanskellan. The point

is, I believed it to be quite possible that Russell didn’t even know of our army’s

existence. And if he was only sent down with three hundred men, then I believe my

judgement to have been correct.’

He looked anxiously at Arundell, who was staring pensively into the garden.

‘Three hundred?’

‘Yes sir. Some are at Honiton and others at Mohun’s Ottery. Russell seems to be

spending most of his time there.’

Arundell merely nodded.

‘Also, sir, the justices have been instructed by Somerset to offer pardons to all of

those who block the road at Clyst St Mary, if only they will go back to their masters. I

understand Russell tried to convince them, and was told that the commons of Devonshire

would gladly remain peaceful if the King were to delay changes to our Mass until he

comes of age. Sir, the men at Clyst are deadly serious. I have not dared pass their way

for fear that they may not believe me for who I am and lock me up at St Sidwell’s with

some of the local gentlemen. They’ve taken guns from the ships at Topsham and the

road is blocked by felled trees. To the east, Exeter is almost cut off.’

Much of this, Arundell already knew. Pomeroy had shown him the order he had

received to read to his own men. Disband now, and be pardoned, it demanded of the

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 124 KK51 N5641462 rebellious Devonshiremen. After reading it to a large gathering of bored men, for whom

it provided a moment’s mirth, he had fed it to the fire. And good fuel it was, for a quick

bright flame.

‘Anything else? Do we still have Sir Peter Carew to deal with?’

‘My understanding is that he was commanded to explain himself to the Protector,

sir. In person.’

Arundell smiled and rubbed his hands.

‘Let us hope the Protector is not feeling too sour. I’d rather like a chance to deal

with Carew myself.’

St David’s Hill, Exeter Wednesday, 2nd July, 1549

On a ridge just outside Exeter, they stopped. The gasp emitted by the Cornishmen was

audible above the whistle of the wind, and, in the silence that followed the stilling of

armed men and horses, Margh felt a knot gather in his chest and throat. The raw, poor

beauty of wild gorse and heather of western Cornwall was in his blood and bones, but he

had never seen anything like this in Cornwall. It was a wondrous place; a shimmering

panorama of gold and pink that began with the city wall below them and spread away,

away beyond the sparkling sea to the far horizon. He could see the gleaming copper in

the spires of the cathedral, the turrets of the castle and its garrison, and hundreds of

houses, all of which appeared to be teetering down the hillside, striving to reach the

broad sweep of bronzed river.

‘Wynslade, Tredannack, Jewell!’ John Wynslade’s voice broke his reverie.

God help me, Margh prayed, as his senses retreated from excess. Help Arundell

find a way not to destroy this place. He guided Ruan, whose leg was almost healed, to

where Wynslade was assembling his company for an address by their leader, and fell in

beside Gerent and Will.

Arundell, straight-backed upon his large grey horse, rode the width of his leading

group of colonels, majors and captains. He wheeled his horse around to face the city, and

with a flourish of his sword seemed to slice it in half. When he turned back, he was

smiling.


‘Nothing less than a jewel! Wouldn’t you say, Jewell?’ he grinned at Gerent,

pleased with his own wit. ‘A jewel, indeed!’ he shouted. ‘Exeter, my fellow men at arms,

is the jewel in our campaign. We can achieve nothing without it — the risk is too great.

But with it, we have a secure homeland.’ He paused, for at this moment, with the rag-tag

hundreds still straggling along on foot, with the cavalcade of wagons carrying canons

and guns seized from seaside fortifications, he was the leader of a great army on the

brink of a glorious victory. Even his horse appeared conscious of its role and held itself

in the manner befitting an equestrian warrior. ‘Gentlemen! Common men!’ Arundell

raised his voice. ‘It shall be ours. Tomorrow, unless the mayor and his aldermen see

sense, we lay siege to Exeter. With control of Exeter, Cornwall shall shut out the English

forever. Yes?’

A wall of affirmation roared back at him and again, Arundell he raised his sword.

‘Wasn’t it the English who set our border at the Tamar? Wasn’t it?’

Another roar, and a sea of fists thumped at the air.

‘Aye. It was. And yet are they happy with it? No, they are not. For still they

interfere in our affairs. Still they try to wipe us from existence. But it stops here. From

now, they shall be forced to keep to the terms of Athelstan’s so-called agreement and

recognize the Tamar as a symbol of our sovereignty. They cannot banish us and then

expect us to bow to their every whim. This attempt to take from us a religion we have

practised since before their heathen ancestors set foot on Britain’s soil will lead them

back to the Devil’s darkness and we Cornishmen will not go with them. We shall keep

our language, and we shall say our prayers as we have always done. We shall not

succumb to pretty words or vile threats. And we shall not bow to Somerset, who borders

on treachery by going far beyond the will of the old King. And until our little King is of

a majority, we will insist on keeping our Latin mass. Aye?’

The roar this time resounded more loudly than before. Not only had the Cornish

foot soldiers reached the ranks of the horsemen but when he looked to his right, Arundell

saw Bury’s Devonshiremen had added their voices to the chorus. He acknowledged

them by raising his sword.

‘Our brave and trusted friends, who although by virtue of race and borders are

English, you know us for our difference and have the grace to respect us. You also have

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 126 KK51 N5641462 a true understanding of the way God’s glory must be worshipped,’ he told them and

pointed his sword towards the heavens. ‘As our neighbours, you understand well and

true that we Cornish are separate, and yet you fight with us as loyal comrades and we

love you all.’

He took a water pouch from his saddle and drank. Not one man moved.

‘One and all, hear this, and understand it well. Let there be no word of treason.

We come not to fight the King’s army. Rather, in consideration of his tender years and

his noble father’s will, to make him understand how ill-advised he has been. Without our

own Cornish noblemen to do this, we have the right to make ourselves heard in this way.

But should our young King, or his uncle, unleash Russell and his three hundred men, we

shall meet them with all our might and fury. Are you with me?’

Ten thousand voices answered him.

Exeter Wednesday, 2nd July, 1549

The people of Exeter had never seen such a sight. Those standing upon Snayle Tower

watched in silence as two thousand men marched towards the West Gate. First came the

priests with their richly embroidered chasubles, colourful banners and gold crosses;

behind them, Arundell and Wynslade, their horses brave, their swords gleaming; then,

their captains, followed by a host of barefoot soldiers in hair jerkins, and, finally, their

ragged women and tatty children. And all of them singing God’s praises, sending

snatches of hymn into the path of the breeze that bore it into the air and the ears of those

upon the wall. Hearing it, many city dwellers rushed for the gates, leaving families

behind in a last desperate attempt to join the Christian soldiers.

At the West Gate, the priests held aloft the Banner of the Five Wounds and raised

the Pyx. The army knelt in prayer. Then Arundell, in a raised voice, beseeched Exeter’s

mayor to allow peaceful possession of his city. His attempts were futile. Blackaller

shouted angry words until nothing more could be said. The gates were locked and

barred.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 127 KK51 N5641462 Darkness fell and the lights of eight camps flickered at the stars above. North-west of the

city, fiery arrows arced across the black sky towards the thatched roofs of the houses on

the hill and every so often a bright orange fireball could be seen as a target was hit. But

the jubilation of the archer was tempered by the regret of men who had no wish to harm

the many citizens who sympathized with their cause.

Fuelled by anger and purpose, men dug by torchlight, smashing into water pipes,

destroying the road, building shelters and ramparts. In the pre-dawn darkness, a small

band of workers sought the comfort of a camp fire and tossed down their tools — tools

they had brought with them from the mines of the far west — to eat and drink.

‘What be in that little box?’ The question came from a wide-eyed lad, barely

twelve years old. He had wandered into the grounds of Yewton Arundell a few days

back and latched himself like a limpet to Kitto, who had grabbed at the role of guardian

as though it might be snatched away.

Kitto drained his tankard, slowly tore a chunk of oaten bread from the loaf that

rested one of the hot stones that surrounded the fire, and gave half to the boy.

‘What little box?’

‘Under the canopy that Father Moreman holds so proud.’

‘Doan ’ee know? ’Tes the Blessed Sacrament, boy.’

‘What’s that?’

‘’Edn’t you got anyone to teach you, where you come from?’

‘No, sir. Not no more. My Gran’d never talk of such things. Said she’m be set

’pon a bonfire, peddlin’ such talk.’

‘Why, boy.’ Kitto straightened his back. ‘Father Carmynowe would tell ’ee ’tes

the body of Christ. That’s what ’tes. Body ’o’ Christ.’

‘’Ow can it be the body ’o’ Christ? He been dead a hundred years!’

Kitto scratched his head and elbowed Jan Spargo, who, leaning against the wheel

of a cart, had just closed his eyes. Startled, his large frame appeared to part company

with the earth beneath him.

‘What? What?’

Wrapped in a blanket, Margh Tredannack opened sleepy eyes. Near him, the boy

giggled.


Jan’s gaze, meanwhile, had discovered Kitto. ‘What was that for? Can a man not

have ’is sleep?’

‘How can Father Moreman have the body of Christ, Jan? Can ’ee tell the lad that

much a’fore you have the rest o’ your kip?’

‘Doan’ you know, Kitto?’

‘Ais, I know. But my tongue canna tell the sense of it.’

Jan sighed and settled himself back on the grass, his legs crossed and his fingers

loosely entwined.

‘Well, boy, your Uncle Kit has come to the right man. You know the wafer that’s

blessed by the priest? Well, that be the body of Christ. The priest has the power to make

it so.’

‘So, the priest is like a wizard, then?’ quizzed the boy.

‘Ais.’ But Jan shook his head. ‘No. No, ’tedn’t magic, like a wizard uses. ’Tes

the holy power of God. ’Tes the way the priest talks with God and if it be God’s will to

answer a prayer, then it’s because of the priest’s holiness and goodness and because the

prayer is worth an answer. ’Tes what makes a priest a priest.’

‘My Gran said the reformers pray d’reck to God.’

Jan Spargo snorted. ‘Ais, and noggle-headed they be. If we could all pray

d’reckly to God, there’d be no need for priests. They say that, but they doan do away

with their priests, do they? Because if they did, we could all go into church and pray to

God whenever we liked. And what sort of church would that be? Why, it’d be a rabble of

people asking for all sorts of silly things and not praying respectful.’

Kitto pursed his lips. ‘Aye, there’s no sense t’ not havin’ a priest. Father

Carmynowe’s a’right, edn’t ’e Jan? ’E said if I weeded the churchyard for five Fridays in

row, I would get new boots.’

‘And did you?’ the boy asked.

‘’Appen I did. Two weeks after the work were done, old Gumpy White kicked

the bucket and the next thing I know, ’is boots are sat on the wall of the pigs craow.’

‘Ais,’ Jan put in. ‘’Twas because of the holy work you done in the churchyard,

Kitto. Father Carmynowe blessed your work and God gave you the boots.’


‘Did God make the old man die just so’s you could have the boots?’ asked the

boy.

Kitto hooted, unlaced one of his boots and shoved a dirty, calloused foot into the

firelight, where he twisted his ankle to and fro to display it to best advantage. ‘See this

foot? Thinks ’ee that God cares about this, what’s seen icy puddles and snow, and mud

and cow pats and pig swill? Every kind of earth and filth known to ’umankind be set

’ere, hard as horns. Been walking and running around Sancreed and Sen Yust all me life

with soles of ’uman leather, I have — ’til a few weeks ago. Canna say as the Lord thinks

too much about a Cornishman’s feet. ’Tedn’t a proper Cornishman what’s got baby-soft

feet.’

Margh could not help it. He grinned and propped himself up on an elbow.

‘Well, why on earth did you pray for a pair of boots, Kitto?’

Three faces, ruddied by firelight, turned to him.

‘That be the wrong question, Cap’n, sir,’ the lad offered pertly. ‘The question be

this: why did God give ’em to ’im?’

‘And, the answer?’ Jan Spargo prompted. ‘’Tes because Father Carmynowe

knew the right prayers.’

But the lad shook his head. ‘God let Kitto have the boots because He wanted him

to march. ’Coz he’s a Cornishman.’

‘Who?’ Margh leaned into the ring of firelight and broke some bread from the

loaf. ‘God or Kitto?’

‘God a Cornishman?’ Jan Spargo’s eyes lit up. ‘Then p’raps someone should tell

the King. ’Twould save a lot of silly nonsense with weapons.’

‘I meant Kitto!’ The boy was adamant. ‘God wanted him to march.’

‘Aye, that he did,’ Margh said. His gaze took in the faces of the men sitting

aroung the fire. All good, Christian men. He lowered his tone as though to hold them in

his thrall. ‘And he wanted Kitto to march because Kitto believes, as all good Cornishman

believe, that the way to proper prayer lies in the communion we have with God through

the power vested in our priests and in our Latin mass and in the Holy Sacraments. And

this we shall keep forever more. We have lost our saints statues and our rood screens and

had our silver and gold melted down for the English to spend on wars against Scotland

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 130 KK51 N5641462 and France. One day, we shall have it back. But our Latin mass and our Cornish prayers,

they shall not take these. You heard Arundell — this reform stops here, at Exeter’s West

Gate. The learned aldermen of the city might be for having English in their churches, but

their people won’t and neither will we. They shall cut out our tongues before we speak

English in church. For how can he be Cornish, who speaks English when he prays?’

There was a soft tramping of grass behind them, and a figure sat beside Kitto,

providing a mirror-image. He stretched his booted feet out towards the fire.

‘Feet are froze over like a fish pond in Jan’ry,’ Billy said. ‘Can’t see the point of

boots if me feet are froze inside ’em. Remember ’ow ’ee got your boots, Kit? On top of

the pigsty, they were.’

Chiswick Hall Wednesday, 2nd July, 1549

Jenna shivered on the darkened stairs. Low voices came from Sir Simon’s room. Lord

Russell was with him. She blew out her candle and held her breath.

‘…doesn’t understand the gravity of the situation,’ his Lordship was saying. ‘All

I have is an order to disperse them and take their leaders up to London.’

Sir Simon cleared his throat and Jenna heard the sound of water being poured.

‘It’s simply impossible. My spies tell me there are ten thousand of them,’ Russell

continued. ‘Well armed, too. No commander would expect victory against ten thousand

barbarians with only three hundred soldiers.’

Sir Simon coughed and then chuckled. Jenna released her breath slowly and

silently as she realized that Lord Russell, too, had spies in Devonshire.

‘Perhaps the Protector is expecting the Almighty to intervene on his behalf, with

men and weapons instead of loaves and fishes.’

‘Well, if Somerset won’t provide them, the Almighty may have to. For without

them, I am powerless to do anything.’ Russell fell silent for a moment before adding,

‘What really bothers me, is that if this unrest spreads I may find my retreat cut off.’

‘Your retreat?’


‘A strategic retreat to Sherbourne,’ Russell said. ‘At least there, I have a chance

of keeping Arundell and his rabble from marching on London. At Honiton, I am exposed

on every side.’

‘I see,’ Sir Simon said. ‘Well, just as long as Arundell and his rabble leave me

well alone.’

‘You don’t fancy a summer locked up in St Sidwell’s?’ This time there was jest

in Russell’s voice.

‘No, my Lord, I do not. I may be missing the company of some of those held

there, but I hear its rooms have been heavily over-sold. And in my present condition, I

do so like the comfort of my feather bed.’ There was another bout of coughing and a

chair scraped across the floorboards.

Finally, the two men bade each other good night and, crouched behind a carved

chest, Jenna watched as the glow from Lord Russell’s candle preceded him into the

corridor and led him to his own chamber. Slowly, she counted to one hundred. Then, she

lit her candle from the one that burned in the sconce on the opposite wall and knocked

softly on Sir Simon’s door.

‘It’s Jenna, Sir Simon. I heard you coughing. Can I get you some honey and

lemon?’

He was sitting up against his pillows, his nightcap skewed and a cup of water in

his hand. While his leg was healing slowly, a wheezing, rattling chest cold had gripped

him.

‘You’re a good girl, Jenna,’ he rasped. ‘I would like that. But there is something

else. Something more important.’ He patted the arm of the chair beside his bed and

Jenna knew he wanted her to sit. ‘Lass, can I trust you?’

Jenna sat on the edge of the chair. ‘Aye, sir.’

‘Jenna, Lord Russell has been sent to stop the nonsense that is unfolding at

Exeter. The situation, however, is much worse than we suspected. Do you know of

Humphry Arundell?’

‘I know his name, sir.’ In her mind’s eye, she saw a frustrated warrior, angry at a

mild-mannered priest, instantly become a charming man of diplomacy and graciousness.

‘And a little of his reputation. He has a sharp temper. Or so I have heard my father say.’


‘Well, Jenna, you have heard well, for he has led thousands of Cornishmen into

Devon and they have joined forces with the rebels to besiege Exeter. Lord Russell says

there are about ten thousand of them.’

‘Ten thousand!’ Jenna tried not to smile.

‘Aye.’ He beckoned with a hooked finger. ‘Jenna, come closer and listen.’

Sir Simon smelled musty and Jenna wanted to go downstairs to get his honey and

lemon. But she leaned towards his voice as it dropped to a whisper.

‘Russell says he only has three hundred men. I want you to ride into Honiton and

tell me what you see. His troops are bivouacked around the town, with a few at Mohun’s

Ottery, Sir Peter Carew’s place. It’s just out of the town, near Luppitt. I will give you a

message for Sir Peter, which you can deliver to his steward as a cover for your presence

there. Carew won’t be there — he’s yet to return from London. But there are

housekeeping matters that might need to be resolved in terms of provisioning Russell’s

troops and my note will say that I wish to see him about that as soon as he is back. The

housekeeper is a kindly woman and she will give you a meal. Will you do it for me,

Jenna? For me—’ He coughed and turned his face from her. When he turned back to

look at her his eyes were ablaze. ‘For our cause?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The world seemed to sway beneath her.

‘You’re a good girl, Jenna. The king has ordered Russell to end this outrage and

send the leaders to London for punishment. But if Russell truly cannot do it, and cannot

convince him that he needs more men, then I need to know.’ He patted her hand. ‘You’ll

do it for me? Find out the truth?’

Her mind reeling, Jenna nodded.

‘Of course, sir. I shall take my pony and be there in no time.’ Holy Mother of

God, she prayed, help her to do what was right.

Sir Simon squeezed her hand. ‘Thank you, Jenna. Now get me my honey and

lemon and then to bed with you. It is very late.’

Indeed, it was late and Jenna stifled a yawn as she traversed the corridors and ran

lightly down the shallow steps that led to the kitchen, where the eternal fires provided

the household with a constantly simmering pot of water. The glow from her candle

reflected in the copper bowls and pewter pans and pots, and caught the bright yellow

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 133 KK51 N5641462 sides of lemons picked this morning. The honey pot, kept on the bench that ran the

length of the room, always had a tiny wooden spoon standing in its sticky depths and she

treated herself to a morsel of sweetness before setting to work. Licking the spoon, she

drew the honey onto her tongue and closed her eyes to savour the taste. How the bees did

it, she did not understand, but ever since she was a small child she had tried to identify

the source of the nectar. Had it come from the apple blossoms or the sweet peas? Roses

or lilies? She closed her eyes as her throat closed around the sweetness. Sometimes, it

was impossible to tell. She licked her lips and let the flavour seep into her tongue. Pear

blossom, perhaps?

Suddenly, a jangle of bells clattered into the room and Jenna almost choked on

the sweetness that was sliding down her throat. Over her shoulder, in the shadows, a

figure was just discernable, for his lantern was carried low at his side and failed to

illuminate his face.

‘Haha! A maiden!’

Jenna backed away until she felt the edge of the bench pressed into her.

‘Do not be frightened,’ he went on, ‘for Joll is only here to brighten.’

‘Who are you?’ She was on the verge of screaming for help. ‘What do you

want?’

‘The fool is who, and who be you?’

Jenna could not answer. His rhyming speech had addled her brain. The light of

his lantern rose and flickered in the myriad bells stitched to his strange costume. A half-

masked face, old and hagged, emerged from the dark. He was bedecked in a tight-fitting

chequered costume. Jenna had never seen anything like it. He shook his foot and bells

jangled there, too, stitched to the toes of his upturned slippers.

‘You’re — ’ She coughed, ‘—his lordship’s fool?’

‘Aye, Miss. A fool I am, a fool I’ll be; especially if you’ll marry me.’

Jenna’s laugh was tinged with terror.

‘Oh never mind,’ he went on

‘I see you’re kind,

‘And Joll has placed you in a bind.

‘Beware sweet thing,


‘Beware and know —

‘A rebel’s fate would see you swing.’

With that, he performed a flourishing pirouette, eddied into the corridor and was

gone on a fading cacophony of bells.

Cornwall, 1558

‘Are ’ee snug, little master?’ she says. And I am; snug against her large bosom,

with a piece of oat bread and honey in my hand. I will spill crumbs upon her,

but she will not care. Kerra does not care. Kerra’s name is love; and love is what

she is. ‘Now then,’ she says, ‘where are we up to?’ And she goes on with the

story.

’Tes midsummer in Tredannack. Fair and sunny, with the soft summer

wind rippling through the barley. There is Kerra, sweating like a donkey in the

kitchen at Tredannack. In the hottest part of the day she finds chores in the

garden, where the cooling breeze finds her among the sage and thyme and mint,

lavender, pennywort and houndstongue. Foxglove and willowherb. And dog

rose. The scents from the garden get mixed up with the spicy smell of saffron

buns.

The men are away. More going each day, and the women all say there

will be no child born here, come next Spring. But news of young mistress

Eselde’s babe brings smiles to worn faces, even though the new prayer book

might stop its baptism before its soul is claimed by God. But for now, there is

work to do. The women bend their backs to the sun, reaping with men’s scythes

and bundling up the hay. The little ricks standing in the mowhay are smaller,

and some have an odd tilt, but Kerra says hay is hay, and the animals pay no

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 135 KK51 N5641462 mind. Soon they will be piled into one big rick and thatched for safe‐keeping

and when it is all done, Drew Curnow will cry the neck and lead the reapers to

feast. Amid the harvest, news comes that the men are beyond Bodmyn,

traversing the boggy moors; but Kerra says that by the time the news came, they

were probably beyond Cornwall. No one knew for certain.

But not all is trial and aching bones. Toil is followed by blazing sunsets

that spread their rays across the sea and over the cliffs to Tredannack. There is

honey mead and oaten bread; there is smoked mackerel and the remains of last

year’s cider; and amid it all, hope and piskey mischief are abroad. The young

mistress, feeling the fullness of her husband’s love, has an idea that brings

smiles and laughter and sends feet scampering up the stone stairs.

From a carved oak chest, they drag some dusty costumes, three pairs of

leather sandals and a couple of wooden swords. Out in the walled garden, a

circle is drawn and inside that circle, Granpa Spargo is making strange marks

for the players to follow. Old Drew Curnow is out by the dairy, busy with an

axe, cutting rough stools for sitting on. My Aunt Bosinney carefully washes the

costumes and the young mistress Eselde mends a tear. Everyone searches the

dim recesses of memory for scraps of lines unspoken for twenty‐five years, until

Father Carmynowe finds a copy at the back of a bookshelf in my grandfather’s

study. So much excitement. Everyone knows it to be a sign from God.

It is The Life of St Meriasek.

Kerra’s eyes mist over when she tells me about the miracle play. She says

she had only ever seen it once in the great stone amphitheatre, the Plen‐an‐

Gwarry, and would not likely see it ever again. She tells me of the villain

Teudar, the noble Duke of Cornwall and the simple, saintly Meriasek. She no

longer believes in miracles. But she did then. The men were away, saving their

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 136 KK51 N5641462 Mass and their tongue. The full moon hung bright in the clearing sky.

People have come from all around. Gran Spargo sits in front, with two of

the Bosinney girls. Widow White and Widow Thomas sit together, staring

straight and sitting straight, as though a birch broom is strapped to their backs.

And the Stevens’ are all there, barefoot and windblown. The Nankivells have

come in from Trewellard, though Jacca has gone to join Arundell, and the

Harveys walk up from Boscaswell, with old Tom puffing in his jerkin, laced

tight and fit to burst, and his Eliza beside him, white‐knuckled with excitement.

Eselde sits with her mother, one of her sisters on her lap. And Kerra is there too,

with Mattie. My Grandma Tredannack puts a little fife to her lips and trills a

little tune. Everyone’s breath is stuck in their chests. Drew Curnow is in place,

and old Granpa Spargo, too. Drew is the Duke, and the Duke is angry, as he

should be. The Duke is furious with this king, Teudar. You know because of his

voice.

Thou unbelieving tyrant!

Why is thy way in this country?

Title nor claim, distinctly,

On the side of father or mother here,

Right truly, thou hast not.

Thou hast put out of the Kingdom

Meriasek, who as an honest man

Accounted certainly by folk.

Everyone cheers. The Duke of Cornwall is right. The villain Teudar has

no claim here. ’Tes not his land to walk upon uninvited. But King Teudar is a

villain, and Granpa Spargo puts the Devil into his voice.


I will put thee out of the country,

Before going, like Meriasek,

If thou worshippest the dirty mouth of lies…

The audience shouts. And Teudar’s voice is lost for a wee moment.

(Kerra says Granpa Spargo came over with a coughing fit.)

…I am come, thou luckless mouth,

To undo you all now.

Another roar. But then the Duke lifts his chin and parades before his foe,

like one of Godolphin’s peacocks. Silence falls, for his words are known. They

are expected; they fill hearts and minds. Beloved words.

That stands not in thy power,

Thou false, excommunicated hound!

Sooner will I spill thy blood,

And thou shalt be minced

Like herbs —

‘Aye! Minced like herbs!’

‘Like hemlock!’

Cheers, and more cheers.

But Teudar is a rascal and cares not. Granpa Spargo puts on his most

fearsome voice.

Duke of Cornwall and all his folk

Under my feet I will crush them

Just like grains of sand.


Though my property was not

Large, surely amongst my nation

I have greatened it already.

A conqueror am I,

A good body in proof

Feared among lords.

It frightens Kerra. It frightens them all. But only for a second. The Duke

wields his sword and it glints in the firelight.

I care not for thy might,

Thou tyrant, one blind bean.

This time, Drew Curnow’s voice is soft and menacing. Everyone must

strain to hear. They hear the sea in the distance. They hear the wind on the

moor. They hear their own hearts beating.

Through the heart I will spit thee

If thou go not away backwards

Quick out of my ground.7

Kerra says that one day we must have the play in the Plen‐an‐Gwarry at

Sen Yust, where the stone seats have been softened by weeds and wind and rain.

But she says it would not be right to have it while Mary sits upon the throne. But

still, I should like that, to see the play. I will take up my father’s great sword and

be the Duke of Cornwall; or perhaps I shall be Meriasek. But where is my

grandfather’s book now? His books are all gone, and as I look into the flames of

7 Stokes, W. (ed) (1872). Beunans Meriasek (c. 1500). Cornish Language Board, 1996

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 139 KK51 N5641462 our bright furze fire, I see its pages burning.

Outside, my mother’s dog is barking like a lunatic. My mother does not

understand, because Tammy is a good dog, and mostly quiet. So she opens the

door, shouts at it and comes back inside. She knows there is no one outside on

this gusty night who will not knock friendly on the door.

***


A war of words

St David’s Hill, Exeter, 4 July, 1549

…we will not receive the new service because it is but like a

Christmas game, but we will have our old service of matins, mass,

evensong, and procession in Latin, not in English, as it was before. And

so we Cornishmen (whereof certain of us understand not English) utterly

refuse this new English.

Honiton, 8 July, 1549

My dear Lord Protector,

I write to you with unwelcome news. The rebels are of such

numbers that they have ten thousand from Devon and Cornwall holding

Exeteris in a state of siege, while my own situation is one of diminishing

strength, and becoming more intolerable by the day. This very day at

dawn, sixteen of my men slunk away from Honiton, apparently to return

to their wives and children but more accurately, I would suggested, to

join Arundell. Meanwhile, despite my attempts to render the local people

fearful of Arundell and his vast rebel army, the local peasants are picking

up their scythes, not to reap the harvest, but to add strength to the

traitors’ arsenal. My Lord, I respectfully beseech more assistance, for

without it, I can neither feed, clothe, nor pay my men, nor mount any

military resistance, let alone an offensive…

Your humble and obedient servant

Russell


Honiton, 9 July, 1549

My dear Lord Protector,

Further to my report of the 8th, I am afraid that disturbances to my

rear, in Dorset, are threatening to encircle me. One possible course of

action, and of particular pertinence considering my current inability to

proceed westward, would be to retreat as far as Sherbourne, where the

road to London is narrow and would easily be held by my small

contingent. In any event, as the Council has at its disposal, and still in the

south, a considerable wealth of experienced soldiers, may I be so bold as

to request some of their number to provide immediate strength and relief

so that my objective can be quickly attained. I eagerly await your advice.

Your most humble servant,

Russell.

Richmond, 10 July, 1549

When I first read your request, O ignorant men of Devonshire and

Cornwall, straightways came to my mind a request, which James and

John made unto Christ: to whom Christ answered: “you ask you know

not what.”

…where you say…the new is ‘like a Christmas game’ … It is more

like a game and a fond play to be laughed at to hear the priest speak

aloud to people in Latin, and the people listening with their ears to hear;

and some walking up and down in the church, some saying other prayers

in Latin and not understanding the other. Neither the priest nor his parish

knows what they say. And many times the thing that the priest sayeth in

Latin is so fond of itself, that it is more like a play than a godly prayer…

Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury



… (his majesty) is further pleased and contented that the

forfeitures of all the goods, chattels, offices, pensions, manors, lands,

tenements, farms, copyholds … of the said rebels and traitors which shall

persevere and continue in their rebellion and treason, shall grow, come

and be unto all and every such person and persons as shall first have,

take, possess and attain to the said goods and chattels, or shall first enter

into the said manors, lands, tenements…

Edward, King of England


The King’s majesty, by the advice of his entirely beloved uncle

Edward, Duke of Somerset, governor of his person, and protector of all

his majesty’s realms, dominions…considereth that as it is the fruit of his

mercy to receive his humble, repentant, and sorrowful subjects

acknowledging their offenses, to the benefit and grace of his mercy…

And likewise his majesty…shall suffer and permit them to enjoy

and take the benefit of the King’s majesty’s pardon…

Edward, King of England

Westminster, 25th July 1549 To the Commons of Cornwall — supplication if they be not soon

repressed answer shall be made.

To Humphry Arundell’s poison sent abroad by his letters, you

shall well occur, if you make proclamation there in the shires about you,

that whosoever shall receive take or hear any such letter or writing sent

to incite or move, other to favour, or take part with them, or aid them

with victual or otherwise shall be taken as Rebels and suffer forfeiture...

And likewise upon such as shall use traitorous and rebellious words,


moving and bending to sedition or to the disappointing and disfurnishing

of you, or to not serving the King’s Majesty, or shall aid the rebels…

Thus we bid you Love,

Your loving friends, E. Somerset , etc


PART TWO

Kerra always says the church commissioners who came for our saints had

pointy noses. They pointed them at us instead of talking. And they screwed

them up against the smoke of our furze fires and the smell of Kerra’s pipe; they

put them in the air when Father Carmynowe offered a glass of ale; and they

buried them in the parish accounts, sniffing for lies. But Kerra says their ears

were shut, except to the squeaks of the tittle‐tattlers. And their ears had to be

well tuned to hear any tittle‐tattlers in Sen Yust and Sancreed, for they had my

grandfather Tredannack and my great‐uncle Bosinney to deal with.

Those pointy‐noses fared no better in Sennen or at Towednack, nor

Zennor. In Sancreed, one of their horses buckled at its knees just as they passed

the little church, where St Euny sat, still and silent, unnoticed above the door.

Kerra says my father was a lad at the time. He and Jan Spargo were hid in the

fogou beyond Trigg’s farm, with St Mary Magdalene and St Michael. Kerra says

St Mary Magdalene was beautiful. Two foot high, and made of plaster. Her

gown was blue and gold, and her long light brown hair fell about her shoulders.

I have heard people talk about my mother’s hair too, which once fell in long

dark ropes. St Michael was made of oak, as smooth as smooth can be.

I have been in the fogou. There is nothing there now. In the commotion

time, Sir Simon Chiswick sent my brave mother into the viper’s nest of Mohun’s

Ottery. He wanted to know what was happening there. It was Carew’s home,

and further into England than she cared to go.


Kerra says Carew’s housekeeper had been so long without a family to

care for that when the heavy bronze knocker announced the arrival of Jenna

Rosewarne she could not get her inside fast enough. Rosy‐cheeked, grey‐haired,

and as comfortable and rumpled looking as the softest mattress, she rushed

around as though terrified that anything less than the promptest of service

would have the girl rushing back to Chiswick Hall as soon as the rain stopped.

Jenna, for whom the clouds had held tight for most of her journey, was mildly

damp and only a little chilled, but her heart warmed as toast and cider and a

little stool were placed by the fire. And there they were until someone noticed

that the encampment of military tents in the fields beyond was being pulled

down and packed away.

Mohun’s Ottery, near Honiton Friday, 4th July, 1549

Mrs Skinner scratched her head. ‘Surely, they cannot set up camp any closer to Exeter.

Could they, do you think? Is the road blocked at Ottery St Mary?’

Jenna shrugged.

‘Depends. I gave them some food and promised them more.’ She glanced

apologetically.

Mrs Skinner patted Jenna’s hand, and for several minutes they watched the

army’s maneuvers. The to-ing and fro-ing of banners and flags flying in the wind

betrayed a chaotic bustle of men on horseback. Gradually, as they watched, lines of

military intent formed and the Tudor dragon took a position of authority. Then, a roared

‘hurrah!’ echoed on the wind and the lines began to move.

‘Well, Jenna, I fear the people of Ottery St Mary are about to meet the King’s

army. They will leave the field and then turn this way. If you run down to the end of the

carriageway, you will see them pass.’


Half an hour later, watching from the low branch of a vast spreading oak, Jenna

Rosewarne watched the King’s army pass her by. When they turned left at the end of the

road, she furrowed her brow and looked up at the sun. Surely not! A smile spread across

her face and relief sang in her marrow. Left was east. Tomorrow, the news would be

spreading across Devon and Cornwall. Tomorrow she would go home.

Within the hour, just as Mrs Skinner was showing Jenna how she knitted

stockings for her daughter, the dark swarthy man from the portrait in the hall burst into

the room.

‘Where the hell is Russell?’

Mrs Skinner jumped to her feet and curtsied.

‘Sir Peter! Forgive me, but I had not expected you back! What may I get for

you?’

‘You can get me an answer. Where is Russell?’

‘Gone, sir.’

‘To Exeter? He must be mad! Ten thousand against three hundred! And all the

roads blocked! He’s an imbecile!’

‘Well, no, sir. It appears they turned east.’

‘East! East? They have retreated?’

‘I cannot say, sir. There was no message. I have heard nothing.’

Sir Peter Carew’s boots thundered across the hall and his voice roared for a

groom. By late afternoon, the field was once again alive with banners, flags, tents,

horses and men. Jenna rested her wrists upon the window sill and looked down upon her

very first row of knitting.

The West Gate, Exeter Monday, 21stJuly, 1549

Boredom had produced Guillo Lapan’s scheme to undermine Exeter’s wall at the West

Gate and blast their way into the city. Now, Margh wished he had found something

more stimulating for the Breton to do. His lungs heaved, his forehead dripped, and he

struggled to quash an unnerving sensation of dread. God, get me out of here alive!


‘How much further, did you say?’ His voice sounded high-pitched and half dead.

Strangled by panic, and deadened by the closeness of the tunnel.

‘Less than nine yards.’

A chuckle was hidden somewhere in Guillo’s reply, but if Margh heard it, he

chose not to recognize it. Only nine yards. Only nine. Thank the Lord he hadn’t been

born into a poor family. And yet whenever bad luck had reminded him of the ill-fate that

was certain to dog him wherever he went for as long as he lived, it had been those poor

families, the families whose men-folk went underground for tin, to whom Margh had

gone for comfort. To the Spargos and Triggs, Curnows and Harveys, where a crowded

hearth would cheer his troubled soul. Now, with the light from the leading lantern

eliminated by Guillo’s rump, Margh could see nothing. Mindlessly he followed, his

thoughts roaming back to the comfort of old Gran Spargo’s lap as she told him stories of

the piskies and witches, fairies and goblins and of the pretty little mermaid that sunned

herself upon the rocks in the cove; of Jan’s Aunt Giddy-Goose, who as a child had cast

the shadow of death over her father’s house by bringing a faggot of gorse indoors for the

happiness of its yellow. At least once a week, the old spinster had assured Margh

Tredannack that God had taken care of her, despite the gorse, because the only person

ever to have died in that house since the gorse was her father, and that it was his time

anyway because he were well over eighty and so on that basis, there was no reason to

think that God would not take care of little Margh Tredannack, because, after all, he had

the sun in his smile. And, anyway, Aunt Giddy-Goose would contend, Father

Carmynowe always said the Great Comet of 1531 could have been a portent of

greatness. No one really knew.

Now, at the age of —

It was here that Margh’s thoughts came to a halt. How old was he? Had his

eighteenth birthday come and gone?

The sound of picks on rock interrupted everything and he knew they had reached

the spot where Guillo and his workers were readying to lay their gunpowder. The little

parcels of explosives lay all around, tied with fuses yards long. Nervously, Margh eyed

the torches. The sooner this was over, the better.

‘Won’t be long, Cap’n,’ Guillo said. ‘Nearly finished.’


‘Quiet!’ The command came from one of those who had been digging and a hush

fell over the small party. ‘Hear that?’

‘What?’

‘Shhhh.’ Silence fell. ‘That! Hear that?’

‘What?’

‘Hush!’ Margh ordered, everyone fell silent again. Everyone heard the digging

on the other side. ‘They know we’re here, don’t they?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Everyone out. Last man to leave should light the fuse. Guillo, can you squeeze

past me and get out?’ But it was hopeless. The tunnel was too small. Turning himself

around was hard enough. ‘You two, finish this now and get out. There’s no time left.

Come on, Guillo!’

Margh had never felt more frightened. The blast would be big enough to finish

their lives right now. But as they crawled like madmen fleeing some invisible demon,

only silence surrounded them.

‘Hurry up!’ he yelled into the suffocating walls.

He knew that in this black place, his skin had turned white. He was a captain in

Arundell’s army and he was panicking. Icy fingers of water wrapped themselves around

his feet and knees. The powder would be lost. Thank God, there would be no blast.

‘Get out! Get out!’ he heard. ‘They’re flooding the tunnel!’

His breath rasping and his lungs fit to expire, Margh scrabbled through the dirt,

slapping his outstretched palms against the curved base of the tunnel as the quickest way

of navigating in this lightless hell. Pieces of stone bit into his hands and he could feel

cool dirt setting in clumps beneath his finger nails. Sweat poured from his forehead and

dripped from his nose. Behind him, he heard desperate shouting.

Finally, a shaft of gentle light appeared. A rope ladder. Light and air. The

sweetest of cool air, the softest grass, and a rumble of thunder.

‘Captain Tredannack beneath all that muck, I believe,’ said a voice he thought he

knew. Margh smiled and wearily got to his feet. It was Smyth, returned from Plymouth

at last. And Arundell was with him. Fuming.


‘Where is she, Tredannack?’ Arundell barked. ‘Bury’s friends at Clyst and Ottery

St Mary say she has disappeared.’

‘Who, sir?’

‘Miss Rosewarne! That’s who!’

Margh felt heavy drops of rain upon his head and shoulders.

‘You told me she would do whatever we asked,’ Arundell continued. ‘But for all

we know, she’s ingratiated herself with one of Carew’s friends and entrenched herself in

one of Devon’s grand households. Heaven forbid that she should betray us and go to

work for Sir Peter Carew. Fix it, Smyth.’

‘Sir—’

‘Just fix it! She saw too much at Lanson.’

‘Sir!’ The interruption caused everyone to turn. Arundell’s secretary, Kestell,

handed the leader a rolled parchment.

‘What’s this?’

‘A message came from Blackaller. It is a proclamation, sir.’

‘Oh, yes? And would that be a royal proclamation, or a Blackaller proclamation?’

A trace of excitement edged into Arundell’s voice.

‘Both sir. One accompanies the other, sir.

‘Another royal proclamation! The second in two days. It’s good to see the

beloved uncle is earning his keep. If he is not careful, I shall start to consider myself his

friend and a noble worthy.’

Mohun’s Ottery Wednesday, 23rd July, 1549

Jenna held one peg between her teeth, while she forced the other over the bed sheet. The

breeze had driven away the rain, but was making it difficult to hang out Lord Russell’s

linen. What would Captain Tredannack say when she told him? The thought made her

smile and, as she pushed the second peg into place, she sang the little song that had been

stuck in her head ever since she had met his friend. Will Wynslade. And that thought

was enough to force her to ponder over her return to Chiswick Hall, and then to

Arundell. Not that she was a prisoner here. But there were men coming and going all the

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 150 KK51 N5641462 time. Loud arguments and hushed conversations had gone on all night and all day.

Provisions, payments, weapons, lambs’ necks. She did not understand the importance of

lambs’ necks, but Lord Russell was as pleased as Punch. Jenna thought they were stringy

and tough and had always fed them to the dogs. The English were very strange.

She sighed as she rescued the bottom corner of the sheet, which was threatening

to drag in the mud.

‘Can you plough me an acre of land…’

Sitting amid the green summer canopy of an ancient apple tree, Margh Tredannack could

barely see Will Wynslade in the next tree. But above the gentle rustle of the leaves, he

could hear a girl singing. The image of a cherry wood harp glowing in firelight rose in

his mind on an unwelcome burst of jealousy.

‘That’s Jenna!’ Will said. With feline confidence, he dropped to the grassy floor

and crept through the heavily shadowed rows of trees.

‘Can you see anything?’ Margh threw away the core of an apple that was weeks

from ripe. Thank God they had found her!

There was no answer from Will. He was half-way across the orchard.

Margh’s leg had gone to sleep and he struggled to move it. Then he cursed. His

hose was caught on a knotty piece of branch where the tree had once been pruned, and

now there was a thread five miles long hanging from the back of his calf. By the time he

had landed softly onto a clump of grass, Will had vanished. He rubbed his leg and

prayed to the saints that they weren’t about to walk straight into trouble. His fingers

sought the reassurance of the dagger that hung from his belt and he moved slowly

forward to the orchard’s edge, from which he could see a gate in a stone wall and a vista

in two halves. Straight in front, and to the right, lay a carefully laid out parterre with

little hedges and borders and, beyond it, the house that was Mohun’s Ottery. To the left,

the dip of the land showed a patchwork of high-hedged fields, some with the rough-cut

texture of corn stubble, others green with pasture and dotted with oak and elm. He could

not see the army’s camp and assumed it to be on the other side of the house.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 151 KK51 N5641462 Jenna bent to pick up the wicker basket and felt strong hands on her waist. A hot hand

covered her mouth.

‘Cornish bitch,’ a rough voice said hoarsely in her ear.

She struggled and kicked, but her slippers made no impact. She bit at the foul

tasting fingers, heard a curse, felt the prick of a knife at her throat.

Carefully, Margh sidled through the gate and dropped down low among a crop of thistles

and dandelions. Damn Will! He should not have gone ahead alone. Becoming separated

was not part of the plan and Margh sensed trouble. Keeping low, he ran onto the gravel

path of the parterre and made for the shelter of the nearest trellis, over which an ancient

wisteria blackly snaked. Then he heard the shuffle of feet, struggling feet, on the stones.

‘Let her be, you bufflehead!’

Margh smiled to hear Will’s voice in broad dialect coming from the other side of

a laurel hedge and unsheathed his dagger.

‘Who the hell are you?’ a London voice asked.

‘Why,’ came Will Wynslade’s voice ‘’Tes ’er husband, I be. And a fine job she’s

done of running away from hoam, leadin’ me all this way into a furrin land.’ He waved

his hand at Jenna but kept his eye on the soldier . ‘’Ee woan wan’ her, good man. She be

as teazy as an adder. And she be with cheald, too. I know she’s laid with me brother, but

she’s a soft ’un and no one’ll take as guder care o’ ’er as I will. ’Edn’t that right,

Mistress Rosewarne? ’ee knows I woan harm ’ee, doan ’ee?’

Margh sidled to the end of the hedge and peered around. To his left, a nasty

looking piece of English militia had an arm around Jenna’s throat, pinning her to his

scruffy length. His other hand had pulled her left arm up behind her back so that her

neck was strained backwards. But was this soldier holding a weapon? From where he

was, Margh could not tell. If he was, it would be somewhere close to Jenna’s left ear.

Quickly, common sense told him the soldier could not possibly have seen him.

But had Will? It would only take the barest movement to distract him, and if that

happened, this risky charade could become deadly.

‘Come hoam wi’ me, Jenna?’ Will pleaded, and reached for her free hand. As he

did so, his lowered left hand gave a signal Margh intuitively knew.


It all happened in an instant. Margh rushed at the soldier, whose grip on Jenna

eased. A knife fell to the ground. Jenna grasped Will’s hand and, as he pulled her free,

Margh pinned the Englishman to the ground.

‘Kill him,’ Will muttered urgently. Jenna picked up the dropped knife, and thrust

it into her pouch.

‘What?’

‘Get him around behind the hedge. He’ll be out of sight.’

A door slammed. A man’s voice roared through the soft dusk. Margh, sitting

astride the soldier, looked down at the struggle for breath, at the terror in his eyes. He

saw the veins in his throat, blue and bulging. He thought of the melons and straw-stuffed

Hessian bags he had slaughtered with daggers, swords and arrows. For an instant, he

wanted Will to do it. God! How could he call himself a soldier?

Together, Margh and Will dragged the man to the far side of the hedge and

Margh pinioned him to the ground.

‘Don’t kill me!’ he pleaded, his voice rasping. ‘I won’t say a thing.’

‘Do it!’ Will urged. He was holding Jenna’s hand, readying to run for it.

From the other direction, Margh could hear a confusion of angry orders being

shouted. Getting closer.

‘Take her! Run!’ he hissed. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’

Will tugged at Jenna’s arm and together they ran across the parterre.

Only Jenna looked back as Margh hauled the soldier to the other side of the

hedge.

‘Who are you?’ the man gasped.

‘A Christian soldier,’ Margh said. A sob rose in his throat and he had to quash it.

This man, he told himself, was just another melon. Just another melon. But there was

life, warmth and life, beneath his pale skin. He couldn’t do it! No! He was a captain in

Arundell’s army and he could not kill. All he had to do was run the blade over his throat.

Not much pressure. Just enough. Margh was cold with sweat. He delivered a blow to the

man’s head and ran through the arched trellis and on into the orchard. Long shadows

enveloped him. Enveloped everything. Birds in the nearby hedgerows chirped in

farewell to the day, but he did not hear them. His only focus was on the looming

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 153 KK51 N5641462 shadows that beckoned from the hillside above him — the dark forest, where he had left

Ruan. On he ran, through the patch of weeds and thistles that snagged at his hose and

scratched his skin. His breath burned his throat, and as he burst through the gate and onto

the footpath that led around the base of the wood, he paused and felt his heart leap.

‘No!’ It was an involuntary protest and he doubled over in anguish as two

soldiers grabbed his elbows. His heels dug into the ground and he roared his defiance

into the darkening air.

‘Save your breath,’ a London accent ordered him. ‘His lordship will want you fit

to sing.’

St David’s Hill, Exeter Wednesday, 23rd July, 1549

Arundell sat with his back to a tree trunk, watching Wynslade trudge up the hill towards

him.

‘I thought our articles were fulsome.’ He waved the book of parchment and tried

to suppress a yawn. ‘Tell me what you make of it, John. Tell me what we should do, for

I am too tired to think.’ Slowly he rose and strode back and forth. If he stood still, he

would almost certainly topple over.

Wynslade took the parchment and stared out towards Exeter.

‘I am beginning to think we are merely baying at the moon,’ was all he said.

He noticed smoke coming from a house on the city’s hillside and knew it would

be a matter of seconds before the thatch caught. Whoever was responsible for that would

pay, for Arundell had ceded to the wishes of the vicar of St Thomas, who had begged

them not to destroy the city. And so it was that this wretched siege dragged on and on.

Every day, Wynslade despised it more. They had ten thousand men, and they should be

driving Russell out of Devonshire. ‘Surely the city cannot hold out for much longer, and

neither can our men. This war of words means nothing to them.’

‘It’s words we’re fighting for!’ Arundell snapped.

‘Aye. And they want to fight.’

‘Well, they’re not going to slay three hundred of the King’s soldiers and get me

hanged for their efforts just because they can. We’ll do this properly and win.’


Arundell looked up at his friend and frowned. He and Bury had argued and

agonized for hours with the priests, but when it had come time to sign the articles of

demand, Wynslade had been with Smyth at the West Gate, training a group of miners in

swordsmanship. For the first time, Arundell began to regret not consulting him before

dispatching the articles to London. ‘We should have persisted with our demand for a

Cornish prayer book,’ he said.

Wynslade laughed grimly and lay back on the grass. Above him, the thick

canopy of this ancient oak hid the summer sky. At Tregarrick, it was a Cornish sky, soft

with balmy sea air. A sky that blessed him with Cornish summer sunshine and drenched

him with Cornish rain. The sky above England was the same sky. That he knew. But just

as it was the same, it was different. The way it felt in his head and in his heart was

entirely different.

‘Do you think the mere translation of something into Cornish actually makes it

Cornish?’ Wynslade leaned upon an elbow and stared at his friend in disbelief. ‘You

can’t think that, surely?’

Arundell smiled wistfully.

London Wednesday, 23rd July, 1549

A man stared over the black shapes of the rooftops and settled his gaze on a star that

gleamed with a reddish tinge. The Romans had called it Mars. A wanderer, a planet,

named for the god of war. He scratched at his chin and frowned as he felt a twinge of

toothache. Below him, beyond the ring of lamplight, the wooden floor of his sparsely

furnished room was strewn with discarded attempts at his writing. Fanned by the breeze,

they scuttled across the floorboards and now, with a troubled sigh, he leaned across his

table to close the shutters.

Article eight was causing him trouble. Writing a comedy for the young Majesty’s

amusement would be a simpler task than responding to this ill-conceived diatribe

Humphry Arundell had seen fit to send the King. Or perhaps a Christmas game, he

mused wryly. Or an entry for his journal. Far more pleasurable to settle down after dark

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 155 KK51 N5641462 to scratch away at the vivid recesses of his mind in search of the day’s events: the

haggling over a halfpenny, heated outbursts of love and rage, the smells of the river and

the taverns, the markets and streets. All of it fodder for pen and page.

He picked up his quill and stared at the skeletal remains of his Dover sole. What

could he say that Somerset and Cranmer hadn’t already said? And yet, there was so

much that could be said, for on one hand, the Protector was a fool if he could not see

what his policies were doing to the people, and on the other, these Cornish and

Devonshiremen were fools if they could not see what they were risking. And yet he did

not blame them for a second. The coins that might jangle in their pockets were half brass

and worth less than their silver content, while corn was priced out of reach. In Devon,

the commons that provided windfalls of wood for their fires were enclosed. Exports were

forbidden, another harvest was about to fail and vagrants were facing enslavement. And

all this while the government dispersed vast tracts of church lands to its favourite lords

and ladies. Exeter, he knew, had suffered more than most in its loss of church lands and

wealth. How long before the city’s Catholics opened the gates to admit the rebel army?

He tapped his quill on his blotter. Such foolishness, he wrote, cannot be

tolerated... But there was no law against foolishness, although perhaps there should be.

He scratched out ‘foolish’ and replaced it with ‘ignorant’. Ignorance, he thought, was at

least forgivable among the uneducated, but it led to so much stubbornness. He rubbed

his hands down his tired face and replaced ‘ignorant’ with ‘stubborn’.

A rumble of boozy voices wafted through the floor from the tavern below and

cries and laughter floated in from the street. He rose, parchment still in hand, and took

three steps to the pallet that served as his makeshift bed, and lay down. Lamplight

flickered, and so did his eyelids. Such ignorance. So much stubbornness. And

foolishness. The parchment fell to his chest and the burr of West Country accents filled

his head. He smelled the cider and the pigs and the newly tilled soil of Devonshire.

Onwards he journeyed, across the Tamar. To an ancient land of rocky moors, primeval

tors; of people who spoke English fluently, yet with the timbre of a foreign tongue. He

heard the jury at his trial. He heard voices that condemned him.

He woke and blinked. The parchment was still resting on his chest. The candle

still flickered. Sleep must have been fleeting. But in that instant, he knew he had his

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 156 KK51 N5641462 answer to the eighth article. Unknown to him, their angry words had struck deep within

him. Here, he sensed, was a burning matter that had been all but quashed beneath the

weight of the priests’ religious fervour. And so we Cornishmen (whereof certain of us

understand no English) utterly refuse… What was it about the Cornish that made them

so stubborn? He strode into his study and flung open the shutters, for the air had become

stale.

Article eight. We utterly refuse… we utterly refuse. This was a cry from the

hearts of Cornishman, and if reports were correct, this cursed army and their arsenal was

primarily from west of the Tamar. What would Cranmer think if he were to suggest a

prayer book written in Cornish?

Chiswick Hall Wednesday, 23rd July, 1549

‘You’re frozen.’ The air beside Will Wynslade quivered with Jenna’s trembling. He

wished his warmth could be enough to stop it. He wished he could have his mother tend

to her, but here they were in Sir Simon Chiswick’s stables and Margh had been captured.

Jenna’s neck ached from the soldier’s fierce grip, and her throat burned. Her

stomach was empty, but she could not have eaten.

‘We have to do something,’ was all she could say. ‘We have to get him away

from there.’

Silently, Tommy reappeared with bread, fruit, a pitcher of water and a cloak that

smelled of rosemary and onions. He draped it over her shoulders and squatted beside

Will.

‘In the morning, sir,’ Tommy said, ‘leave as soon as ye can and get t’ Clyst. I

have sent a message that will reach Arundell by first light.’

‘A message?’ Will asked.

‘Aye, Cap’n. Sayin’ that Captain Tredannack has been took but that you and the

young lady be comin’ back.’

‘Not written?’

Tommy laughed.


‘Nay, Cap’n. ’Tes a fine thing, not bein’ lit’rut. It be whispered ever so quiet

from friend to friend. Just stay put ’til mornin’ and ye’ll be right.’ He paused. ‘Sir, I sent

the messenger by horseback. Cap’n Tredannack’s horse followed us back, sir.’

Jenna said nothing. Tommy’s words made it all the more true. Captain

Tredannack had been captured and if he managed to escape, he would be on foot. He

was her captor, it was true. But he had been her rescuer, too. First, he had saved her from

Alfred and today he had rescued her from Russell’s men. And, now, when she tried to

picture his face, its detail was in the shifting, misty shadows of peripheral memory. The

second she tried to focus on it, it faded. He had been captured and would be treated as a

spy.

‘What are we going to do?’ she whispered.

Will lifted her hand, and she felt his breath upon her fingers. She felt the softness

of his lips as he kissed them one by one. The terror and shock that had shook her to the

core was melting beneath something hot. A flame inside. Something she had never felt

before.

‘Tomorrow,’ he said softly, as he touched her cheek, ‘we shall do something

about Tredannack. Tonight, we shall make each other warm.’

In the dark night his unshaved chin scraped her cheek. Her breath mingled with

his and their noses touched. With lips parted, she tilted her chin upwards and touched his

mouth.

‘I am betrothed to a maid at Ottery, Jenna. Did you know that? She is of a fine

family, but she is not beautiful as you are.’

Jenna drew in a sharp breath.

‘It was agreed upon when we were young.’ His hand was warm upon her neck as

his thumb stroked the soft place below her jaw. He felt her flinch and pulled away. ‘I’m

sorry. You are hurt. And you are brave.’

‘You saved me from that brute. That was brave.’

‘There were two of us — three counting you.’ He kissed her lips again. Soft and

warm as butter left by the fire. ‘Jenna, just as I have saved you, are you brave enough to

save me?’

A heart beat loudly.


‘How?’

‘Lie with me tonight and be my wife. Tomorrow, Father Moreman will marry

us.’

Jenna’s heart almost stopped. Suddenly everything slid away, like the stars when

watched from a high place on the moors. Only faster. Much faster. Wasn’t it only two

months ago that her father had taken her to Lanskellan for the summer? And yet

Lanskellan was a lifetime ago. How could she have ever arrived at a place on earth

where she might have everything a maid could ever dream of? It could not be real.

‘Will you plough me an acre of land?’ she sang.

Will heard doubt behind the words.

‘Between the salt water and the sea sand?’ he prompted, with a smile upon his

voice. ‘Ah, Jenna. ’Tes nothing but a riddle. It means nought.’

‘But what lies there?’

‘Nothing. There is nothing between the salt water and the sea sand.’ He took her

hand and kissed her knuckles. ‘The sea rises, rises over the sand and it takes the sand,

like a man takes a woman, and it fills the sand with its very own self and carries it away,

as its own, for ever. There is nothing else.’

‘But it is a riddle.’ Jenna felt herself drowning. ‘Why do you sing it, when it is

impossible to hold? Something so hard to find, it must be God’s own.’

‘Like my love for you.’

Jenna felt herself gathered into arms that seemed uncertain of their strength. A

kiss planted itself on her forehead and lingered long enough to elicit a sigh from her lips.

‘My sweet, you must not fret,’ he said.

‘But Will!’

‘Jenna, the howling sound of war is echoing in my ears. It is upon us and we will

fight. We will not be cowed by wicked words from London. But when it is over, I shall

take you home to Tregarrick as my wife, and my parents shall honour you with the finest

feast in all of Cornwall. We shall have a garden feast, in the walled garden, surrounded

by my step-mother’s roses. We shall feast on rabbit and goose and pheasant and swan.

My father has the biggest warren in Pelynt parish and the best rabbits are in it. And you

should see the swans on the pond. Well, of course you shall see the swans! You shall.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 159 KK51 N5641462 All of this is my promise to you, if you let me make you my wife. Will you, Jenna? Will

you marry me?’

‘Yes, I will.’ There was nothing more certain. He offered more than Jenna had

ever dreamt of.

‘Then take this.’ Will took something from his neck, pulling it over his head.

Then he slid it over Jenna’s head, and settled it at her throat. He rested his fingers on the

warm beat of her life force. ‘It was my mother’s wedding ring. She died not so very

long ago, and I hold her memory so well and fondly. Her name was Jane, and just as you

are dark and beautiful, so was she fair and beautiful. So now it is yours. Wear it around

your neck until this little commotion is over, and then it shall be forever on your finger.’

Jenna’s fingers closed around it. She could feel a raised edge around it. And it

was set with stones. She wondered what they were. His hand cupped her head and she

felt herself drawn forward into a kiss. She kissed him once, and then again. Gentle hands

raked her hair, caressed her skin and held her face as the kiss deepened. Neither thought

any more of tomorrow. It would arrive, unnoticed, dull and grey. No match for the

promises forged by breath on skin and the sacrifice of innocence to fiery young love.

And arrive it did. In the washed-out light, Will leaned upon his elbow to look

down upon the sleeping sweetness of his newly taken wife. Her lashes were thick and

black, her full lips slightly parted and bits of straw had caught in the tangle of her dark

hair. She moved, and her eyelids quivered. Then, almost before she was awake, Jenna

sat bolt upright and stared straight into his eyes.

‘Will.’ Then she blushed and took his hand. ‘Husband, I have to ask you

something. Why do Russell and Carew keep talking about lambs’ necks?’

Will took her gently by the shoulders.

‘You’ve been dreaming.’

‘No! They talked about them for an age. About weapons and lambs’ necks and

Russell was—’

‘Weapons and — landsknechts!’

‘What?’

‘God bless you, Jenna. Landsknechts are mercenaries. German brutes. Italians,

too, perhaps. They will kill anyone they are paid to kill and take no prisoners. They are

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 160 KK51 N5641462 nothing but heathen exterminators. They are likely in the country already, with guns and

heaven knows what else to point at the Scots. We have to get back to Arundell.’

‘But what about Captain Tredannack?’

‘He is a soldier, Jenna. And this is war.’

‘But we cannot leave him there. You go to Arundell, and I will go back to

Mohun’s Ottery.’

‘No, Jenna!’ He put a finger to her lips. ‘You are my wife now. I shall not have

it!’

‘But I have Lady Penrose’s rubies. They’re still here. I can use them.’

‘Rubies? Where?’

‘Right here. In the stables. I hid them with the clothes I stole from Lanskellan.’

Jenna pressed her lips together and took Will’s hand in both of hers. ‘My love,’ she

whispered. ‘Dearest husband, I do love thee, but I must help Captain Tredannack. And

Sir Peter Carew is unlikely to be suspicious if I return there seeking refuge.’

‘But I pretended to be your husband! And I did a fine job of Cornish-speech.’

‘Only one of Russell’s men heard that, and Captain Tredannack killed him.’

There was a sudden silence between them.

‘Didn’t he?’ Jenna finally asked.

Will stared at her. Had Margh actually killed the man? He could only hope so.

He thoughts began reeling. Arundell had given them orders to bring Jenna back. The

possibility of one of them being captured had not been discussed. But as he searched his

love’s dark gaze, he knew she was serious. He expelled his held breath. It was madness.

It was bold. It might work.

Mohun’s Ottery Thursday, 24thJuly, 1549

Surrounded by darkness, Margh sobbed in desperation as rats nibbled his fingertips and,

when he curled them up, his knuckles. The manacle that tethered him stuck out so far

from the wall that he could not flatten his back against it to keep his tormentors at bay.

His hose were rank with his own urine and beneath him the icy stone floor was killing

his tailbone. He remembered a lesson at the garrison about being captured. All he knew

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 161 KK51 N5641462 was that he had not paid attention because his head had been so full of Eselde. Now,

when he tried to conjure up an image of Eselde’s face to fill the blackness, nothing

would come. Fear had drowned it all.

Twice during the night, soldiers came in with a lantern. One of them tossed a

jugful of water into his face. In the fleeting, dim lamplight he tried to make out the size

of the cellar into which he had been tossed, but the shock of chill water made it

impossible, and all he could do was stick out his tongue to capture the drips that fell

from his nose.

Time crawled until the very concept of it was lost to him. He dozed fitfully,

dreaming snatches filled with strange images from his childhood. Of his little donkey, of

Kerra laden with bundles of furze, of Aunt Giddy-Goose repeating a strange rhyme

about a witch, of the women on the beach with their fishing cowls upon their backs. Of

all the gentle women who had comforted him when doubt had struck.

When the light reappeared, it was as though God had sent his comet to reaffirm

its black message of doom. A violent shock of water smacked his face.

This time, the lantern cast its light over four soldiers. Roughly, one of them

unlocked the manacle and slammed his weakened body into the floor. Then they took a

limb each and carted him, spread-eagled and prone, into the dazzling day, of which, in

the agony of stretched and pulled joints, he saw nothing but the stone-paved path and the

lush grass of the summery fields. The eye-bright would soon be in flower, he noticed, as

his organs shifted with the weight of gravity and his lungs struggled to hold any air.

Grass and dock weeks and dandelions passed beneath him, at first upright and fresh, but

then trampled to a black-green pulp by soldiers’ boots. Then, the boots themselves

appeared. Damp, battered boots of quality leather; and he knew he had been brought to

face Russell.

The thought of interrogation filled him with terror. Finally, he was turned

upright, his bloodied hands re-tied and a sword tip pressed to the tender hollow at his

neck. Gulps of air shuddered down his throat and he was forced to quell the squirming of

his vitals as they settled back into place. Within seconds he felt a surge of peace. He

watched the old man who must be Russell stride out towards him, accompanied by a

pitiless priest who wore no vestments and a dark, swarthy man in billowing black

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 162 KK51 N5641462 sleeves. Following them was a small retinue of evil-eyed soldiers armed with swords and

muskets. An oddly coherent thought ran through his head: they had too many muskets.

‘Your name?’ one of the soldiers demanded to know.

Margh turned his head towards the speaker and felt the prick of the sword. He

swallowed.

‘Name!’ The command was repeated and in the silence that followed, Margh saw

Russell nod to the swordsman guarding him. No! His throat struggled to catch the cry of

objection before it betrayed him. He saw the sunlight’s sharp reflection in the whetted

steel as it slid down his cheek. He felt nothing at first. Then the stinging of blood as it

began flowing from his face.

‘Give me your name!’ This time it was Russell, his hardened cheek bones

pressing against spare flesh.

Margh worked saliva into his mouth and throat. His heart raced and he felt sweat

pour from his skin.

‘Me ne vidn cewsel Sawznek,’ he screamed, tasting the salt and iron of his blood

as it covered his lips.

‘Ignorant peasant,’ the soldier muttered. ‘Doesn’t even speak English.’

Russell pushed the soldier aside.

‘Don’t for a minute believe that,’ he muttered, as he grabbed the sword and

placed its tip against Margh’s throat. ‘Your name and rank, if you please, sir.’

Margh closed his eyes and, as he swallowed, felt this throat against cold steel.

‘Me ne vidn cewsel Sawznek!’ I speak no English. I speak no English! Inwardly

he smiled triumphantly at the insult. That’s how it would be understood, should there be

an Englishman here capable of translating. Their failure to understand that anyone might

refuse to speak their bloody Saxon tongue would buy him some time.

‘Well, at least he has confirmed what we suspected,’ Russell said. ‘He is one of

Arundell’s crew. A pity you keep such a civilized establishment here, Carew, for I’ll

wager this man speaks English as well as any Cornishman ever spoke it, and half an hour

on the rack would have him singing as sweetly as a blackbird.’ He stared at his prisoner,

searching for some response. But Margh Tredannack had shut his thoughts down and his

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 163 KK51 N5641462 eyes were like sea in winter. Russell turned to his soldiers. ‘Give him a little more

encouragement.’

As they marched him away, with the blood still seeping from his wound, all

Margh Tredannack could do was articulate in silence the notion that he might indeed

sing for Russell. It would be a slow and tantalizing song. And his high and mighty

lordship would not understand a word.

Chiswick Hall Thursday, 24th July, 1549

As Jenna wiped the blood from her legs she felt a warm knotty yearning settle into her

core. Beside it sat the joy of new love and the prospect of all that Will had promised. She

could scarcely believe it had happened. Will Wynslade of Tregarrick loved her! What

would Alfred say to that! And what about her father? How could she tell him? All of a

sudden, her life seemed unconnected to the daily grind of tending sheep and milking

cows, of making cheese and scrubbing floors and trying to find the time to greet the

fishermen who moored along the Camel. Never again would she have to work so

relentlessly hard. Will Wynslade, whose gentle passion had awakened all the love in her

heart, had changed it all with a harp and a rhyme.

But she could not afford to waste time reliving the heaven she had found with

Will. Quickly, she dug beneath the straw and retrieved the little leather pouch that hid

Aunt Lydia’s rubies and tied it to her girdle. As a hiding place for her treasure it was

inadequate. She would need needle and thread to make a false seam in the side of her

kirtle. She thought of Lady Chiswick’s ebony sewing box, inlaid with the prettiest shells

and mother of pearl. And then… Her thoughts were crystallizing. Of course! There was

no need to hide from anyone at Chiswick Hall. She would be expected back at some

stage. With quiet confidence, Jenna walked through the herber and into the furnace-like

kitchen.

‘Jenna!’ It was Hilda. ‘Sir Simon’s been asking about you all morning.’ She

peered into the scullery. ‘Look, Susan! It’s Jenna, back from Mohun’s Ottery! Are you

hungry? ’


Jenna nodded and gladly accepted a thick slice of bread and a chunk of cheese.

As she ate, she noticed two wicker baskets overflowing with freshly picked woundwort.

She stopped chewing. Surely Sir Simon’s wound had not festered… No. There was far

too much there for one leg wound. Someone was expecting much worse.

‘I must see Sir Simon,’ she said between mouthfuls. ‘And then I must return to

Mohun’s Ottery. There are so many gentlemen there to be fed.’

‘He came in about an hour ago,’ Hilda said, and glanced at Susan. ‘He may be in

the library.’

Jenna washed down her bread with a jar of water from the well and wiped her

hands on her kirtle. As she surveyed the garden and the woods above, she thought of

Will and smiled. He made the whole world new and clean. Then she went in search of

Sir Simon.

The library was empty. And yet, she could hear voices. She looked back into the

corridor, but there was no-one. Then she realized. The sound was coming from inside the

walls! Something moved, and her stomach squirmed with panic. The sound of wooden

panel scraping was followed by the unmistakable smell of incense. She crouched behind

a table.

‘When are you meeting Arundell?’

Jenna nearly gasped aloud. It was Sir Simon’s voice! She leaned out from her

hiding place to watch and felt her heart quicken to see the man she served with a priest in

full vestments and chasuble. Our cause, he had said to her. Our cause. Whose cause had

he meant? She saw the priest remove his chasuble and hand it to Sir Simon, who hung it

on a peg inside the wall. His rosary followed.

‘I shall ride back to St David’s Hill tonight,’ the priest said. ‘Have you heard

from the girl? There’s talk of mercenaries, and if that’s the case, our friend is in trouble.

We need information.’

‘No sign of her.’ The rest of Sir Simon’s words were muffled by the sound the

panel closing, and the two men walked out into the corridor. ‘However, our friend at the

Ottery says they have captured a spy.’

‘One’s dispensable. But if there are too many landsknechts on the horizon, then

we have a problem.’


Jenna remained squatted behind the table while her thoughts raced. We have a

problem. What did that mean? Suddenly it occurred to her that Arundell may have more

friends than he knew. Or perhaps he did know. But who in this commotion knew what?

The countryside was alive with suspicion and secrecy. Danger was everywhere. The

baskets of woundwort… Whose injuries were they for? A smile spread over her face,

for she was almost certain she knew.

Ten minutes later she was seated in a secluded part of the garden with needle and

thread from Lady Chiswick’s sewing box. She would have to hurry. It would not do to

have Sir Peter become suspicious… Did he know where Sir Simon’s allegiance lay?

Surely not. And neither did Lord Russell. The thought of returning to Mohun’s Ottery

made her feel sick. It was the most dangerous place she could go. More dangerous than

even Will had suspected. Suddenly, it occurred to her that Will’s ring — her ring —

would be safer inside the seam than around her neck. She lifted the chain over her head

and looked in wonder at the three emeralds set into the gold band. Then she pushed it

between the fraying edges of coarse wool and sewed it into place.

Mohun’s Ottery, near Honiton Saturday, 26th July, 1549

Mrs Skinner, Jenna thought as she stirred a steaming mass of leek, turnip and onion soup

for Lord Russell’s dinner, was impossible to measure. Nothing she said or did gave away

any sign of betraying her master. But then, Sir Simon Chiswick’s brave duplicity had

also surprised her. For he had calmly and graciously played host to Lord Russell, all the

while keeping a priest in full vestments and saying the Mass. No wonder no one

complained about the constant flow of food that found its way from Chiswick Hall’s

kitchen to the trenches on the road. Now she began looking for signs that Mohun’s

Ottery was also feeding them.

Jenna swore to herself that no one would ever know Sir Simon’s secret. Not even

Sir Simon knew she knew. And if either Russell or Carew found out, the poor man

would hang as a traitor. She had simply reported the facts as any loyal servant might

report, and told him that Sir Peter Carew still needed her to help with the feeding of Lord

Russell and a number of other gentlemen requiring hospitality. Indeed, everyone was

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 166 KK51 N5641462 demanding food. Generals, gentlemen, soldiers, servants. Somehow, though, she

suspected the network of secret places and loyal hearts was sufficient to also feed the

men and women blocking the road to Exeter. She tasted the brew and closed her eyes as

hot thick liquid slid slowly down her throat.

‘They’ll be ready for that.’ Mrs Skinner placed a tray of glazed earthen bowls on

the bench and watched as Jenna ladled the soup. ‘You might as well serve at table, too,’

she added. ‘Kate is out in the garden and Margery is seeing to the fish. Just think, Jenna,

Sir Peter has three gentlemen friends in there, and they’re all complaining that their

servants have either joined the rebels or are plying them with food and information. Sir

Peter will be gone back to Lincoln again soon enough, but the others live nearby. Think

of the advantages such a situation could afford a girl so loyal to Sir Peter Carew.’

Jenna kept her eyes on the ladling of soup and thought of the advantages that

would come to her as the wife of Will Wynslade. She smiled at Mrs Skinner, picked up

the tray and carefully walked down the corridor to the dining hall.

‘…. tells me he’s sending me horsemen,’ Russell was saying, as Jenna placed the

tray on the sideboard. He had his back to her, but she would need to pass him on his left

side, and it was his right eye that was blind. ‘I ask for foot, and I get horse. Horsemen

are next to useless in and about these wretched lanes. Thankfully, Herbert’s bringing

forces from Wales.’

‘Any word on the landsknechts?’ one of Sir Peter’s friends asked.

‘They’re on the way,’ Russell answered. ‘Gray tells me Jermigny should be here

tomorrow and I believe Sanga’s not far behind with the Albanois.’

‘Good,’ Carew said. ‘Difficult asking English soldiers to kill their fellow

countrymen, even if they are traitors. Probably explains why you’re losing so many men,

my lord.’

Russell grunted. The reality of his own men deserting was galling. Having Carew

refer to it was worse. ‘Well, I shall have no such problem with landsknechts. An ungodly

crew, they are. Yet God help us if we don’t pay them.’

Jenna’s hands trembled as she placed his lordship’s bowl of soup before him.

Goosebumps appeared on her arms. She had just turned to move away, when he grabbed

at her wrist and clamped it tightly.


‘Miss Rosewarne, isn’t it? From Chiswick Hall?’

Jenna turned and looked down into Lord Russell’s sighted left eye.

‘Yes sir.’

‘Sir Simon sent you, did he?’

The question sent a tremor through Jenna. What did these people know? What

did they suspect?

‘Yes sir.’

‘This soup smells very good. A Cornish recipe, is it?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘You don’t know. A Cornish girl who cannot say if the soup she has made is

Cornish soup.’

‘I don’t know what sort of recipe it is, sir, except to say it’s made with leeks and

barley. And I have added some rosemary and thyme. My lord.’

‘Leeks! Then it’s Welsh soup.’ He turned to his small audience of Devonshire

gentlemen and laughed. ‘I shall write again to Herbert and tell him troops can expect to

be fuelled by Welsh soup. Perhaps that might hurry him along.’ He squeezed Jenna’s

wrist hard and released it quickly, so that the sudden blood flow was painful. Then, he

took up his spoon, dipped it into the steaming liquid and held it up to her. ‘Taste it for

me, my dear. I should not like to burn my tongue.’

Shaking, Jenna leaned forward and watched the spoon. It did not waver. And as

she parted her lips to accept this forced offering, she felt the eyes of the other men upon

her. Then, closing her eyes, she felt the silver spoon against her teeth. She took in the

hot, thick liquid and felt its coarseness on her tongue. She swallowed, and opened her

eyes to stare defiantly into his disbelieving gaze.

How Jenna survived the endless serving and clearing away, she did not know. She was

placing a platter of raspberry tartlets on the table when there was a sudden movement of

bells. Until now Joll had remained motionless on the floor like a well behaved retriever,

watching every move she made.

‘Oh, dear.’ Sir Peter’s voice dripped with distaste. ‘It’s droll Joll.’

Jenna saw the jester and his master exchange glances.


Lord Russell cleared his throat. ‘What morsel of humour do you have for us this

evening, Joll?’

The jester bowed low, causing a mild jangling.

‘My Lord, gentlemen, a thought from nowhere has popped fairly into the middle

of my head. Alas, it finds nothing there to keep it amused, and is bursting to get out.’

Russell gestured for Joll to take centre stage on the hearth where he affected

another jangling bow.

‘Sirs, may I present, An Ode to Sir Peter.’

Jenna bit her lip as Sir Peter’s faced formed a black scowl. Joll paid scant

attention.

“The West’s astir, and war’s afoot Far off in Scotsmans’ land And so the Lord Protector Must do the best he can “Into the West, he sends the best Bred straight from Devonshire Two noble gents, both Carew, To quash the rot down here. “Sir Gawen is a trusty sort He’s done the best he can Sir Peter is a harebrained scamp And off his head he ran. “With lust he entered Crediton To quell some fiery embers A foolish thing, then, was it not, To burn the barns to cinders? “The rebel lads have all seen red They’re arming up in trenches They’ve stolen guns and mortar, And they’re even joined by wenches. “They’ll give you hell, Sir Peter, sir And poor Lord Russell, too. Their stomachs growl, their hearts are grim So what are we to do?”


Undeterred by Sir Peter’s obvious fury, the jester turned to his master and fell

theatrically to his knees.

“May I suggest, my one true Lord, What say you now take heed Of this imbecile’s unblest Pa And put him on a lead.”

With that, he begged like a performing spaniel, then leapt to his feet and ran

around the table barking. Russell guffawed and clapped his hands and encouraged the

other gentlemen to join in. Their applause was an awkward, half-hearted effort.

‘Well, Joll, just as well I’m the one who provides for you.’ Russell clicked his

fingers at Jenna. ‘Fetch a bone for Joll, and, pray, do tell me this — what do you know

of rebel wenches?’

She felt heat creep up her neck and sweat broke on her brow. Strange speckles

appeared behind her eyes.

‘I know nothing of rebel wenches, sir,’ she said. She swayed and grabbed at the

sideboard.

Lord Russell could not sleep that night. Too much wine was playing the fool with his

foot and ideas and pictures went round and round in his head. Arundell had an army of

ten thousand soldiers. If they had met in battle today, his own troops would have been

routed. He tried to focus on the Italians and Germans. If he could hold off until they

arrived, all would be well, for they expected to fight, and they fought to win. And the

Catholics among them had been promised Absolution.

As for the prisoner, there was nothing more certain — he had to be one of

Arundell’s men; a trained Cornish soldier with a heart full of loathing. If he was some

riff-raff from a pig farm or tin mine, his ignorance of English would indicate nothing but

his ignorance. But if his resistance was demonstrative of the determination Arundell had

instilled in his army, Cornwall alone — let alone Devonshire — presented the King with

more than just an irritation. He cast his mind to the jostling Cornish ports crawling with

papist merchants from France and Spain and Portugal. He saw coves and hamlets alive

with dissent. He heard invitations to invade.


Russell sat up and wiped the sweat from his brow. He was sixty-three years of

age, and his glittering career was poised on a precipice. One mistake and the government

could fall from its increasingly precarious perch. Somerset’s demise would be nothing to

regret, but … but if the Cornish aided a Catholic invasion, the monarchy could topple.

One mistake and he could lose England. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and

felt his head pounding as Cornwall rushed upon him out of the darkness, a dangerous

enemy and a terrible threat. Finally, he stood on knees weakened by abject fear. He

poured water into a washbowl and splashed it over his face. That was better. He breathed

deeply and steadied his panicked thinking, then reached for his stole and wrapped it

around his shoulders.

How odd it was that the Cornish girl had reappeared. Would she have, if there

were no Cornishman locked in the cellar? The landsknechts. As soon as they were here

to deal with the aftermath, the Cornishman would swing. Then he’d find out which

master Jenna Rosewarne served.

Jenna had expected to be told to sleep in one of the little alcoves in the kitchen, so it was

with some surprise that she was bustled off to a room on the first floor. It took only the

sound of a key turning in the lock to explain it — she was a prisoner. And the men

outside were guards. From here, escape from the house was impossible. Unless… She

placed her hand against the cool diamond panes of the window, found the latch and

maneuvered it until the frame became free of the jamb. Suddenly, a draft of cool

honeysuckle air, tainted only by a whiff of smoke and mutton, caressed her cheek.

Voices floated towards her. Faceless voices, for they were a hundred yards away in the

park. Then a cheer, and a convergence of flares just to the right of a solitary oak. Jenna

focused her eyes. What were they doing? There was laughter and more cheering, as the

unmistakable framework of gallows was pulled erect to cast its ghostly moon shadow

across the silvered grass.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 171 KK51 N5641462 St David’s Hill, Exeter Saturday, 26th July, 1549

‘Find Bury and Smyth,’ Arundell ordered his messenger, and turned to the two

Wynslades. ‘Bury and his men will test the area,’ Arundell said to John Wynslade, ‘and

Smyth can follow with archers, pikes and bills. If there are mercenaries on the way, we

need to block the road as soon as possible. The bridges at Feniton provide the best

opportunity.’

Wynslade nodded. It was a good strategy and would give the men something to

do. They were becoming restless and bored, and he was worried that without action, they

would either start to disperse or simply run amok. Besides, immediate action, while

Russell’s numbers were low, gave them the best chance of taking Exeter and routing the

King’s army. And then, the good men of Cornwall could return to their wives and

children and their peaceful lives. He missed the comfort his new wife, Agnes, had

brought to his life. He missed Tregarrick and its gentle hills and valleys. He yearned for

the summer he was missing, the garden parties and the endless stream of visitors who

filled his life with pleasure. More than anything, he wanted to take Will home, alive.

‘Meanwhile, keep working on Blackaller,’ Arundell continued. ‘Get the business

finished with. Time is only with us if we act now.’ He fidgeted with a quill he had no

need to hold. ‘Any news of Gray’s army?’

Wynslade shook his head.

‘What about Tredannack?’ Will asked. ‘And Miss Rosewarne?’ He could barely

utter her name without the fear of death eating into the corner of his heart. If anything

should happen to her now, he would turn to stone. His father merely shrugged. Both

watched as Arundell wandered outside. Their leader’s exhaustion remained a palpable

presence and Will could scarcely hold back his tears.

‘Father, we must rescue Jenna before battle. I will not lose her now.’

John Wynslade turned abruptly and stared at his son’s shining eyes.

‘You cannot be serious. William, tell me this is foolishness devised to entertain

your tired old pa. You know very well your future is already designed.’


Will shook his head. ‘Sir, my future is changed. I have already made her mine.

She is the sweet essence of every Cornishwoman who ever walked and breathed, and I

will have no other.’ He buried his face in his hands.

John Wynslade expelled a heavy breath. ‘And what can we say of her loyalty to

you, when she has stayed behind to save Tredannack?’

‘Her loyalty to me is not diminished by her loyalty to Tredannack. He has been

her protector —’

‘Her captor!’

‘No, Father. Her protector. Ever since he took her from Lanskellan, he has

watched over her, and this she knows.’ He sniffed. ‘When we were at Crediton, I told

Tredannack to make her fall in love with him — so that she would not betray us. But I

knew he could not do it. He adores his Eselde. Instead, I have made her loyal to me. I

made her love me, and in doing so have found myself given to her, body and soul and

anything else there might be.’ He bowed his head. ‘Father, I did not expect this.’

John Wynslade smiled ruefully at his son and a soft silence settled between them.

‘Did you love my mother, sir?’ Will asked quietly.

Wynslade allowed his lips to form a wry smile.

‘I believe you loved her very much,’ Will continued, gaining confidence. ‘Just as

I know you love my stepmother. Do you remember the day you enjoined her as owner

of your lands? How we walked up and down in the garden while she received the deeds.

Do you remember, father? She was so proud. As was I — I was so proud of your love

and generosity.’

John Wynslade sighed. Indeed, it had been a happy day, and followed by the

sweetest of nights. He placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘And you think you can

love your Jenna as I loved your mother, as I now love Agnes?’

‘Father, I already do. Just as she loves me. She has already accepted me and I

have given her my mother’s ring.’

‘Oh, Will! Of course she’s accepted you. She’s a farm girl.’ He saw the pain in

his son’s eyes and placed a relenting hand on his arm. ‘Next spring, then. And Tregarrick

will host a great wedding banquet.’


Later, after Will had found a space by a campfire and had settled into a deep and

dreamless sleep, a messenger delivered a password and was granted entry to the

Council’s tent. Arundell, Bury, Smyth, Wynslade, and Fathers Moreman and Crispyn sat

in silence as the news was delivered. Lord Grey, with ten thousand men, had reached

Hinton St George and a contingent of landsknecht cavalry was nearing Honiton.

Arundell turned to John Bury.

‘We shall move straight away to secure the Feniton bridges.’

Then, with a quiet sense of ceremony, he knelt before Father Moreman.

‘Father, I pray that God will understand our true Cornish hearts and deliver us

victory. For our day is come and there shall be no turning back.’ He crossed himself and

felt holy hands upon his head. Then he rose, a general’s steely determination in his eyes.

‘Fathers, wake the men and give them whispered Absolution. Tonight is not the time for

disturbing the sweet slumber of our city neighbours.’

As he rose, he glanced towards Kestell. His secretary, with an uneasy look on his

face, rose from his stool and left the tent. Another bout of bad meat, Arundell thought,

and quickly prayed it would not affect too many of his soldiers.

Mohun’s Ottery Before dawn, Sunday, 27th July, 1549

The wisteria vine creeping up the old south wall was so knotted and old that it was

almost part of the masonry. Jenna leaned through the window and tested its strength by

trying to break its grip on the wall. It didn’t move. She felt for the rubies, stitched into

her skirt. There they were, along with her ring. She had no scissors, but that could not be

helped. There was sudden noise in the corridor, and she leapt into bed and covered

herself with the quilt. Beneath her door, she could see shifting shapes of candlelight. She

could hear muttering. For five minutes she lay, breathless and frightened. Then it was

over. Whatever was going on in the corridor had settled. But in that forced stillness, a

resolution formed in her mind. She could not wait any longer.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 174 KK51 N5641462 West Gate, Exeter Sunday morning, 27th July, 1549

Kitto was chasing a hare, barefoot across the moors. With each thumping stride,

although he ran like the wind, he saw the hare increase the distance between them. And

yet, the strangest thing happened. The further away the hare became, the bigger it

seemed. Instead of vanishing into the protective arms of landscape, it grew bigger and

bigger until it blocked out the sun and the sky and the air. Gasping for breath, Kitto

awoke to find a boot pressed into his chest.

‘Awake ’ee, wake ’ee, bucca,’ Jan Spargo said. ‘And bedeck ’eself in all your

war finery.’

‘What parcel of crams is this? It edn’t even daybreak.’ Kitto shoved the foot from

its resting place and rolled over. ‘Go away, Jan.’

‘Get up!’

‘What for?’

‘’Tes time to fight.’

Through a barely opened eye, Kitto saw that Jan wore the chain mail jerkin his

grandfather had worn at Blackheath fifty years ago. Astonished, he looked around. Men

were dressing; others just waking. Some wore plated armour that had been to France

with the old King in ’44. Most had a double layer of wool.

He sat up. ‘Is Russell come?’

Jan Spargo shook his head. ‘Cap’n Smyth says we’re going in to see what he’s

doing. Hurry up, and wake Billy and Guillo.’

Preparations did not take long. In the endless hours of sitting outside Exeter,

everyone had honed their weapons or made new ones. They had marched and run, and

fought and sharpened. Now, with the reality of battle ahead, each man helped the other

with lacings and strappings, buckles and belts. Kitto looked at the double-thickness wool

jerkin his mother had made, and knew it would stop nothing.

‘Don’t look so glum, Kit,’ Billy said, as he pulled on a pair of ragged leather

boots. ‘’Tes about time we had something to do. Be a bit of a lark, it will. I’ll wager

Russell’s still tucked up in his bed with some whore.’


‘I wish Cap’n Tredannack were here to ride with us,’ Kitto said. ‘Doan seem

right to be goin’ off without ’un.’

‘Tredannack’s men will ride with me.’ The sudden intrusion of an officer’s

clipped tone cut through the twins’ banter and they looked up to see Gerent Jewell,

armed with the black and white flag of St Piran and his plated armour chest piece

gleaming in the moonlight. ‘All of Tredannack’s men will fight with me,’ he repeated as

his horse champed at its bit. ‘Spargo, get this lot into formation, and march them up

towards St David’s Hill. Keep behind the hedges. We don’t want to be seen from the

wall. I’ll join you anon.’

Suppressed excitement had almost blistered Gerent’s skin. When Smyth’s unit

was chosen for this foray, he had thought himself destined to stay behind. But Margh

Tredannack was missing and a replacement was needed. And if a battle ensued and

success were his, promotion would follow. Poor Margh and his damned comet; he would

never be rid of it.

Kitto, still pulling on his old felt boots, sat on his log and stared at the princely

vision before him. Where a plaited thong was tied around Gerent’s pale hair, he saw a

coronet, and when the soft night breeze rippled through the black and silver flag, he saw

royal insignia in its top right quadrant.

‘Is it Arthur, Billy?’ Kitto was barely aware he had spoken. ‘Is it Arthur, come at

last?’

Billy Trigg laced his doublet and looked at Captain Jewell’s retreating figure. ‘If

that be Arthur, then ’tes not before time,’ he said. ‘Well, Kitto, I cannot believe you be

wearin’ boots into battle. What’s wrong with your calluses — gone soft, have they?’

‘A Cornishman’d never go into battle with his one true king without he’s dressed

right.’

‘Don’t forget Excalibur, then Kit — ’ee might need’un to save Lancelot and

Guinevere.’

Wherever they are, Kitto thought. For last night, a rumour had gone around the

camp that young Captain Wynslade had returned without their master and the young

lady. No one knew what had happened. All they knew was that Margh Tredannack was

missing.


As day broke upon the formations that came together on the other side of the city,

and two hundred Cornishmen set out behind Robert Smyth and Gerent Jewell, Kitto trod

the road to Honiton. Ahead, already well away and gone from sight, were Bury’s

Devonshiremen. At Clyst, the barricades had been pushed aside; the people cheered and

the church bell, summoning the faithful to prayer, pealed away time and distance. Kitto

swallowed. Never had he felt so proud. In one hand, he carried his pike; the other he

waved. He called to a pretty maid and, for a moment, when she waved back, was

handsome. Then he reached into his pouch and found his little piece of tin-bearing

granite. It was the only talisman he had. He kissed it and threw it to her, small and black

against the sky.

Mohun’s Ottery Sunday, 27th July, 1549

The climb to the ground was unexpectedly easy. The ancient wisteria barely budged

beneath Jenna’s slight weight and her kirtle only caught once before her feet sank into

soft soil. She crouched behind a large hydrangea, catching held breath. Then, voices.

Russell’s and Carew’s. She shrank behind the shrubbery. Her heartbeat was loud in her

ears. The footsteps of six or more men crunched purposefully on the gravel path that led

to the gate into the fields; the very path she had been about to tread. She swallowed and

wiped beads of perspiration from her forehead.

The gate opened quietly, and she took a deep breath to quell her terror and,

remembering Captain Tredannack’s theory of innocent visibility, strode down the path in

Russell’s wake. Before her, beyond an invisible ha-ha, was open meadow. And right in

front of her was Jonathan. One small pony grazing in amid an army of horses. Her heart

seemed to stop. This was what she had hoped to find. Her pony. Captain Tredannack’s

means of escape.

Russell and Carew had walked swiftly and had already been met by a group of

Russell’s men. The chance of anyone looking back towards the horses would be slim.

Carefully, she skirted around the hedge where clumps of hawthorn grew. The other

horses took little notice of her and when she got closer to Jonathan, she smiled.


‘Can you plough me an acre of land,’ she sang softly, and saw Jonathan lift his

head. His ears pricked. ‘Every leaf grows many in time.’

Then, Jonathan snorted and stretched on his rope to reach her. Tears pricked her

eyes as she touched the familiar velvet of his nose.

‘Jonathan, my faithful boy.’ She caressed his muzzle and stroked his ears and

laughed when he started pushing her in his search for oatcakes. ‘You old rascal!’

Quickly, she glanced back towards the house and pulled him close to her as she reached

for the knot. ‘Don’t pull on it, ’ansome,’ she whispered. ‘Let me untie it, for you are

taking someone special home.’

The knot was tight, but with some easing and pushing, it worked loose.

‘Come slowly, sweetness,’ she cajoled. ‘Come gently. There, there.’

Avoiding the kitchen end of the house, which would be alive with activity, Jenna

led Jonathan to the rear of the house and tied him to an apple tree. Then, after picking a

few dandelions and sprigs of parsley, she sauntered into the kitchen, put her goods on the

table and quickly scanned the room. She took a well whetted fish knife from its rack on

the wall, a small loaf of bread and a clean cloth from a drawer and put them into an egg

basket. Then, without a word, she let herself into the dark passage that led to the

underground cellars. By the light of a solitary candle, she crouched down, lifted her

muddy hem and slit open the false seam she had made. Aunt Lydia’s rubies fell into her

cupped palm and she quickly bundled them into a handkerchief and hid the knife beneath

the cloth. The ring on its chain, she had no choice but to hang around her neck.

Breathing hard, she stared down the gloomy tunnel and slowly rose to her feet. Her

knees shaking, she only had to turn one corner before she saw the muted shapes of two

guards sitting on the floor. When they heard her footsteps, they quickly roused

themselves.

‘Who goes there?’ one of them demanded.

‘Just a maid from the kitchen. With some bread for ’ee.’ She placed the basket on

the floor, tore the loaf in half and gave it to them. ‘Mercenaries is here. You won’t need

t’fight, if you don’t want.’

‘Landsknechts?’ The word was almost lost in the softness of still-warm bread.

‘Aye. That’s them. Lambs’ necks. His Lordship’s gone off to meet ’em.’


‘Is it daybreak already?’

‘Aye, just. You can go, if you want.’

The two men, chewing, exchanged uncertain glances.

‘A dozen — two dozen — have already gone,’ Jenna went on. ‘Sir Peter says

they don’t want to fight their English brothers.’ She swallowed nervously. ‘Nothin’

honourable in it, he says. And with Germans here, you don’t have to.’

‘But if we’re caught—’

Jenna suddenly lost her patience. ‘Let him go,’ she demanded and felt her

strategy run away like water in a downpour.

‘What?’

‘The prisoner. Let him go and disappear.’

One of the men laughed.

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m his wife,’ she said and allowed tears to well in her eyes. ‘And I want my

husband back.’

‘Speak Cornish, do you?’

Jenna’s breath caught in her throat.

‘No. Some.’

‘Must be hard having a husband what speaks nought else.’

The second soldier laughed. ‘I’ll bet she speaks to him with her lovely little body.

Bet he speaks back to ’er, too!’

Jenna bent down again and reached for the rubies.

‘I can help you.’ She unfolded Lady Chiswick’s handkerchief and watched their

eyes widen as the meagre light from the taper on the wall played with myriad red facets.

One of them reached up, and she snatched them away. ‘Half each, in return for my

husband. And you can make your way down to Topsham and take a ship to anywhere

you like.’

She could hear their wheezy breathing. She thought of the gallows and almost

lost her nerve.

‘Take them!’ She was dangerously close to begging. ‘Half each is a fortune. And

at least you will have been paid — the rest will not be. Last night Russell said the

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 179 KK51 N5641462 government has nothing to give. It’s all gone to fighting the Scots. But you — both of

you can live like kings.’

‘Give it, then.’

‘Not until he’s free. Unlock the door.’

‘Don’t do it, Roger.’ The second soldier stepped forward and Jenna pulled the

knife from the basket and held it to his throat. At the same time, it occurred to her to

keep two of the gems. Just in case.

‘You can let him out and take the jewels, or you can get your throat cut. Either

way, I’ll set my husband free.’

There was a moment’s silence as the soldiers measured their chances.

‘Well, I’ve nothin’ personal against Cornishmen,’ the soldier named Roger said,

and took a key from his pocket. ‘Besides, they’re too damn ferocious and I’d rather fight

the French.’

The kitchen was in uproar. Bewildered, Jenna stood in the doorway, open mouthed, as

Joll delivered an eruption of vile-mouth vitriol to a room of terrified women. Agog, she

met Mrs Skinner’s eyes and saw a look of pure accusation. Joll noticed it, and stopped.

An appalling silence fell over the steaming room. Jenna felt the sting of apple branch

scratches on her cheeks and realized she had forgotten to collect the eggs.

‘What’s happened?’ she asked.

‘What’s happened?’ mocked Joll. ‘What’s happened?’

‘The guards have released the prisoner,’ Mrs Skinner said. ‘His Lordship and Sir

Peter will be furious when they find out.’

‘Why did they do such a thing?’ Jenna asked.

Joll shrugged. ‘His lordship will find out as soon as they see the gallows.’

‘They’ve been caught?’ No! Surely not!

Mrs Skinner stepped forward. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Out. Walking.’ Jenna looked at her slippers. They were grass-stained and wet

with dew. ‘I was just about to fetch the eggs.’ With that, she nodded and withdrew. She

almost expected Joll to follow, for she had not explained anything. She walked among

the gently clucking hens and concentrated her thoughts on the brilliant display of colour

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 180 KK51 N5641462 that the morning sun found in their feathers. Still, Joll did not come. Shaking

uncontrollably, she collected eggs, keeping the brown separate from the white, until the

calm of morning began to steady her. Please, God, she prayed. Let Margh Tredannack

return safely to Arundell. Then, when the time is right, return me to my love.

When she finally returned to the kitchen, silence had descended over the house.

‘There you are,’ Mrs Skinner said. ‘And about time. His Lordship wants to know

who let you out of your chamber this morning.’

Jenna felt the blood rush from her head. It would take nothing now, for Russell to

confirm the truth he had suspected all along, and she, not Margh Tredannack, would be

the first rebel to hang.

‘I shall be happy to explain,’ she said.

The housekeeper thrust a basket of freshly baked loaves into her hand.

‘He is outside on the carriageway. And you can give this to his man. It’s for the

journey west.’

‘West?’

‘East, west, which is best?’ sang Joll from the doorway.

Margh would never properly recall what happened. Somehow, someone had released

him. He remembered standing beneath an apple tree. A girl had taken him into the

blinding light and made him walk. She looked like Jenna, and she had made him mount

this pony. It looked liked Jonathan. But it couldn’t have been. No one but Jenna ever

rode him. Perhaps it had been Jenna. But where was she now?

Desperately, now, he clung to the pony’s mane as it cantered through Devon’s

tortuous maze of high-hedged lanes, passing flashes of red fuchsia and bramble that

reminded him of home. Gradually, lucid thought overtook the ramblings of a sleep-

deprived mind and returning to St David’s Hill became his paramount concern. Instinct

told him the road to Honiton was fraught with danger. When blood and sense had

restored themselves, and thirst and hunger made themselves known, he urged Jonathan

up hills and down steep-sided valleys until it was safe to stop at a mossy stream. He

would stay hidden, and when he reached Chiswick Hall he would steal food and find a

place to sleep. Tomorrow, he would reach the safety of St David’s Hill.


He rested his head upon the lush, sweet grass and closed his eyes. Dark shadows

reached out, beckoning him to sleep.

The carriageway was alive with activity and as she walked, the gravel pricking at her

feet through her ruined slippers, Jenna took in the scene. Horses had been hitched to

carts laden with trunks and barrels, miscellaneous weapons and piles of blankets, boots,

cloaks and stoles. Carew’s household staff stood idly by, fascinated by the operation

taking place and flirting with Lord Russell’s retainers as they organized their departure.

From the fields, the sound of orders being barked reached her and Jenna could

see the soldiers’ tents being collapsed and folded and stacked. Horses were being

saddled and drawn into some kind of formation and she wondered whether anyone had

noticed the absence of the little black Cornish pony. Almost against her will, her eyes

searched out the ghastly silhouette of the gallows that had yet to be used and her stomach

rolled with nausea.

A man with billowing sleeves and an air of authority strode towards her and

Jenna handed him the basket of bread, which he took wordlessly and shoved into one of

the carts alongside a cider barrel. His eyes were on two of Russell’s men coming along

behind Jenna. Between them, they carried a large oak trunk and behind them came a

woman struggling with the weight of a familiar garment — his Lordship’s stole. Jenna

stared at it, remembering the smell of smouldering fur and the all-seeing gaze of a half-

blind old man.

Instinct suddenly overwhelmed her and sweat broke on her brow. She had to flee.

She had to go now. At least one of the guards she had bribed had been captured. If he

had not yet talked, it would not be long before she was betrayed. Russell was on the

verge of departure and would make it his business to obtain a full confession before he

went. There was no escaping the man. Not unless she fled now.

Almost sick with panic, she stood on the grass, away from the other lookers-on.

These carts were going west. Of that she was sure. That’s what Mrs Skinner had told her.

Russell was going into the west; into battle with her people. A journey west was surely

be her best chance of rejoining Will. The name of his home was ready on her lips.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 182 KK51 N5641462 Tregarrick. If she could not find him before battle, she would find Tregarrick and wait

for him there.

‘Here.’ The officious man thrust the stole into Jenna’s hands. ‘It goes in the lead

cart with his Lordship’s personal effects. It’s about to leave for Honiton, so get a move

on.’

Jenna ran her thumb across the soft fur trim. With her heart pounding somewhere

in her throat, she made her way down the line of carts and wains. Everyone and

everything etched itself into her thoughts. The shadows had shortened; a soft wind blew

in from the south; a cloud the shape of a funny hooked nose drifted across the sky. Along

the driveway, a house girl was biting into a plum and a couple of boys were on the grass,

throwing a ball. Close by, a dappled horse let loose a steaming spray of piss.

The driver of the lead vehicle was seeing to his own placid beast and yabbering

away to a giggling house girl. By the sound of him, he was already half drunk. No one

else was near. Everyone was further back, watching the last carts being loaded. Jenna

climbed in. She found a nook created by careless packing. With a quick glance around

her, she crouched low. No one was watching. Then, in one fluid movement, she draped

herself in Lord Russell’s stole and snuggled down.

Margh struggled out of a heavy sleep. Something had been nudging him, urging him to

wake. Between barely parted eyelids he saw sunlight filtering through the forest canopy

and as he turned his head, he saw the little pony, Jonathan, was standing over him,

sniffing and snorting. Margh lifted an aching arm to stroke its velvety softness and was

greeted by a warm puff of animal breath. Where was he? Where was Jenna? Was he still

in the forest above Chiswick Hall, waiting for her? No, no. Much had happened since

then. He had failed to kill a soldier and been captured and interrogated. He recalled

darkness and the dank, dulling chill of a cellar. But he was no longer in a cellar. He had

escaped. He remembered now. Jenna had helped him. He closed his eyes once more and

drifted back into the swirling black and red mist that lay behind his eyes. A glimpse of

green kirtle flashed across a sunlit garden. He heard Eselde’s soft laughter. He tried to

call her name, but no sound came. Wait for me, Eselde! But she was out of reach and

when he drew up at the walled garden, puffing, searching, she was gone again from

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 183 KK51 N5641462 sight. Instead, beaming at him from his perch on a lichen-covered rock was Kitto,

sharpening an ancient sword. He held it aloft and Margh saw it was etched with strange

runes that swam in the gleaming sun; a language long lost, which reached out from the

mists of eons past and sang to him with the haunting sweetness of a cherry-wood harp.

Margh took the weapon and ran his fingers along the whetted blade and watched as

blood trickled down a line in the skin of his palm. ’Tes your life line, boy, said a vision

of old Gran Spargo. Chanting an old prophesy of doom, she took his hand and waved a

candle over it, warming and healing, and yet its smoke held the acrid tinge of

gunpowder… His eyes burst open.

Honiton Sunday, 27th July, 1549

The iron bells of a nearby church tolled clear against the summer stillness. Carefully,

Jenna lifted a corner of the stole and breathed in the delicious fresh air. Then, looking

up, she saw a church tower against the sky. They were in the middle of a town. A

sudden jangling of tiny silver bells sent a shiver through her bones and she quickly

covered herself.

‘Cart to the stables, cart to the stables,’ the merryman chanted. ‘Soon as you’re

able, soon as you’re able.’

‘Aye, aye,’ muttered the petulant driver. ‘Come along you old nag. Better do as

his high and mighty Foolship decrees. Can’t have Grandfather Russell coming back from

battle all victorious and happy, only to have his temper soured by wet trunks and

shrunken hose.’

Jenna felt the cart lurch forward and turn sharply to the right. Within seconds the

cool shade of stables enfolded her and the sweet smell of hay instantly conjured

memories of Will. She lay patiently, fighting to keep her wits from drowning beneath

honeyed thoughts of her betrothed, until the horse was unhitched. The cart tilted and she

heard the shafts come to rest on the railing. She heard the rough sliding of rope as

everything was secured and then footsteps retreated. Suddenly, everything was quiet.

Even the church bells had ceased their tolling.


Jenna held her breath as an idea crept into her mind. Bells. Fool’s bells. Church

bells. Russell, with an army of paid mercenaries, was on his way to fight her husband

and his father. But what would happen — how would Russell respond — if every church

in Devonshire began tolling an alarum? How else could she stop him, but to make him

think an armed force was at his rear? She had two rubies left.

Five minutes later, she watched two boys dash from the bell tower to a small

house on the other side of the road. Between them, they carried a heavy fur-trimmed

stole. Within a minute, one of them reappeared and returned to her with a bundle of

garments that might befit a woolcomber or a farmhand. Then, he disappeared into the

bell tower with three of his friends. Seconds later, the peace that had descended over

Honiton was shattered as the people of east Devon were treated to an alarum of tolling

bells such as they had never heard before. The townsfolk burst out of the church and into

the streets. Their priest, the new prayer book in his hand, followed. Discreetly, he

fingered the rosary hidden deep within the pocket of his robe and the wrinkles around his

eyes deepened.

In the stable behind the inn, Jenna discarded her kirtle, pulled on the smock the

boy had brought her, and tied her girdle around her hips. The felt boots were big, so she

stuffed the toes with straw. She tied up her hair and hid it beneath a snug green cap.

Then, while Honiton’s bewilderment became panic, she glanced at the sky to get her

bearings and began to walk westward.

Within minutes, terror consumed her as she was overtaken by a galloping

whirlwind of bay horse, red and yellow motley and myriad crashing bells. She gasped

with relief when he kept on riding, then laughed aloud.

‘That’s right, Joll!’ she called after his diminishing figure. ‘Call the retreat and

save your master!’

And she whistled as she trudged on up the hill.

Feniton Bridges Sunday, 27th July, 1549

Margh was sure he had woken properly. He was upright and walking. His eyes were

blinking in bright sunshine, the ground was solid beneath his feet and the pony’s damp

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 185 KK51 N5641462 coat stank of sweat. And yet, all around him lay a nightmare. The field before him was

strewn with bodies and the metallic smell of fresh blood mingled with that of

gunpowder. Armour glinted in the sun. Swords lay still, arrows were scattered

everywhere and bows had been discarded. He saw someone sit up and then collapse.

Several horses lay motionless and another hobbled in aimless agony. Idly, he picked up

an arrow that had missed its mark and knew from its length that it was Cornish. He

wandered almost blindly, looking down into the faces of dead Englishmen and,

interspersed among them, what he suspected were a number of foreign mercenaries.

Kicking one of them, he felt lifelessness echo dully through his boot, then, nervously he

bent down to draw a pistol from the soldier’s boot. A reiter’s lock wheel pistol. There

would have been two more in his saddle. How many pistols and arquebusiers had been

fired upon Arundell’s men?

He lifted his gaze and began walking slowly across this field of death. Gradually,

the men clad with armour gave way to those with nothing but padded jerkins made of

felt or Cornish hair. Brave men, braver boys, who had exposed their very hearts to the

pain of slaughter. All noise seemed to fall away and all sensation of self went with it. He

was nothing but an empty shell walking among his dead countrymen. He forgot to

breathe, and did not feel his eyes fill, nor hear his heart breaking. He did not hear the sob

that wrenched itself free from the knot of resistance that lived deep, deep within. There

was nothing but a ghastly, unimaginable reality.

Then, what he had perceived as a shadow emerged with proximity as the black

and white flag of St Piran. A gasp of horror came from deep in his throat as he sighted a

bloodied mass of golden hair. He sank to his knees. Not Gerent! Gerent Jewell, whose

brilliant blue eyes had been likened to colour of a summer day, lay before him, slain by a

clever pike thrust to the neck. And those eyes, which had laughed and teased their way

into the hearts of the girls at Penzance and hardened to icicles during endless days of

training, now stared lifelessly towards the heavens. As a tear coursed down his face,

Margh gently touched cold skin and closed his friend’s eyes. He touched the soft gold

hair that always flopped across his forehead and removed the plaited thong he had worn

into battle. He wound it around his wrist. Perhaps, if he wore it himself, he would be a

better soldier. He stood, still staring numbly, and endlessly swallowing his grief. For the

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 186 KK51 N5641462 knowledge was forming within him that if Gerent had succumbed, there would be little

hope for so many others from Tredannack. Where was Jan? Kitto and Billy? What about

Guillo? And what of Arundell? The thought of his leader dead was inconceivable.

He wandered in disbelief, wondering why so many of the Cornish had fallen

across the bodies of Devonshiremen. So many familiar faces, and yet so few names to

put to them. What had happened here? Such a mixed contingent. He heard some strange

ranting and fell to his knees beside a young man.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

The dying soldier turned to him. There was barely a whisker on his chin.

‘Cap’n Bury and us — we Devonshiremen were scouting.’ He gripped Margh’s

hand and gasped for breath. ‘We took the bridges — set up our pickets — and then —’

He spluttered, turned his head and spat blood. ‘There they were. Right on us. Russell and

his men, like they knew we was there. They had guns. Too many guns.’ He closed his

eyes and death rattled in his blood-filled lungs. ‘We had the bridges. We had ’em. They

had too many guns.’

‘But there are Cornishmen here, too. Captain Jewell is dead.’

The boy squeezed on Margh’s hand. ‘Aye. So brave.’ He held his side and let out

a ghastly cry of pain. Then, somehow, he smiled. ‘I saw ’em. Smyth had ’em fightin’

like the bloody furies.’

Smyth! Not Smyth, too! No. Oh, why had he slept through this? He should have

been with them. He should have been with his men. Now Gerent was gone, and this boy

was about to join him. Strangely, this death seemed worse. Gerent was his best friend,

but a soldier was trained to fight; trained to die. But here on the grass, with the life

ebbing from his body, was a mere boy. An innocent lad. A farm boy, probably. Needed

at home for the harvest.

‘These bridges — what are they called?’

The boy coughed, and blood trickled from his mouth.

‘Fenny. Fenny Bridges.’ Suddenly, a light flickered in his dimming eyes. ‘Will it

be famous? Like Bosworth Field?’ He swallowed dryly and whispered, ‘Will my Pa be

proud that I fought and died at the battle for the Fenny Bridges.’

Margh nodded. ‘He will. I’ll tell him myself. What’s your name?’


A peaceful smile formed upon the boy’s lips and somewhere on his last breath

was a faint answer. A name. But it could have been any name. It was tossed away on a

little puff of wind. The light in his eyes went out.

When Margh rose, tears were streaming down his face. He rambled aimlessly

among the fallen, seeing the field of death through a blur. He saw familiar faces: faces of

men with whom he had shared a campfire or trained in mock battle. He heard the agony

of those still dying. When he found Billy Trigg with half his head missing, he sobbed

uncontrollably. And then, not ten yards further on, icicles gripped his heart. That thatch

of awful hair.

‘Kitto!’ Margh brought his hands to his face. ‘Oh, not Kitto!’ Had God not heard

any of their prayers? His knees slammed into the ground at Kitto’s side and he dragged

the boy’s body into an embrace. ‘Not my sweet friend Kitto.’

To his astonishment, the body struggled.

‘I don’t want that on my headstone, thank ’ee vera much, Cap’n!’ Kitto freed

himself and stared at Margh with a stunned look on his face. ‘I edn’t feeling vera sweet.’

Margh was agog. He fought to control something deep within him that was hell-

bent on surging up through the very depths of his being and erupting in an explosion of

grief. Somehow, he managed to laugh.

‘You’re alive! Oh, Kitto, praise be to St Piran and St Petroc for your life.’

‘Aye, I’m alive a’right.’ He sat back on his haunches. ‘Some ’ansome you’re not!

Look at ’un! What’ve they done to ’ee?’

Margh touched the swollen scabby mess of his cheek.

‘’Tes nothing, Kit,’ he said. ‘Are you a’right?’

‘I feel like a bit o’ figgy duff. Felt a pain in my noggin something fierce, like half

of it had been knocked right off. Felled me, it did.’ He rubbed his head. ‘Feels a’right

now, though. No more bumps ’n usual.’

Margh stared at Kitto. He saw Kitto stare back.

‘It were Billy what copped it in the noggin, weren’t it?’ Kitto lay down again and

pressed his cheek to the cool grass. ‘’Tes my dear brother what’s gone. My brother, what

I could look at and see meself. ’Tes something special, Margh. Something so special.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 188 KK51 N5641462 Hated him, sometimes. I did. God strike me down, I did. He were too much o’ me. And

now I want him back!’

Margh could say nothing. Surely this day was a nightmare, and he would soon

wake up. Vaguely, he noticed Kitto’s eyes sharpen their focus. For several seconds the

lad lay perfectly still.

‘’Osses comin’, there are!’ Kitto sprang to his feet. Margh felt the rumble

through the earth.

‘Aye, and lots of them, coming fast. Quick, run for the hedge.’

Together, looking across the bloodied meadow, Margh and Kitto watched with

mouths open as Russell’s army, flags and banners flying, thundered along the road

towards the east.

‘Kitto! What is going on? Surely, with this many dead here — It cannot mean

victory. Can it? Can it truly mean Arundell has sent them packing?’ He could scarcely

believe it. Arundell must have ridden forth and ambushed them somewhere back towards

Clyst, or even Exeter. Perhaps Exeter was already theirs! ‘Come on, Kit! Let’s find the

pony. We’ll put Billy across his back and take him home. And on the way you can tell

me everything that’s happened. Oh, Kit, what glory! You have lived to tell the story of

Fenny Bridges!’

But Kitto elbowed him and pointed back towards the bridges. ‘Who’s this?’

Margh turned. Struggling up the bank of the nearest arm of the river was a boy in

a peasant smock. He was stained red — soaked to the bone with spilled blood — yet

seemed unhurt.

‘Russell’s retreat forced him into the water, poor wretch. Must be one of ours.’

Silently, they watched the boy move slowly forward, clearly stunned by the

carnage before him. He drew a weapon from his girdle and picked his way between the

fallen soldiers, sometimes moving one with his foot. He picked up a Cornish flag and

draped it over his shoulder. Then he leaned forward and began picking up arrows. A

tress of dark hair fell in a long rope from beneath a woollen cap.

‘I never did see a man with hair like that,’ Kitto said slowly. ‘’Tes a maid. Look

at that!’

Margh could not believe his eyes.


‘It’s Jenna!’

‘Not our Miss Rosewarne!’ The excitement in Kitto’s voice was unmistakable.

‘Oh! Miss!’

But Margh was already leaping bodies.

‘Jenna! Jenna!’ And there she was, bewildered and dripping with the bloodied

waters of the Otter, a dagger in one hand and a bundle of arrows in another. They had all

missed their marks.

‘Oh, Jenna, just look at you!’ He looked around him and grimness reclaimed his

face. ‘Thank God you’re safe.’

But her face was blank. She could not speak. All around her was death. And she

knew the look of Russell’s army, and there were few fallen English here. And yet, she

had seen their retreat — almost been overrun by it. At least her ruse had worked. When

she looked down, she was shocked to see bloodied water dripping from her smock.

‘Where’s Will?

‘I don’t know.’

‘Everyone is dead!’ She covered her mouth with her hands. ‘Oh, dear God, there

are hundreds here. Hundreds and hundreds. I am covered with their blood. Where’s

Will?’

Margh shook his head. There was no sign of Will’s men here.

‘I don’t know, but this meadow has seen a massacre. And my men were with

them. Gerent is dead, and Billy Trigg.’

‘Russell’s losses are few,’ Jenna said, still looking around her. ‘Compared to

ours, their losses are few.’

‘I know. I don’t understand what’s happened. Russell’s entire army just

skedaddled out of here like the devil was on its tail.’

He saw a glimmer of something wry in Jenna’s eyes. Gently, he took the arrows

from her and led the way back across the field. By the time they reached the hedge, she

had told him about the bells of St Michael’s in Honiton.

‘His Lordship’ll never know what happened to his stole,’ she said.

Margh wanted to laugh, but could not.


They found Kitto holding Billy’s body and his sobs threatened to tear their hearts

to shreds. Together, they wrapped his body in the flag Jenna had found, laid him across

Jonathan’s back and began the slow walk to wherever home might be.

In the sky above, crows were circling. Shutting his mind against the horrors

about to be inflicted upon the fallen, Margh put Gerent’s braided thong around his head

and took Jenna by the hand.

Carey’s Windmill, near Clyst St Mary, Friday, 1st August, 1549

Jenna hummed quietly as she climbed towards the windmill and a nearby oak. In her

hand was a note, and the boy who had brought it told her it was from Will. Her William

lived! He was safe at St David’s Hill. The afternoon sun was warm on her back and her

heart was singing. She stared at his writing. It sloped evenly, as though he had had a

patient but exacting tutor. It was beautiful. At least, she thought it was beautiful. It must

be if it was from Will. Its shapes were meaningless to her and yet, in them, she could see

his love. It was right there, in the thick strokes of ink and the oak leaf design he had

made as a border. Every leaf grows many in time. Perhaps he had written down the love

riddle. The strange lightness of this golden day settled over her like the summer air at

home. She could even smell the salt from the sea coming to her on the breeze. Yet the

girl who had been her father’s little maid was no more. In her place walked a spy, a

brave and silent soldier who carried no weapons save a small dagger. A woman who was

loved by someone who mattered: a soldier who sang and played the harp. Not like the

girls at home who married their cousins.

Suddenly, she heard voices and dropped to the long, lush grass. White tingling

fear surged back through her body and she lay still, as still as death, as dread sank her

happiness.

‘Race you back down the hill,’ she heard an English voice say. And then, silence

fell around her. She crawled forward on her elbows until the trunk of the tree came into

view. Quickly, she gained the remaining distance to the windmill. She was alone. And

two boys were hurtling down towards a vast camp site. A breath of disbelief left her

lungs. It was Russell. He had made camp just down from the windmill. The tents were

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 191 KK51 N5641462 the same ones she had seen pitched at Mohun’s Ottery and they were set up in the same

formation. Only this time, there were more. There were three formations instead of only

one. She swallowed. How many of them were there?

As she cast her eyes over the distant field, a flickering movement by a line of

trees caught her attention. Her heart sank. Beyond Russell’s camp, a long line of

horsemen was winding its way down from the road. Had they been sent to order Russell

home? Jenna discarded that notion as absurd; it took nothing more than one man with a

letter from the king to do that. Instead, she watched them make their way towards the

outskirts of the camp. She saw the leader dismount and felt her eyebrows raise as his

strange apparel glinted in the sun. What in all of God’s creation were these people?

‘Landsknechts!’ She pulled back on an imaginary bow and took aim with an

imaginary arrow. She lowered her face to look along the trajectory she had made and

wished she had the strength to use a real longbow. She would take Russell first; pierce

him right in the middle of his sighted eye. Then, Sir Peter Carew — she’d give him

something worth that black scowl. After that, Sir Gawen. Although Major Smyth said

Sir Gawen had been pierced through the arm at Fenny Bridges and would not fight

again.

She scrambled to her feet. Arundell needed to know this, for he had six thousand

men blocking the high road at Rockbeare! Desperately, she tried to make a map in her

mind. For something was telling her that the old man she had come to detest had out-

witted them. That he had tricked Arundell by coming south of the high road and was

within half a day’s march of Clyst and the last bridge before Exeter.

Clyst St Mary, before dawn Saturday, 2ndt August, 1549

Margh rolled over and opened his eyes. All around was darkness, and yet something had

awoken him from a deep sleep. He stared upwards, towards the mice-ridden thatched

roof. He heard scratching and squeaking, and the shuffling of tiny bodies. At least the

rain had stayed away. Since he and Jenna had arrived back from Fenny Bridges, it had

rained for three days and he had lain here, protected from it, and feeling sorry for the

men on the road up at Rockbeare, sleeping rough beneath sodden blankets and a

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 192 KK51 N5641462 streaming sky. And yet, he would have done anything to be one of them; one of the men

who could sit with Robert Smyth and recall the battle at Fenny Bridges. Here at Clyst,

with his face and his rat-nibbled hands smeared with woundwort and pig fat, it was

worse. Men with battle wounds amused each other with the story of how Smyth’s men

had hidden behind a hedge, holding their fire as the English surveyed the fallen and

congratulated each other, while their men looted the bodies of fallen Devonshiremen;

and how they had surprised them with a great volley of arrows; how their quarry jumped

with surprise, some struck in the arm or leg, and took off across the bridges before

someone with an ounce of sense called them to order. Even after a few nights, Margh

could sense the spawning of a legend.

By contrast, his own tale was shameful and the scar on his face was no relic of

glory. When he traced its shape, he knew its curve to be the sinister sign of the comet as

it arced across the sky. And still it spread its evil eye over every path he followed. For

he knew that had Jenna not freed him, he’d have given in to torture. He was not a brave

soldier, and the torment of that knowledge sharpened the pain in his face. Ignoring it, he

sat up and pulled on his boots.

Outside, the village of Clyst St Mary was quiet. He had expected to find only a

few men sitting around a campfire, perhaps gambling sticks on the fall of a penny. But,

in the smoky firelight he saw two horses steaming with exertion. And the men seated on

the fireside logs were no less than the two Wynslades, Arundell and Bury. Margh

hesitated. But if Will could be present, surely his own presence would cause no

objection. He sat on a log beside his friend and was relieved to see Wynslade’s

welcoming gesture.

‘The keepers at the South Gate are ours,’ he was saying. ‘Their keys are ready to

leap into our hands. The city is exhausted and starving, and Blackaller has lost all faith in

Russell. He knows his battle is lost.’

Arundell shook his head.

‘We have a more pressing problem right here,’ he said, and began drawing in the

dirt with a stick. ‘Look. Here’s Clyst and here’s the bridge. Russell’s over here at

Carey’s windmill and our main force is stuck way up here at Rockbeare.’ He jabbed at

the earth. ‘For God’s sake, John, he’s closer to the Clyst bridge than our main army, and

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 193 KK51 N5641462 he’s bypassed us — he’s done it right under our noses! How? Should we have seen this

coming?’

John Wynslade pursed his lips. God preserve the soul of anyone he caught

spying.

‘It’s a bit late for that. We must take the bridge before Russell gets to it.’

‘There are no more than two hundred here! You’ll be sending them to the

slaughter!’ Bury objected.

‘Not if we take a defensive approach,’ Wynslade argued. ‘Dig in with proper

defences and hold it.’ Then he turned to Arundell. ‘Humphry, I suggest this out of the

greatest respect for you and your leadership: it would be best if you returned to St

David’s Hill. Some of the other captains should come down with their men.’

‘What! I can’t —’ Arundell looked astonished. He rose, and looked down at his

deputies. ‘I can’t desert all these men!’

‘Sir, with respect — Russell has outwitted us. If ever we needed you safe to

direct us, it’s now. We cannot afford for you to be taken. We’ll keep a string of

messengers going between you and us.’

‘Dear God, John! Do you know what you’re asking?’

‘Humphry, please,’ said Wynslade.

Arundell ran his hand through his hair and turned to Bury.

‘What do you think?’

‘It’s a good idea,’ Bury said. ‘To my way of thinking, the situation is clear cut.

Russell has fresh mercenaries, and as far as we know, Herbert is still on his way with ten

thousand men. But it might be possible to hold the bridge if we build up two lines of

defence. First, the town. We need to fortify it and man it with cannon. Then the bridge. If

the town falls, everyone falls back to the bridge.’

Arundell nodded, but his face was ashen. ‘Very well. I agree with that. But dear

God, I cannot believe I’m agreeing to leave you. It’s… I shall only agree on the

condition that the men know I shall not try to escape. I will either be killed or captured. I

will not have Russell turning Cornwall into a killing field in the hunt for me. I may lead

them a merry dance, but whatever happens, I shall not leave my men to face them alone.

Indeed, I may yet lead them to London.’


Silence fell over the group and it was only broken when Arundell clapped his

hands.

‘Right, then. Russell won’t be expecting to meet anyone between the windmill

and the bridge. William, get yourself up to Rockbeare. Tell Smyth and Holmes to get

back here immediately with two-thirds of our troops. Coffin can stay up there to cut off

any retreat along the high road. Don’t spare that horse of yours and get straight back

here.’ Arundell turned to the elder Wynslade. ‘Sorry about Exeter, John. It can’t be

helped.’

‘I know, Humphry. Believe me, I am with you to the end on this.’

Suddenly, Arundell’s misty gaze met Margh’s.

‘Well, young Tredannack! Ready to hold a bridge and take a city?’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Good work. Come and visit me at Helland when this is all over. See if you

fancy being Godfather to my little daughter.’

Arundell’s smile was that of a man who wanted to cry. He mounted his horse,

kicked it into a canter and rode back towards Exeter. As Margh watched Will ride off in

the other direction, he felt a tremor run right through his body. His breath caught in this

throat and a sudden cold sweat broke upon his brow. The blood drained from his head

and his knees felt like water. Pain split his head and, as he closed his eyes against it, he

saw lightning flash across the moorland beyond Tredannack. Then, in one deafening

crack, one of the standing stones cracked open. The pain was unbearable. He brought his

hands to his face and swayed as the storm raged behind his eyes.

‘Tredannack!’ It was John Wynslade’s voice coming through the noise.

Margh opened his eyes and his breath returned in short, shallow gasps.

‘Something is wrong, sir.’

‘Aye, your face!’

‘No! That’s nothing. ’Tes a flesh wound.’

‘It’s exploding pus and blood all down your neck.’

***


Old Drew Curnow’s voice is becoming that of the Duke. It sounds taller than it

did yesterday.

I do think without fail

In thy country thou wast a rascal.

Ask pardon of me, villain,

Or get out of my sight, O very hound.

How will an alien

On Christians

Here desire to set?

I will make of thy head a hash,

So that the juice may drop

And thou wilt cry ‘woe is me’ to meet me.

Teudar is hairpitched. Granpa Spargo is ready to give old Drew Curnow a fair

collopin’.

By my faith, and well besene,

If I could kill a horse

So thou glutton

Ill to me thou wouldst do

If I should like.

Right truly, stand quiet,

I will not, but thou lose.

There is a royal kingdom

Will come to help me surely.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 196 KK51 N5641462 The Duke sneers and laughs.

Thy accursed kingdom

To thee shall be little help.

Call to thee great and small,

And all thy caitiff knights,

And thy lords.

I will await you in the plain,

As I am a loyal servant of Christ’s

I and all my people, surely.

The king of the accursed kingdom is furious. He is red in the face and shouts at

Duke.

Thou vile blockhead,

Prate not of Christ

Before me.

And if thou dost

Thou shalt have shame

And thy host surely

Very foul knight

What thou think readily

Here to set thyself against an Emperor?

Someone says “Ooooohh!” and everyone laughs. My Aunt Bosinney is giggling

behind her hand. But old Drew Curnow stares straight back at Granpa Spargo as

though he wears Teudar sleeves when reaping the barley.

Yea, thou false scoundrel,

I know not that thou was born


To any piece of land on long rule

Do not desire, thou dirty alien

In my heritage, day or night

Thou shalt not assemble longer, know for true.

These two men are strong, and both know it. Teudar will not be told. Not even

when out of his own country.

Sir Duke, thou shalt deny thy faith

Or else a prisoner of mine

Thou shalt be before this very night

King Alwar and Pygys

King Margh Ryel, also

The king called Casvelyn

With succour are coming to me

The Duke shrugs away the threat.

Let those come when they will

Here they shall be a small matter

Never will they escape without death,

By God, great Lord of grace

Though there will be here thousands of hundreds

We will await you

In Christ’s name we have a desire

Against Christ’s enemy to do battle.

A great cheer goes up. My grandmother claps her hands to her flushed cheeks.

Kerra says the young mistress had tears in her eyes.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 198 KK51 N5641462 Now, by the fire, it is finally quiet, for my mother’s dog has ceased barking.

Kerra tells me the Welsh will be damned forever. She says their memory failed

them because of the Tudors being their kin. And so they forsook their Cornish

cousins. Not like our Breton cousins, who risked it all for my mother and father

in the face of their French overlords and a convenient new war.

***

Clyst St Mary Saturday, 2nd August, 1549 With every stroke that sharpened his sword, Margh felt the pain in his face subside to a

mild tightening. Beside him, a lethargic Kitto sharpened his arrows and Jan Spargo

surprised him by producing armour he had presumed lost amid the confusion that had

prevailed ever since he had rescued Jenna from her cousin at Lanskellan.

Quietly, their small contingent armed up. There was no golden-haired prince of

battle to banish fear from the fearful and replace it with the inspiration that gave rise to

great deeds. Gerent was gone. Gone, along with hundreds more. He was remembered,

however, at Billy’s burial, which was conducted with as much pomp as Bury and

Wynslade would allow, in a nearby field. The boy had been wrapped in the Cornish flag

as a hero; a gesture to the three hundred men lying far from home in a field of bloodied

grass and meadowsweet.

Margh closed his eyes and gripped Eselde’s hare’s foot and wished away his

curse. His gold cross was gone, ripped from his neck at Carew’s vile nest.

‘All set, sir.’

Margh heard the voice, but did not respond.

‘Captain Tredannack, sir! We are all set.’ It was Jan Spargo, with Guillo the

Breton. Both would fight as billmen, while Kitto would be among the many archers who

would surround them and fire at Margh’s command.


He could hear Smyth ordering their ragged contingent into formation. There

would be no time to waste should they suddenly come upon the enemy. Margh mounted

Ruan and was conscious of the animal’s reassuring strength beneath him. He felt his

mind settle into an ordered military regimen and ordered his billmen to fall in among the

archers. Riding down the line to ease Ruan’s skittishness, he passed Smyth and saluted.

Smyth’s escape at Fenny Bridges was already the stuff of campfire legend, and today he

would lead them into battle again. He just hoped reinforcements from Rockbeare and

Exeter would reach them before it was too late.

The villagers, tired of the seemingly endless occupation of their town, had come

to life with the activity and joined the army in prayer. Above the drone of Father

Moreman’s voice, a distant caroling of thrush song lightened their hearts, for surely that

thrush’s song was the voice of God, singing their praises and urging on His true army of

Christian soldiers. Then the Cornishmen began the Lord’s Prayer in Cornish. Soldiers

stilled their weapons and every Cornish speaker joined in, their soft voices mellow in the

golden summer light. Around its gentle refrain the silence deepened and the earth sighed.

‘I wish I was able to speak Cornish as well as you.’

Margh turned to find Will Wynslade had drawn Zeus in beside him.

‘Does it matter, Will? Your Latin is better than mine.’

‘After this, will that matter? Margh, I am filled with dread. I have a sense of

doom, that my life will be forever changed and I will be doomed to an impossible quest

to right everything. They have been forcing Englishness upon us for five hundred years

and they will not stop until all that is Cornish is forever crushed. You know that, don’t

you? Whoever survives will go on being crushed and crushed. They won’t stop until all

that is left is a few standing stones.’

‘Will! This is nonsense. You have men waiting for you. We are about to go into

battle.’

Will Wynslade took no notice. ‘You men from the west, with your song-filled

speech — you must hold onto it as though it were Excalibur. If you survive, hang on to it

as a weapon.’


It had taken all of Margh’s effort to rid himself of the sense that his curse now

hung above him with the deadliest of intention. He did not need to hear this doom-

saying. It filled him with a screaming white terror.

As the line moved forward, Will turned Zeus to ride back to where his men were

marching, but he paused, watching, as Margh removed Gerent’s plaited leather thong

from around his wrist and tied it around his head. Their eyes met, steel on steel.

‘God bless us both, my friend,’ he said.

‘God bless Cornwall.’

It happened too soon. They had gone barely a mile.

‘Halt!’ Smyth screamed. ‘Archers! Draw back!’

‘Draw back fully!’ Margh ordered his men. ‘Fully!’ Fully! Fully! But could

they draw back fully and fire twelve arrows a minute? Gerent could fire fourteen or

fifteen. On a good day, Margh could send down thirteen, but today he was no archer. He

prayed his men would find it a good day.

‘Take aim!’ came Smyth’s order, and Margh repeated it with the full force of his

lungs.

The enemy was scrambling in panic. Margh’s heart leapt with excitement.

Russell’s men weren’t ready! Their arquebusiers were only just priming their weapons!

They had been taken by surprise. Just as Arundell had predicted.

‘Fire!’ came Smyth’s order.

It was the only order they needed. As a host of arrows almost blackened the sky,

the billmen charged into the enemy ranks. Margh gripped his sword and followed,

slashing and hacking, seeking out anyone who looked like a captain. For Gerent, he said.

For Gerent. And he slashed and slew. And this one for Billy. He heard the clash of

weapons and smelled the metallic tang of blood. Horses screamed and men cursed. In the

briefest of moments, he searched for his men; searched for banners he knew and felt his

heart sing as one of the enemy captains fell heavily from his steed.

Right now, the prayer book could be Greek, if that’s what the little king wanted.

For every essence of his being was channeled into avenging Billy and Gerent, and he felt

courage bubble up from some long lost well, buried deep within him. Lightness filled

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 201 KK51 N5641462 him, and power surged into his arms. He was not dying this day! He would live to raise

Cornish sons. He would rot in hell before he allowed the English to quash what was his.

The noise crushed all thought as it consumed him. It became him and filled him with

bloodlust. On a blood curdling cry, he rode deep into enemy ranks, his sword a magical

device that hacked and chopped and somehow found its way through the slender gaps of

plate armour.

Suddenly there was a break in the onslaught. Hope burned and then sputtered

away as a column of pistoleers rode straight at him. Margh recognised the slow canter

and graceful manoeuvre of the caracole and was overcome with dread. Enemy horses

turned this way and that as their riders fired their two wheel-lock pistols before peeling

away to the rear, their armour ablaze in the afternoon sun. Margh flattened himself along

Ruan’s neck, trying to remember his training. But the attack was deadly. His footmen

were helpless against it. To his left, he saw Guillo push his way to the flanks; he saw

Kitto fall. He kicked Ruan into action and thrust his sword at an outstretched hand and

pistol. Hand and gun flew and the soldier screamed. Then, an arquebusier exploded in

front of him. Gunpowder filled his nostrils. Ruan screamed and reared and crashed to the

ground.

Utter chaos surrounded him and for a short time, all Margh could do was lie with

death-like stillness against Ruan’s bloodied body. His leg! But it was free. Somehow his

feet had come free of the stirrups as Ruan crashed to the ground, and his leg was free.

But he knew that if he moved now, he would not draw another breath. There was no

room in his thoughts for anything but survival. And all around him was the appalling

carnage brought about by lack of horsemen and lack of guns. If only the rest of the army

would come.

Then, it was all over. Someone cried ‘havoc’ and slowly Margh reached for the

dagger he kept in his garter. He held it tightly, ready to strike. Through half-closed eyes

he could see strange leg armour. A foreign mercenary, brought in by the government to

slay its own people. He let his body slacken, so that when the kick came to his back his

response was that of the dead. Just then, a bugle sounded and the soldier muttered

something incomprehensible to a comrade. Together they walked away. Within seconds,

the unnerving silence of an army’s death throes shuddered through the mist rising from

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 202 KK51 N5641462 the river. Ruan had not moved and Margh knew his old friend had given his life for his

country. Exhausted, he lay beside the animal’s waning warmth. He was almost asleep

when he saw a movement. Someone crawling along the ground. ‘’Aright, Cap’n?’

It was Jan. Margh rose on an elbow and stared down the hill. The stream below

them flowed with blood, and bodies were strewn everywhere.

‘’Aright, Jan. Ruan took the shot meant for me.’ Staring numbly at his horse’s

body, he could scarcely believe he had survived.

But there was no time for rest. Within hours, Clyst had become a fortified town,

with villagers opening up their houses to soldiers and weapons. The cannon from

Topsham that had barricaded the road from the start of the commotion took centre stage

in the marketplace. Arundell had sent word that men, cannon and guns were on the way

from the camps at Exeter. Holmes had arrived from Rockbeare, and a Devonshire

contingent was within a mile. Two thousand men in full harness, plus four thousand,

fresh from Exeter. It was heartening news.

‘Come and listen to this, sir.’ Guillo stared at the blade of Margh’s sword as it

pulsated with heat in the village smith’s forge. Margh bashed at it with a hammer. The

blade was blunted by battle and the smithy was dead.

‘What?’

‘Russell’s men are thanking God.’

Margh smiled.

‘Smyth sent for you, sir,’ Guillo went on. ‘We’re regrouping with Wynslade.’

‘Now?’ Already? He would have to fight on foot. ‘Oh, sweet Mary, mother of

God, Guillo. May God take our souls.’

‘Have faith, sir.’

Margh never thought he would attack an army on its knees in prayer. But even the

advantage of surprise could not dent the enemy’s advantage of numbers and weapons.

Russell’s men might have been on their knees praying directly to God, but their Italian

allies were standing idly, fiddling with their rosaries.

‘Do you think anyone’s told them what they’re fighting for?’ he asked Guillo.


‘Yes sir. They’re fighting for money.’

‘Money and absolution,’ Margh murmured.

Surprise gave Wynslade’s men little advantage. Within minutes, Margh was

among a sea of foot soldiers being forced down the hill towards the river in a tide of

panic-stricken retreat. And there was nothing he could do but watch those taken prisoner

being dragged away to heaven knew what fate. Once again, he was surrounded by

carnage. It seemed their entire horse — such as it was — was amassed in a river of

congealed blood and dying flesh. Fallen men everywhere.

‘Come on, Margh, sir,’ Jan said, confused. ‘We’re regrouping down here.’

‘We can’t fight again today,’ Margh said. He could see Russell’s men above

them, watching. There were thousands of them. ‘Our only attack now should be defence.

From the town.’

He was utterly relieved to hear the shrill blast of retreat.

Clyst St Mary Sunday, 3rd August, 1549

All night, men worked at the road blockade between Clyst St Mary and Russell’s camp

at the windmill and on the fortification of Clyst itself. Dawn broke over a sleeping

village of exhausted and wounded men and a few brave women who had resisted the

temptation to flee. Half a mile from the town, the men at the barricades saw the sun

glinting on armour.

‘They’re coming, sir,’ Smyth said. Beside him was Sir Thomas Pomeroy, just

arrived from Exeter’s east gate with his men.

‘I’ll get a message to Bury,’ Pomeroy said.

Bury’s men had taken up positions in Clyst’s fortified buildings and behind

barricades in the marketplace. Behind them, Wynslade would defend the bridge. The last

obstacle between Russell and Exeter, it would be held to the last.

Margh stood silently with Jan, Kitto and Guillo, watching the armoured army

approach. Swiftly and silently, they crept behind the clumps of furze that lined the road

waiting for the enemy to draw to a halt at the barricade. But it was hopeless. Fighting

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 204 KK51 N5641462 this army, with its blood-lusty mercenaries, was an invitation to death. Once again, a

crush of men fell back from the road. Once again, the human tide of desperation that was

the vanguard was too great to resist and Margh was forced back with them. He looked

around and saw Pomeroy had become stuck in a furze clump with the trumpeter and

drummer. Above, on the road, he saw a man lose his arm. It was the miller from

Penzance. And his arm just fell to the ground and rolled away down the embankment.

The poor wretch just stood there, watching it, stunned and silent in the brief moment

before he was impaled by a sword. Margh had stopped breathing. Then, something

familiar and dread-making caught his eye. Russell’s standard.

‘Sir Thomas,’ he called to Pomeroy and pointed. ‘Russell.’

Margh had never spoken a word to Pomeroy before today. He was widely

regarded as a something of a fool, and had proved it more than once by bragging about

the amount of land he had just been granted through the Protector’s reforms — the very

reforms he was apparently fighting. Some even wondered whether he was a spy.

Someone was. That much was becoming clearer by the day. But when Pomeroy ordered

the trumpeter to sound a retreat, Margh’s doubts fled, for the result was instant chaos.

Russell’s vanguard panicked and wheeled around on the narrow road. Horses screamed,

reared and fell. They collided with each other and tore themselves in the high bramble-

covered hedges. Soldiers were tossed off and ran for their lives. Within minutes, not an

enemy soldier was to be seen.

‘Come on, sir!’ Guillo was hopping with excitement. ‘Let’s see what they’ve left

for us.’

Down the road, abandoned supply wagons provided some laughter, food and

guns. Margh smiled with bitter irony to hear his own man raising ‘havoc’ and hauling

the spoils back to Clyst. Venturing further down the road, he stopped at the sight of a

large chestnut horse struggling to its feet. It was a beautiful animal and its tack was

inlaid with silver and lapis lazuli. It hobbled for a moment, then snorted and shook its

head. Then it stilled and stared at Margh. Uncertainty flickered in its eyes.

‘Come on, then,’ Margh said. ‘I won’t hurt you.’ He thought of the gaping hole

in Ruan’s chest and wondered whether this beast would survive much longer. Certainly,

its chances would be better if it turned tail and ran to its master. Margh’s chances were

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 205 KK51 N5641462 better if he could just catch hold of his reins. Slowly, he lowered himself until he was

sitting cross-legged on the road. The horse continued to eye him, calmer now, breathing

easier and stretching his muzzle out towards him. Margh lowered his face, but kept a

sharp eye out for any movement on the road ahead. Finally, the horse walked towards

him. As it nuzzled his hair and blew hot, horsey breath into his ear, Margh felt tears well

in his eyes. It seemed such a small thing, now, to take hold of the dangling rein. He

wanted to hug the beast and get it out of Clyst to somewhere safe.

‘Is he a prisoner, sir?’ Guillo laughed, as Margh led the animal through the

marketplace.

‘No, Guillo. More of a volunteer. He’s defecting to fight with me.’ Margh kept

walking. He felt oddly serene and was glad to have the Breton fall in beside him.

Guillo ran his hand down the horse’s neck. ‘Sir Thomas Pomeroy has been

telling everyone about his trick with the trumpeter.’

‘Has he, now?’

‘Oh yes. All about how he saved the village from destruction.’

‘With no warning or help from anyone else?’

‘No, sir. Did it all by ’iself.’

‘I see.’ And he did. There was Pomeroy surrounded by Bury and Smyth and

several of their men, expounding the virtues of a quick eye and a faster wit. For a

moment, the story-telling ceased as Margh walked by.

‘Nice spoils there, Tredannack,’ Smyth called. ‘Well done!’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Margh called back. ‘But he needs a drink.’

‘Don’t we all?’ Pomeroy put in. ‘I’ll have the beast when he’s watered.’

Margh stopped and wheeled the horse around.

‘No you won’t,’ he said. ‘I risked my life to get this animal.’

‘I was the officer in charge,’ Pomeroy countered, and shrugged off Smyth’s

attempts to shut him up. ‘The spoils of victory are mine to divide up among the men as I

want.’

‘No one was in charge! And that wasn’t a victory. It was a piece of idiotic luck in

the middle of a fiasco.’ It was on the tip of Margh’s tongue to claim the victory as his,

but he held it back.


‘Maybe. But I made the luck, so I’ll have the horse.’

‘Get fucked.’

Pomeroy had to be held back. ‘What did you say?’

‘Sorry,’ Margh said. ‘But you already have a horse and mine was killed in battle.

But I do apologise. I should have said, ‘Get fucked, Sir Thomas’.’

‘Tredannack!’ Smyth had turned pale.

‘Sorry, sir. But have you asked Sir Thomas how much land the Protector’s given

him? Have you asked him how badly he really wants us to rout Russell? Better still, have

you asked him who spotted his lordship’s standard?’ Margh stopped his tirade. He could

scarcely believe his behaviour. ‘Sorry, sir.’ He saluted his commander. ‘This horse is

mine and he needs a drink.’

Minutes later, Margh sat on a rock with the horse’s reins in his hands, and

dangled his swollen feet in the bloodied waters of the Clyst. All along the banks were

men. Some bathing wounds, some simply trying to stay alive, others having already

departed this life for the peace of Heaven. Occasionally, a corpse floated by and not far

downstream he heard the sound of a boy’s heart breaking. Reality slowly sank through to

his stomach and Margh began to feel sick. Gerent and Billy were dead. Kitto had

vanished. And so had Jenna. Sudden screaming brought his thoughts to a halt and, as he

quickly mounted the horse and rode up the hill, he saw smoke rising from the thatched

roofs.

Jenna stood in the middle of the inn, surveying a large shadowy space from which

benches and tables had been removed to barricade the windows and doors. Airlessness

and summer heat mingled with death to create a stink worse than hell. On the floor lay

more than fifty wounded and dying. Some would live to fight another day, and these

were the ones she tended. Those whose blood flow she had already staunched would

either live or die and there was little to do now but trickle ale into their parched mouths.

Others had bled to death already. There was no one to drag their bodies outside. Will, at

least, was safe with his father, back at the bridge. Even Jonathan was safe, ferrying

messengers to and from Arundell. But what of Captain Tredannack? This morning’s

battle had been savage and so many had been killed or taken prisoner. God bless him,

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 207 KK51 N5641462 God bless him. She felt for the rosary that hung from her girdle. Her own had long been

lost. Probably lying in the Otter at Fenny Bridges. But a dying soldier from Boscastle

had given her his and she could scarcely keep from touching it. For it was made of shells

collected on a distant Cornish beach, and their salty smell delivered pangs of yearning.

Every few minutes, she brought them to her nose, just to breathe in the sea. The still and

silent men watching her were comforted by the piety of their nurse and either died or

slept in peace.

Suddenly the smell of the sea was overtaken by the smell of smoke. She heard

women and children screaming and the thunder of horses’ hooves. In an instant, the

thatch was alight. Escape was her only thought. She grabbed a table leg and pulled, but

her effort was futile. She glanced around and saw nothing but helpless terror in the eyes

of her patients. Then one of them leaned up on his elbow and, on his backside, shuffled

over legs and bodies to reach her.

‘Leg’s a goner,’ he said. ‘Arms be a’right.’

Jenna glanced up at the thatch. There was hardly any time. Still sitting on the

floor, the man positioned himself at a table leg.

‘Grab hold ’un it wi’ me, maid,’ he said, and then began coughing. ‘We’ll swing

’un around this way.’

Jenna sat beside him, and together they gripped the table leg. The man looked her

in the eyes and counted.

‘Onen, deu, try!’

Through choking smoke they felt the table leg plough through the packed earth

floor and felt a rush of cool air as the door swung loose.

‘Go, maid. Go get some help!’

Jenna opened her mouth to insist he follow her, but the air had fanned the flames

and the smoke was too much. Her throat was burning and pain seared the inside of her

chest. Coughing, she crawled under the table and over a stool, squeezed through the

narrow space and gulped in fresh air.

‘Come on,’ she called to the man who had helped. But no one followed. Then the

roof collapsed, and all she could hear was the screams of helpless, burning soldiers.


The village was in uproar. Women and children fled their burning cottages, only

to face the deadly onslaught of arquebusier fire in the marketplace. Through the smoke,

Jenna saw a small girl trampled by a horse. She gulped and gasped as a shrieking shape

ran aflame into the road, zig-zagging a macabre dance through the rampaging army, only

to be crushed before it could plunge down the embankment and into the river. Clutching

her tattered smock, Jenna darted between foot soldiers fighting with swords and pikes,

some even wrestling on the road. Every house was on fire. The whole town was choking

with smoke, forcing the armies to retreat. Even the church tower was no longer visible

and she wondered what the King would have to say about that. Barns, churches. Was

anything sacred?

Finally, she sensed clearer air and, with her eyes stinging, skidded blindly down

the river bank until her foot rammed against a rock and she fell with a thud onto the

damp grass. The king’s soldiers and their mercenary friends were everywhere,

slaughtering whomever they could find. Terrified beyond her wits, she flung herself into

the Clyst and clutched at a bundle of reeds. There she remained, shivering over her sobs,

watching the dead and dying turn the water around her crimson as they floated by, their

watery grave taking them all the way out to sea. Until, finally, the ravaged town fell into

a grey, smouldering quiet. Then, when her heart threatened to freeze over, she sought a

foothold. When she reached to grab at the bank, she felt a hand take hers. Her moment of

relief quickly turned to dust.

Hidden by a thick copse of rowan, hawthorn and gorse, Margh primed the pistol with the

last of a slain soldier’s gunpowder. Fear of error made him clumsy. He had seen this

weapon before, in training, but had never fired one. It sat like cold dread in his hand and

while part of him wished every man in Arundell’s army had one, it filled him with the

vision of a steely grey dawn. A dawn so bleak and chill it froze his breathing. But too

many of these had been used against his men. The desire to use one against just one

royalist soldier was too powerful to resist. He glanced over his shoulder at his new horse,

which he had led into a gorse thicket. The animal was nibbling contentedly at its flowers.

Margh’s attention was focused on an English soldier who had captured a maid

from the village. The girl had been hiding in the river. Cold must have driven her out too

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 209 KK51 N5641462 early, for there had been no sound but a single shout of joy as the soldier hauled her out

of the water and dragged her, prone, onto an open patch of grass. Now he stood,

victorious, with his foot pressed into the small of her back and the tip of his sword at her

nape. Three of his friends had gathered around, each one using his victories and prisoner

count as bargaining chips.

‘Not saying you can’t go first,’ one of them said. ‘Is she a virgin?’

The others laughed. Margh took aim.

‘Does she look like it?’

‘Rather have a virgin.’

‘Off you go then. Send us a message when you find one.’

The protesting soldier shrugged. ‘I’m happy to share with my friends,’ he said.

Margh had one pistol, his sword and two daggers. It would take him too long to

reload to rely on the gun to take out more than one of these men.

‘Is she pretty?’

‘What’s her face got to do with it? Now, put your foot here and hold her down

while I have a look at her cunny. Any sign of pox and she’s yours.’

Margh swallowed. The girl was facing away from him, but her hand was just

visible, crammed to the ground beneath her shoulder. She was clutching a shell rosary

and her knuckles were the white that comes with terror. Above, the smouldering village

was collapsing and the stench of smoke and death was enough to make him retch. It was

as though he, the girl and this trio of English scum were its only survivors. He watched

with horror as soldiers changed places and the ringleader lifted the girl’s smock. His

hand went between her legs and he looked up to grin at his friends. Margh saw the girl

tense, and fired. He gasped with relief to see his quarry fall back. What! The soldier’s

head was impaled on a perfectly aimed six foot arrow. The other men scattered and the

girl scrambled away, coming to her knees and burying her head in her hands while she

sobbed. Finally, she stood, pulled up her hose and straightened the shepherd’s smock and

—

‘Jenna!’


Margh thought he had spoken the word, but it was Will’s voice calling her name

as he strode down the slope. Jenna stood there, her faced buried in her hands. Margh

locked the pistol, sheathed his dagger.

‘Good shot, Will,’ he said. ‘At least one of us got him.’

‘We both got him.’ Will pushed the body over with his foot and revealed a

growing pool of blood pouring from the man’s heart. ‘Look! A perfect shot, Tredannack.

With a wheel-lock pistol, too! You want to give him a taste of your dagger, Jenna?’

Jenna rubbed the tears from her face and shook her head.

‘Come, then. Up to the bridge,’ Will said. ‘Father’s up at there with Bury and

Smyth. We’ve not got many left and our defences have to be tight.’

‘Just a moment,’ Margh said. ‘Jenna, I have something for you. Come and look.’

Margh took Jenna’s hand and led her into the copse.

‘Spoils of war,’ he said. ‘Take him and get yourself out of here. Get back to

Exeter, and do whatever you can to help Arundell. And if he has nothing for you to do,

get home to your father on the Camel estuary. Russell will take you as a traitor if he

finds you.’

She looked damply at Will. He nodded his approval and wiped her tears away

with the back of his hand. ‘Best take yourself home to my step-mother at Tregarrick. It’s

on the road to Looe, hard by Pelynt church. I shall join you when this is over.’

Margh watched as Will helped her mount and led her up the hill to the road.

‘Give him a good name,’ he called. She looked back and smiled through tears. It

felt strange to know he might never see her again. He raised a hand in farewell.

Later that afternoon, John Wynslade stood on the bridge with his arms folded and the

strangest sensation in his face. He was smiling, and it felt like a hundred years since he

had last smiled. But despite their hopeless situation, it was indeed a smile that forced his

cheeks to stretch upwards and his eyes to wrinkle. On the other side of the bridge, Bury

had stationed a gunner whose position made it almost impossible for Russell’s men to

cross.

The gun was the one taken from Topsham weeks before; before he and Arundell

had even left Cornwall. Despite its forced retreat, closer and closer to Exeter, Bury’s

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 211 KK51 N5641462 man, Hammon, had lovingly greased and oiled it, taken it to pieces and reassembled it,

until it was firing with smooth precision. It was now perfectly primed for the role it was

about to play in the last battle to hold the great city at their rear. Behind Hammon, ready

to rush the bridge, was the remainder of the army. A poor, ragged army of men barely

surviving, whose hearts were so big it was enough to break his own.

Standing there, with the sound of the swiftly running stream rushing up, cool and

clean around him, Wynslade could almost imagine his world was at peace. But the pile

of ash and rubble that was once Clyst St Mary still smoked and the smell of death and

decay had permeated the lining of his nostrils. Still, at least his son was safe, and would

remain at his side now, until the end. The horror that would mark the end was

inconceivable, yet he almost looked forward to it. The slaughter of simple God-fearing

men and boys was too much for any good man to bear. He felt a hand on his shoulder

and turned to find William at his side, his eyes glued to the road ahead. Margh

Tredannack was with him and together they stood, entranced by the sight of one of

Russell’s men walking towards the gunner with two pistols ready to fire.

‘Hammon’s well protected by the cannon,’ Margh whispered. ‘How much do

think Russell has promised that deluded fool to try and take out him out? He must know

he’ll never live to see his reward.’

‘Aye, but when exactly will Hammon fire?’ Will was transfixed. ‘Five marks

says he fires before Russell’s man passes that clump of furze.’

They shook on it, but Margh knew his money was lost. Will’s wager had

guaranteed him a win, for Hammon could not afford to let the soldier get too close. The

cannon was too rigid and the soldier would be ready to fire. At any moment, he could

make a run for the shelter of the debris on the road, bypass Hammon and shoot him from

the side.

The soldier had slowed, almost to a standstill. He seemed to be saying his

prayers. He took three more steps and cannon fire shattered the peace.

One to us, Wynslade thought, as the man’s body shattered. Jubilation surrounded

Hammon as the impact of one small victory filled the simple hearts and minds with

hope. Bury quickly restored order and the men returned to their various posts by the

road. Silence fell again, as the waiting began.


‘Sir, look out!’

The cry came from the right hand side of the road, but it was too late. A small

group of Russell’s men had skirted the blockade upstream and crossed the river behind

them. Now they were creeping up behind Wynslade’s men. Mouths opened in disbelief

as one of them raised his weapon and shot the Devonshire gunner in the back. Before

Hammon’s body hit the ground, Margh knew it was over. Swarms of men attacked the

bridge and there was nothing to do but flee. He saw some men jump into the river,

almost certainly to their deaths, as it was tidal and flowing full and fast down to join the

Exe. He began running.

‘Tredannack!’ It was Smyth. ‘Get up behind me.’

The instinct to survive made it easy. Nothing would have stopped Margh

mounting Smyth’s horse. And it all happened in a flash. Smyth must have taken his foot

from the stirrup. Margh had grabbed him around the waist and hauled himself up. An

explosion burst in his ears. Somehow, the musket ball missed them. Almost blind and

deaf, Margh felt the horse’s panic create a surge of strength. The poor creature wanted to

live, he thought. Its fear would save them. They cleared the bridge and thundered along

the road towards Exeter.

Clyst Heath

Monday, 4thAugust, 1549

For hours Kitto had sat on the damp grass with hundreds of others, their hands tied

behind their backs and guarded by soldiers who spoke to them in coarse English,

laughing and prodding and making obscene gestures. The sun was starting to sink when

a mob of foreigners marched down the hill and sent Russell’s men away. A rumble of

supposition began, and hope soared. It’s over, thought Kitto. They’ve seen sense and

will kick our butts and send us home. But why did they all have swords? To cut their

ropes, perhaps? Surely, to set them free? His skin bristled as each soldier hauled a

prisoner to his feet and — Oh. God, no. Man after man was being slaughtered. With

sickening realization, he saw a lumbering Italian, the chest plates of his armour glinting

in the sun. This was it. His life would end here. He cursed his own idiocy. If only he

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 213 KK51 N5641462 hadn’t fallen. Clumsy fool, he was. Wasn’t even wounded. He’d merely fallen over his

little friend from Crediton. The man dragged him to his feet and drew his sword.

‘No, no!’ Kitto felt his vitals slacken, and his blood turned cold. ‘Listen. This is

wrong! What will my mother do? You have already taken my brother, and she cannot

manage the pigs by herself! Sir, please, I beg —’ He tried to back away, but someone

had hold of him. ‘Sir, I am a good Catholic. You cannot do —’

He stared in disbelief as cold metal sliced his throat. He felt his eyes widen and

stare skyward. He fell. He felt cool grass against his cheek.

St David’s Hill, Exeter Monday evening, 4th August, 1549

Sweat poured from Arundell’s sunburned forehead and he threw down his quill in

exhaustion. He stared blankly at Father Barrett, whose bulky frame was hunched over a

parchment. The pile of completed sheets at his side was impressive.

‘How much longer?’ Arundell asked.

‘The task is almost complete.’ The priest did not look up and his quill kept

scratching away.

Arundell drank some more of the ale that had been delivered from Crediton

almost every day since the siege began. Thoughts of his terrible fate, and that of his

captains, had begun to consume his every waking moment. Whatever that fate, it would

mean a death so ghastly it was beyond comprehension. Death in battle would be far

preferable to being captured and tried for treason. His life was over, just as his

daughter’s was starting. Others, too, would live. But all he could foresee for Cornwall

was the oppressive reign of an ill-advised king who was years from his majority.

He picked up the completed pages of Father Barrett’s copy. The words throbbed

with desperation. There was nothing else for it. He would do anything now to save the

few who remained of his men. Innocents, who had simply asked their king to see reason.

The murder of the nine hundred upon Clyst Heath had caused so much anguish, that he

nearly gagged on the ale that he needed to numb him to his grief. Surely, he thought, the

French could force England to understand the folly of these reforms.


He looked at his priest. ‘Father, our quest is all but lost, and the minute we are

vanquished, we will be at war with France. Read me the last piece again.’

The priest picked up the parchment and walked to the side of the tent, as though

to find a suitable oratory. He cleared his throat.

‘Accept your humble and obedient subjects —’

‘Very,’ Arundell interrupted. ‘Very humble and very obedient.’

The priest nodded and continued. ‘ — whose desire is to be the dogs appointed

to keep your house and your kingdom, and the oxen to cultivate your lands, the asses to

carry your burdens, which for the defence of your person and of what belongs to you

shall be ordained by your commands. We will pray the Lord God, who holds and turns

the hearts of kings where He wills, to watch over and conduct your young age to such

perfection of sense, of learning, and of virtue as shall be for the salvation of your soul,

the comfort and tranquility of your subjects, the increase and reputation of the glory and

the weal of Christendom.’

Arundell was staring at his family crest hanging over the trestle table one of the

scribes was working at. Swallows in flight. There was nothing more to be done. Nothing

more could be said. If this did not save them from a charge of high-treason, nothing

would.

‘It will do. We have said all we can possibly say. Thank you, Father. We must

get it away tonight.’ As he pushed aside the tent flaps to walk out into the cooling

breeze, he looked back over his shoulder. ‘And Father, I want every record, every list of

men, fed to the campfires.’ As he turned to leave, he was stopped in tracks. ‘Good

heavens, what’s this?’ For a young woman was dismounting from a horse with the finest

tack he had seen in years.

‘Sir.’

As she bobbed, he saw it was the girl he’d sent into Cheriton as a spy.

‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, it’s Miss Rosewarne.’ She seemed to him an

impossibility. Dishevelled and filthy, yet an angel, emerged from the ruin of his

thoughts. ‘You live. And you’re still with me.’

All Jenna saw was a ruined man with tears welling in his eyes. One tracked its

way down his tortured face.


‘Yes sir.’ She glanced down at her feet, then looked away over his shoulder. His

sorrow was unbearable. ‘William wants me to go to Tregarrick. But I will only go if you

have no need of me.’

‘And you did not expect tears. I’m sorry my dear maid, but I have just had word

of the horrors on Clyst Heath and there is nothing I can do. There is nothing more

sorrowful than the loss of so many while I remain safe. And yet, as I stand here, safe on

St David’s Hill, there is nothing before me but death. I believe I shall welcome it.’ He

smiled ruefully. ‘And you, my dear, dear maid, have been sent to serve me. I do believe

you have been serving me from the moment young Tredannack found you at

Lanskellan.’ He stared at the beast she had ridden. ‘Where on earth did that come from?’

‘The horse, sir? Captain Tredannack captured him near Clyst St Mary.’

‘Did he?’ Arundell walked towards the horse, which was being held by one of

his boys. ‘Very fine tack. Lapis and silver inlaid into the very best leather.’ He swung

around, a gleam in his glistening eyes. ‘And where is Captain Tredannack?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

Arundell’s expression turned thoughtful. He led her down the hill, away from

prying ears. He wanted no one to know. Not even his secretary. Not even the priest who

was finishing the copy for France.

‘Miss Rosewarne, have you ever seen our magnificent fort at St Mawes?’

‘No sir.’

‘Well then. If it pleases you, Jenna, I have one final mission, which will send you

safely into Cornwall. Tonight, you shall set off for St Mawes. It is a long way, but if you

ride well you will get there before Russell’s army. There is a ship in the Carrick Roads

called Broceliande. The captain is French and a good friend of mine. I have a package

which must get out of the country before Russell gets any further. I want you to deliver it

to my commander at the fort. My boy, Giles, will take you, but he will know nothing of

the letter or the reason for this mission. He will be returning to my home at Helland, to

Elizabeth and the children. He must not know. Do you understand? Can you do it?’

‘Yes sir.’ After everything, it seemed a simple request.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 216 KK51 N5641462 Arundell was still standing on the windswept hillside when a snorting horse, white-

flecked with foam, galloped up the hill. Margh Tredannack leapt from its back, leaving

Robert Smyth to dismount in a more orderly fashion and tend to the exhausted animal.

‘Sir, you have to abandon this place. We are done for.’

‘Then the devil is abroad all over Devonshire, for Russell has slaughtered nine

hundred unarmed prisoners upon Clyst Heath.’

Margh made an involuntary grunt of pain. Kitto! Not Kitto, too.

‘But God moves in the strangest way,’ Arundell went on, ‘for I have just been

visited by an angel of light and hope.’

Nine hundred unarmed men murdered on Clyst Heath. Margh was so shocked he

scarcely heard.

‘Your Miss Rosewarne, Tredannack, may very well be on the most important

mission in the history of the Cornish people.’

‘What?’ He collected himself. ‘I beg your pardon, sir. What did you say?’

When Arundell told him of Jenna’s mission, its import took Margh’s breath

away.

‘Do you want to go after her?’ Arundell asked. ‘She left rather a fine horse for

you.’

‘She preferred the pony?’

Arundell smiled. ‘She did.’

Margh smiled ruefully. ‘Sir, she is much safer without me. I shall see this out

with you.’

‘You’ll still need the horse,’ Arundell said, and strode back inside the Council

tent.

Exeter, Tuesday night, 5th August, 1549 Midnight, and a starless sky. Such stealth, no army ever knew. Quiet messengers aroused

sleeping men. Possessions were gathered up, fires were extinguished and the remaining

two thousand campmen marched silently away from the hills and fields that had been

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 217 KK51 N5641462 their home for five weeks. When dawn broke, and the starving citizens of Exeter gazed

down from their eyries upon the wall, they beheld nothing but the silence of flattened

grass and the charcoal rings of campfires. No one was sure what to do. Someone opened

the gates and Lord Russell entered the west’s great city.

Lanson Saturday, 16th August, 1549

Once again, the first glimpse of Lanson’s castle filled Margh with relief. Arundell had

led his remaining two thousand men back towards Sampford Courtenay and was

awaiting Russell’s next move. The King’s old man, however, seemed ill-inclined to

move from the comfort of Exeter and so Arundell had sent Margh, along with Guillo and

Jan, to prepare the prisoners at Lanson for release and send his kinsmen home.

John of Tredannack and Roger Bosinney listened as he related the horrors that

had befallen their people by the King’s order. So shocked was he by his own stories that

Margh scarcely registered the unfamiliar comfort of chair and hearth, of mutton served

on an earthenware trencher and ale drunk from a glazed goblet.

‘And your face, Margh,’ his father said. ‘’Tes a hero’s face, but what will your

dear wife say?’

‘My wife?’ Margh looked strangely at his father. How long since he had

imagined her face? ‘My wife,’ he murmured as he stared into the fire. ‘Eselde. And a

child, perhaps. I wonder if I am to be a father.’

Bosinney cleared his throat. ‘No doubt you have thought of my Eselde every

day.’

‘Yes, Uncle. Every day. And I still wear her hare’s foot.’ He grappled for it

beneath his shirt. It was gone.

Suddenly, a messenger burst into the small chamber.

‘Arundell’s been routed up at Sampford Courtenay,’ he said in a rush. ‘But he

says he plans to drag Russell all the way into Cornwall.’

‘That can’t be true,’ Bosinney said.


Margh nodded. ‘That’s his plan. He will disperse his leaders and make himself

the target, and then he will force the King’s soldiers to fight for every ounce of his flesh.

Both of you must leave as soon as possible.’

‘Nonsense,’ his father said.

‘I’m sorry, father. But this is war and that’s our General’s strategy. Both of you

must leave by nightfall.’ He rose, and stared through the tiny window at the farming

lands to the south. ‘We should inspect the prisoners and prepare them for release,’ he

added, and walked from the room.

The dungeons stank of piss and filth and it was all Margh could do not to gag. As

his father’s rush light illuminated pathetic bundles of humanity crouched in their cells,

he could not help but wonder at the fleeting nature of privilege.

‘Sir Richard Grenville and Sir Charles Penrose are along here,’ Bosinney said, as

they turned a corner.

One man came to the bars and shook them until the chains rattled. Margh turned

to order him quiet, but recognition silenced him. He knew this man.

‘Who’s this?’

‘Sir Jeffery Edwardes,’ his father said. ‘From Bodmyn.’

‘I know you, lad,’ Sir Jeffery Edwardes said. ‘In it from the start, with Wynslade,

you were. Inciting rebellion.’

Time slid away and Margh recalled his first meeting with John Wynslade, at the

George in Bodmyn. The man in the corner with the star-gazey pie. He had seen Sir

Jeffery here once before, and he’d been with Wynslade then, too.

‘Marked now, aren’t you, boy?’ Sir Jeffery smiled cruelly and ran a finger down

his cheek.

Margh finished the tour of inspection in a shroud of cold sweat.

***

I would like to see St Mawes and the ships lying at anchor in the Carrick Roads.

My mother says the fort rises up from the hilltop, round and fierce, with flares

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 219 KK51 N5641462 aflame and soldiers keeping watch. She rode up to the gatehouse by way of a

bridge. There, she left Jonathan with a guard, who was, of course, one of

Arundell’s own men. Another looked at the seal on the letter she had for his

captain. And so she was let inside. She saw carved Tudor roses and fleur de lys.

There were inscriptions, too, but my mother could not read them. (Kerra says

our Queen Mary has had a monk carved there, at St Mawes, and that is what I

would like to see. I do not care for roses and fleur de lys.) The captain in charge

of St Mawes read Arundell’s letter and bade my mother drink some cider. Then

she gave him the papers that she had hidden in a deep pocket inside the folds of

her kirtle and he gave fierce instructions to his best soldier. The captain said

very little, but he took my mother out to the bastion looking over the Carrick

Roads. Here she saw the guns. And she watched the soldier ferry Arundell’s

papers all the way out to a sailing ship. My mother told Missus Guillo that she

never saw anything more beautiful than the gold rays of the setting sun glowing

in its sails as it set forth for France upon the golden sea. It was called the

Broceliande.

The very next day, St Mawes was overrun by the king’s soldiers. The

captain who gave her cider was killed and the ships in the sound were searched.

No one sailed to France. But by then, my mother was on the road to Tregarrick

and the golden ship had vanished.

Lanson Monday, 18th August, 1549

The cold stone of the castle wall was hard against Margh’s back, his sword heavy in his

hand. In a narrow lane to his left, Guillo held the chestnut horse. The streets were fillilng

with the remnants of Arundell’s army; ragged men who joked and laughed with the

hollow sound of doom. Arundell himself was little more than a relic of his former pride

and glory. His once brown hair was almost entirely grey and the deep-etched lines that

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 220 KK51 N5641462 ran down his face spoke of grief and despair. It was the spark of defiance in his red-

rimmed eyes that held Margh Tredannack fast to his side.

This small band, these few, would fight to the very last. Arundell had sent Bury

and his men north into Somersetshire with a parchment he hoped might get to London.

But Arundell and the Wynslades had drawn the royalists into Cornwall.

‘What will they call me if I beat them, Tredannack?’ Arundell said. ‘They won’t

be calling me a rebel then. Nor a traitor.’

‘You are already a hero, sir,’ Margh said. ‘There’s no worthy soul this side of

Mohun’s Ottery would say otherwise.’

‘Tell me, when did you find out about Chiswick?’ Arundell’s tone was that of a

child delaying the inevitable snuffing of a bedtime candle.

‘That he was loyal to our cause? When Jenna told me, sir.’

A small laugh erupted from Arundell’s throat on a tinny edge of hysteria.

‘Funny, isn’t it? We sent her into Devon to spy on a good Catholic.’

‘Aye, sir. But he, seeing the mistake, sent her on to spy on Carew. He hid his

allegiance well, for the attack on him at Clyst was no accident. He was riding home from

Exeter with gentlemen —’

He broke off as a boy ran, screaming, into the street. Arundell stiffened.

‘Get out of here, Tredannack.’

‘But sir! I’m a captain in your army!’

‘Yes, and a damned fine one.’

‘What?’

‘Margh, you survived capture without betraying us, you have handled an

inexperienced spy who has not failed us, and at Clyst you fought like a warrior

possessed. You even stole Sir William Francis’s horse.’

‘I did what?’

‘You didn’t know?’

‘No.’

‘Well, it’s his horse you’ve got there, man, and now I’m ordering you to take the

blessed creature and go!’

‘No sir!’


‘It’s an order, Captain Tredannack. From your commanding officer. Dare you to

disobey?’

‘But sir, you are asking —’

‘I am not asking. I am ordering!’ Arundell was almost apoplectic with rage.

‘They want you alive, and my God, don’t think they won’t know your face.’ His voice

broke. ‘Do you recall what God said to Adam? He told him to raise children. And so,

Captain Tredannack, I say unto you, get yourself home to your beautiful wife and breed

Cornish children. For God knows, as I do, that we will need them.’ Lanson shook with

the thunder of an army’s rampage and Arundell shouldered Margh towards the lane.

‘There will be no point to my death if we are all put to the sword.’ He paused. Tears

welled in his eyes. ‘Margh, please. Let me die believing you are safe. Get on the horse

and go. Fly. Be a swallow, and go.’

Jenna sat by the side of a muddy, rutted cart track and sobbed. Where she was, she had

no idea. From St Mawes, she had tried to reach Tregarrick. But the roads were filled

with soldiers, and so she had taken to lanes that led onto moors and onto beaches and

into strange mining settlements. Some simply evaporated into nothing more than spaces

between furze clumps. Finally, she met two men headed for Penryn. Tregarrick, they

told her, had been seized. As had father and son, and Arundell, too. With their feet tied

beneath horses, and their hands tied behind their backs, they had been taken to the

dungeons at Exeter. Jenna was, they told her, not far from the main road to Truro, and so

she turned to the west and kept company with them as far as Penryn. But it was Will she

wanted. She wanted to go to his mother. She wanted to go home. She wanted her own

mother. But returning to Padstow now, would mean heading straight into the paths of

Russell’s armies. And if anyone would know her face, Russell and his men would.

Anyone’s mother would do. She knew no one in these parts and had nowhere to go.

‘Where is Tredannack?’ she had asked an old woman lugging a pail of water in

Penryn.

The old woman pointed into the setting sun and pulled an unripe apple from a

deep pocket.


‘For the pony,’ she said, and Jenna bit into the crisp, tart apple and pushed

onwards.

Five miles further on, she felt the earth subside beneath her. But it wasn’t the

earth at all. It was Jonathan. His Cornish heart had broken and his life was gone. For an

hour, Jenna sat by the pony’s body, stroking his mane and plaiting the coarse hairs that

came out in her palm. She had nowhere to go, and now she had no means of getting

there.

The inn-keeper at the Blue Boar placed two jars of ale in front of Margh and Guillo.

They were his only customers, for there was not one idle sailor in Penzance’s little

harbour tonight. Ships’ lanterns blazed with the urgency of newly declared war, as their

captains rushed to off-load and load-up and set their sails for France or Spain or Portugal

before the king’s men could stop them. The bustling little town was not a safe place, the

inn-keeper warned them, and Margh knew it to be true. Especially with the prisoners of

St Michael’s Mount now freed. But Penzance was a veritable Babel; a place where a

man could lapse from English to Cornish to Breton to French and hear Spanish and

Italian and Portuguese. It was just as easy to learn the secrets of nations as confuse an

ignorant English soldier who spoke nothing but his king’s tongue. And for the next few

hours it promised to remain a place from which escape was more likely than capture.

Somewhere far behind them, on foot, was Jan Spargo, trudging a careful path

from Lanson. Also, Pascoe and Hawkins would be on their way home, having been

belatedly relieved from their posts at Lanskellan. It galled Margh to think he had only

remembered them when, on his panic-stricken ride out of Lanson, he had noticed its

chimneys. Their relief from duty had been swift and without ceremony. He had left

Lanskellan and made his way across Bodmyn Moor, trying to pinpoint where Arundell’s

strategy had come so fatally undone.

‘Any news of Kingston in these parts?’ Margh asked, for Russell had unleashed

upon Cornwall the morbidly cruel Provost Marshall, and the country was falling to its

knees as the stories of atrocity spread: the hanging of Mayor Bray, the chaining of priests

to their bell towers, the arbitrary confiscation of property.


The inn-keeper nodded and regarded him with a look in which recognition

mingled with fear. He placed his fingertips on the side of Margh’s face, and turned his

scarred cheek to the candlelight.

‘What you think of this, Maggie?’

It was only then that Margh noticed Maggie Poltreen sitting by the fire in a high-

backed settle. She rose, tall and powerful, and turned to him, her eyes full of black fire.

She leaned across the table and fingered his cheek.

‘’Tes the arc of the comet.’ She breathed old fish and turnips into Margh’s face.

‘You’re Tredannack’s boy. Everyone ’spected you was dead, ’long with Jewell.’ She

narrowed her eyes. ‘But I knew. I told them. You were born to live. Not my fault if they

didn’t believe.’

A chill ran down Margh’s spine and he calmly removed her hand from his face.

As he fingered the scar himself, he felt the unnatural heat she had left on his skin.

‘You’ll find a way out,’ the woman continued, ‘with your one true love. ’Tes

your destiny. To father heroes’ children.’

The air was so still it was as though all of Cornwall had stopped breathing. Te

echo of Arundell’s words filled his head.

He touched his scar, as he done countless times before. He knew its beginning,

where the sword had pricked his skin, had become a lumpy raised welt, and that the slice

of the blade had traced a curve across his cheekbone and down his cheek. For the

thousandth time, he wondered what it looked like. How Eselde would react. He turned

his back on Maggie Poltreen.

‘What’s news of Kingston?’ he asked again.

‘Heard yesterday he was over St Ives,’ said the landlord.

Margh looked at Guillo. ‘St Ives? He won’t stop there, will he?’

Guillo shook his head.

‘No, sir. We must get home before he gets there.’

Margh nodded. But there was something else he must do first.

***


Kerra says Teudar is panic‐stricken. Granpa Spargo hops around the little

theatre like a sparrow picking up crumbs and puts on a voice full of childish

petulance.

Ruin! My people are dead

And I ill-wounded.

Fighting well I have fled —

The Duke is a fighter without peer

The children giggle and the women clap their hands. This time, the Duke is

strutting proud, like one of Godolphin’s peacocks, and old Drew Curnow

spreads his victory thick.

Ho, soldiers, now ho!

The tyrant has gone to flight:

His is now not able to withstand me

Through me his people are dead.

Worship to lovable Christ

For granting me the victory!

Drink ye all with the play

We will beseech you

With a full heart

Ye shall have, man and woman,

The blessing of Christ and Meriasek

The blessing of Mary of Camborne.

Pipe ye, hearty minstrels,

That we may be able to dance forthwith.


A great cheer goes up as the Duke of Cornwall bows to the audience. Granma

Tredannack picks up her flute and plays a little jig. Everyone finds a partner and

dances with joy. Children spin around and around, giddying themselves almost

to death. Aunt Bosinney takes Drew Curnow by the hand a leads a little dance.

The old man turns bright red.

***

John of Tredannack and Roger Bosinney had kept away from the well-trod mule-paths

and traversed the windswept moors to the north of Penzance. Last night, they had slept

protected by the stone remains of Chysauster’s ancient settlement, and now, high upon

the moors, they surveyed the wild, gorse-strewn countryside that was home and breathed

in its clean, salty air.

‘From here, it will be easier to surprise Margaret first,’ Bosinney said. He could

just see one of his chimneys. ‘Then we can all travel on to Tredannack. Unless you’d

rather greet Johanna alone, of course.’

Tredannack smiled. Of course he wanted to see his sister. But he wanted his wife

more. For the first time in weeks, his blood felt warm.

***

The pounding on the door held a note of urgency, and the dogs had started barking.

‘What in the name of Sen Yustus is happening downstairs?’ Johanna looked

askance at Margaret, put the costume she had just folded over her arm and went to the

window. Kerra was already there, leaning out.

‘Who’s there?’


‘’Tes Tabby Oates. ’E must get ’eselves hid!’ the old woman from Towednack

shrieked. ‘Kingston’s just left down’long St Ives and Robert Payne hangs, dead as a

dried pilchard. And your master’s name is on his list. And Master Bosinney’s.’

‘Dear God,’ said Margaret. ‘Thank the heavens they are not yet returned.’

For a fleeting moment Johanna wondered how Tabby Oates could possibly know

such a thing, but the reeling of her vitals and the metal taste of fear in her mouth

confirmed the truth of it. She pushed Kerra aside.

‘How did you get here, Tabby?’

‘On me pins, Mistress.’

Then there was no time to lose, for Kingston would have horses and be gaining

ground with every minute.

Johanna turned to Margaret. ‘Wake your daughter, Margaret, and take her down

to the cove. And where’s Mattie? Kerra, find Mattie, and where are Tom and Drew? I

pray they are still in our stables and not yet gone home. Everyone must get down to the

boats.’ She followed Margaret into the room where Eselde was in the deep slumber of

early pregnancy. The thought of her falling into the hands of Kingston’s men’s was

unbearable.

‘I cannot believe we are being hunted like this. I hope our menfolk have not been

too heroic in this little commotion.’

Margaret’s thoughts were firmly on survival. ‘We should take the moor path

towards Sen Yust before we cross the coast road. Chances are they’ll turn off the road

towards our place first, so it’s our best chance of getting to the beach without being

seen.’ She shook Eselde.

‘Our Holy Mother, Margaret! Wake the girl!’

And with that, Margaret Bossiney took the jug from the washing stand and threw

cold water over her daughter. ‘Come on, Eselde! We must run!’

***

The lonely grey church was low in its valley and almost hidden by a great yew. Jenna

had tried each day to keep to the bearings she set each night at sunset and it was only

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 227 KK51 N5641462 when twilight had faded to night that she allowed herself to sleep. She had found the

church just as its tower was disappearing into the deep blue of a blackening sky. By the

light of the candles that still burned in the grottos where saints’ statues once stood, she

found beneath the front pews enough cushions to bed down in more comfort than she

had known since leaving Mohun’s Ottery. The sun was high when she woke. Daybreak

had so long fled that even the grunting ravens had been subdued by the heat of a late

summer morning. She sat on the cushions, bathed in the light that poured in through the

stained glass windows and twisted Will’s ring around and around. She was starving, her

heart and body ached, and her soul felt as though it might never know repair. Above her,

she saw sharp splinters of raw timber where the rood screen had been hacked down and

she wondered what carvings and pictures had once hung there for the people to gaze

upon. The altar, too, had been dragged away, leaving the flagstones scraped and

scratched, and replaced by a simple wooden table. She could not pray in this desecrated

place.

Instead, she sat in the churchyard and looked at the moon, hanging pale and pure in the

blue sky. It suddenly occurred to her that her body had forgotten to bleed.

***

Tears filled the leathery crevasses in Liza Trigg’s face and almost broke Margh’s heart.

‘I do wish I could pray to St Euny,’ she sobbed. ‘For my poor boys’ souls and for

their blessed pigs. There edn’t a thing left in our little church to pray to.’

Margh fished around in his pocket and placed a small piece of tin-laden killas on

the table. ‘Billy had it in his pouch.’

The old woman examined it, turning it over and over, while Margh told her of

Billy’s burial.

‘Stupid boy,’ she said. ‘Fancy takin’ a stupid piece of tin into war.’ She

blubbered and gripped Margh’s hand. ‘Two stupid boys. But upon my life, what a joy

they were. And the gruffest pigs in the land, too. Tell me, boy, what’s an old woman like

me to do with a stupid piece of tin, what’s even too small to sell?’

She looked into his eyes with her watery blue ones.


‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘I know what you can do.’

***

Eselde sat on a rock and vomited into a patch of heather. Ever since she had been

upright, her child had been urging back to bed. But Kerra had bundled her down the

stairs, through the garden and up to the carn, from where the vista of wide blue sea

normally delighted her. Today, the horizon swayed and made her stomach heave.

‘Come on, sweet one,’ Kerra urged. ‘We must get you to safety. Being up here is

no good for the child.’

Eselde could not understand the panic. She had done nothing wrong.

‘I just want to go back to bed.’

‘Soon, my lovely. When the trouble has passed.’

They took a path between high stone hedges. It ran directly towards the coastal

mule-track, slightly further north than the path the others had taken. Tom had said take

the other path, but this was a shorter route and they would reach the beach sooner this

way. Kerra held Eselde close and hurried as best she could. Relief caught in her throat at

the sight of the wind-ravaged thatched roofs of the cottages that marked the hamlet of

miners and farm laborers. Here, their path crossed the mule-track and continued out to

the headland and down to the beach. The wind hit them cold in the face and Eselde

stopped to gulp it in. She felt weak and empty, but at least it freshened her.

‘Mistress Tredannack!’ It was Drew Curnow’s voice. He had been waiting for

them.

Before Eselde could reply, the ground trembled with the sound of horses. Five

soldiers appeared on the track behind them, then a sixth, dragging a prisoner. Eselde

gasped. It was her father-in-law, with his hands tied in front of him, being hauled along

on foot.

‘Who are you? What do you want?’ she breathed fearfully, and backed away.

From the corner of her eye she could see over the cliff’s edge. Down to rocks and sand

and sea. She could see her mother, her two younger sisters, her young cousins and her

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 229 KK51 N5641462 mother-in-law. Tom Harvey and the girls were dragging a boat from its mooring at the

cliff face down across the beach. She saw the deep furrow it made in the sand.

Drew had seen the soldiers and came up to confront them.

‘What do you want?’

One of the soldiers laughed. He stared at Eselde and said, ‘Rest assured, old man,

we don’t want you.’

Eselde clung to Kerra. A whimpering sound came from her throat.

‘Nor, you, you old hag. Now let her go.’

‘Don’t you touch her!’ John of Tredannack roared. He struggled, but to no avail.

A trumpet sounded and a man on horseback split the soldiers’ ranks. He wore a

black demi-cloak and purple and black sleeves.

‘Sir Anthony Kingston, Lord Provost Marshall,’ one of the soldiers announced.

For all his menacing appearance, Kingston struggled against the wind to unfurl

his scroll. Eselde was almost tempted to laugh at his ridiculous efforts. In the end, he

gave up and thrust it at one of his men.

‘Let it be known, that by order of Lord Russell, Lord Privy Seal and Lord

Lieutenant of the West, I hereby declare that the Manor of Tredannack and all its goods

and chattels, cottages and tithes, previously occupied by one John Tredannack, traitor, to

now be legally known as the property of one Sir Charles Penrose of Lanskellan,

bestowed upon him in gratitude for services to his noble and most beloved majesty King

Edward the Sixth. Let it be known that Bosinney Farm, formerly occupied by one traitor

Master Roger Bosinney is now the property of Sir Jeffery Edwardes, in gratitude for his

services to his noble and most beloved majesty, King Edward the Sixth. Let it be also

known that Master Roger Bosinney has been found guilty of treason and has been hung

by the neck until dead. He is to remain hanging for six months.’ He turned to his men.

‘Let it be known that Master John of Tredannack has been found guilty of seditious

crimes against His Majesty King Edward the Sixth and shall now be hanged at the

crossroads that bear his name. He shall hang for twelve months as a reminder to his son

and all those with poison and treachery in their hearts.’ He turned to his men. ‘Prepare

the gallows.’


Only Kerra, Eselde and Drew Curnow heard him. Kerra charged down the path

to the beach screaming for Johanna and Margaret. Drew Curnow was paralysed.

‘Permission to have a moment’s fun, sir,’ one of the soldiers asked. ‘The

prisoner might enjoy watching.’

Kingston cast his eyes over Eselde and smiled cruelly.

‘You must understand, my dear. It’s been a tiresome journey into this God

forsaken hellhole.’

Reality hit Eselde and her eyes widened in abject horror. Her father was hanged.

And now they wanted to rape her. She saw her father-in-law’s helpless desperation and

dry retched as terror gripped her in an uncontrollable bout of shivering.

***

Guillo traversed the fields and lanes between Sancreed and Tredannack, his joy at having

survived tempered by the terrifying rumour that Russell had sent a death squad into

Cornwall. From each vantage point, he stopped to survey the landscape. Some of the

barley crop had not been harvested and was rotting in the fields. He spoke to two men

streaming for tin at a clear rill running across the moors, and then found old Gran Spargo

herding her sheep from one field to the next. She welcomed him home as a hero and

demanded to know where the master and his son were. It seemed no one had seen

anyone from the house. Not today.

‘We was all up at the house las’ night for St Meriasek.’ Gran Spargo wiped her

leathered forehead with a wool greased hand. ‘’Twould be a right treat to ’ave the master

home. And young Master Margh.’ She stared at him with tear-filled eyes. ‘My Jan,

Guillo. What has ’appened to ’im? Died a hero, did ’un?’

‘No, Gran. He’s a’right. On his way, he be, on foot.’

‘’Tes just the twins what’ve gone?’

Guillo nodded.

‘Poor ol’ Liza Trigg,’ the old woman murmured. ’Tedn’t proper.’

***


Margh led old Mistress Trigg past the craow where Kitto had reigned as the proudest

pigherd in Penwith, and tramped through her turnip field. As she puffed along behind

him, he could hear her sniffing and snuffling. They opened gates, crossed fields and

climbed hills and stiles until they reached the age-old remnants of Carn Euny. Even the

wind was silent today, and Margh felt a deep-rooted sense of safety that his soldier’s

training told him would be dangerous to trust. He turned to wait as the old woman

unhitched her kirtle from a bramble and noticed goose-bumps on his arms.

‘You can pray to St Euny in the fogou,’ he said, and led her onwards to the

ancient subterranean chamber. Then he recalled: it had taken three of them to place the

rocks over the entrance.

Eliza Trigg stood there, staring.

‘Dust’un mean Sen Euny’s hid in there?’

Margh nodded and the old woman chuckled through her tears.

‘Along with Sen Mary Magdalene and Sen Michael, from Sen Yust,’ Margh told

her. ‘Watch your feet.’

‘They’ve took the saints. And now they’ve took the bells,’ Mistress Trigg said,

and followed him to the entrance. ‘All but one from every tower in Penwith. And if they

edn’t takin’ the bells, they takin’ the clappers.’ She slipped in the mud and Margh

grabbed her arm. ‘’Tes a bit sciddy, ed’n’un?’

‘Aye, ’tes a bit sciddy.’ Margh was enveloped by emptiness. Would they leave

nothing untouched? ‘I’m sorry. I’ve brought you all the way up here. I forgot how big

these rocks are.’

‘Tha’s a’right, boy. I’ll just sit here a bit. I can still talk to Sen Euny through this

crack ’ere. Then I’d best get on an’ feed Kit’s pigs.’

***

The heavy front door had been left ajar. Guillo poked his head into the flagged hall. No

dogs. No children’s voices. Just silence. Perhaps they had all gone for a walk. But the

carved beech staff Kerra used for walking was lying at the foot of the stairs. Confused,

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 232 KK51 N5641462 he backed away, back into the sunshine, and looked up at Tredannack’s façade. The

adder and fern brake carved into the lintel was a familiar sight, but Guillo had never

before noticed its repetition above the two main windows. The trellis he had erected for

the mistress now supported a rambling rose, a welcoming tumble of pale pink sweetness.

But this was a house bereft of welcome, and a sinking sensation knotted up in his gut.

Something was wrong.

Quashing every instinct, Guillo went back inside. He crept into the dining hall

where the spaces left empty by banners and weapons taken into war seemed to shout at

him. There were no voices. Just a pile of pewter trenchers stacked on the dresser; the

table and benches awaiting the family. In the ingle, furze and twigs lay ready for flame

and beside the tiny altar in the corner, on a blackened oak table, the Virgin’s blue and

gilt paint shone with the mellow flicker of candlelight.

He turned back and went upstairs. Guillo had only ever entered the master’s

study once. And that was just a few weeks ago, when it was suggested he might like to

go to Bodmyn with Margh Tredannack. Bodmyn. If only it had ended there. Now, he

gazed in awe at John of Tredannack’s books and maps, and the diagram of the heavens

that lay on the desk; his pipes, his little clock and the stacked bottles of wine. He picked

one up and took it to the window, where he uncorked it and sniffed. It was nothing

exotic from across the seas. It was only Maggie Poltreen’s elderberry and blackberry

brew. Guillo tilted his head back and swallowed and, as he did, his eye caught a glint of

something up near the carn. The drink stuck like fire in his throat. Something moving.

Never had the sight of five men on horseback struck with such terrifying prospect.

***

Eselde’s vision was filled with the hideous grin of an English soldier. A grin that

revealed the one rotten tooth that clung to his gums and the decay in his heart. She could

not even scream. Her throat was paralysed, and she could do no more than whimper.

‘Not very adventurous for a slut, are you, lovely? What’s the matter? There’s

only five of us.’


One of the other soldiers sniggered and Eselde tasted bile. Inside her head, Dick

Curnow’s voice rang true and fierce. I care not for thy might, Thou tyrant, one blind

bean. Through the heart I will spit thee. John of Tredannack struggled against his tether

and roared for his wife. A soldier smashed his face with the butt of his gun. Eselde’s

head swam. The sun was hot upon her back. She felt the cool breeze on her damp neck.

She saw blood trickle down her father-in-law’s face. Thy accursed kingdom… She

looked over her shoulder. Directly below was the deep green sea with its churning,

crashing foam and curling fingers of seaweed. She imagined hurling the soldiers into its

icy claws. The figures on the beach, farther down, were inert.

They would not have her. She would not let them. Better Hell, consigned there

by the hand of God, than a hell on earth ruled by these animals. The sound of her life’s

force roared in her ears. And that life — was it God’s? Or was it hers?

Margh! There he was, on the road, and something was wrong with his face. From

below, a woman’s shrieking voice pierced the air. It was her mother, on her knees in the

sand.

***

‘Margh! For God’s sake — don’t!’

Guillo’s hand came down heavily on his shoulder.

‘They’ve got my father and my wife!’

‘Aye. And they’ve occupied the house.’

The house. What about his mother? And the girls? Margh’s eyes were on Eselde.

She was too close to the edge. A knot was stuck in his throat. They had his father

tethered to a horse’s girth strap. He shrugged himself free of Guillo’s grip.

‘I won’t let them—’

He saw the coming of Guillo’s fist far too late.

***

‘Margh!’ He was there, on the road! ‘Help me!’


But he was gone. There one second, and then gone.

‘Margh Tredannack!’ one of the soldiers said. ‘We want him. This must be his

wife. Grab her!’

‘No!’ Eselde shouted and hit at the ghastly creature coming for her. ‘You won’t

have me. You won’t touch my child, and you’ll never get my husband.’ As she stepped

backwards, he clutched at her arm. She heard screams from the beach and pulled away

from his grasp. One foot touched the void and heard him swear. Just one more step, then

— nothing. Just a cold rush of air. Pure relief. Holy Mother of God, forgive —

***

‘You’re saving ye’self, Captain Tredannack,’ the Breton murmured to his unconscious

friend, and dragged him into the nearest field. There was nothing else he could have

done.

***

Jenna followed the stone-hedged path around a corner, collided with the broad chest of a

large man and fell back into a clinging patch of bramble.

‘Beg pardon, missus,’ he said. Then he looked at her. There was something about

the swing of ropey hair. ‘A’right, are ’ee?’

‘Aye,’ she said, and looked up crossly, for her hands were scratched. ‘Jan! It’s

you!’ Her voice broke with the relief of finding a familiar face.

‘What you doing down these parts?’

‘I was looking for Mar— I mean Captain Tredannack.’

‘Take you there, I will. Tredannack’s just over yonder, downalong my ol’ Gran’s

house. ’Tes where I’m headed.’

Jenna followed him, sucking at a bloodied finger.

‘Jan,’ she said, as she wiped it on her kirtle, ‘is there any news of Will?’


‘Heard it said they took ’im off with his ’pa.’ Jan kept trudging and the sun went

behind a cloud. ‘On ’osses, they were, with their hands tied behind and their feet tied

beneath. God bless ’em. Heroes, both of ’em.’

Deep inside, where life was growing, Jenna felt as deadly cold as a dungeon.

***

When Margh came to, he was lying on his back with his mouth gagged and his hands

bound and tied to a gate. Memories of capture lurched at his heart. Someone was

sobbing. He wriggled around on his back to find the source of this desperate sound.

There was Guillo, sitting on a rock with his knees to his chest and tears soaking his

cheeks. Eyes met and Margh suddenly remembered everything he had seen in the

seconds before — before this. His throat worked violently against the gag as sobs tore

through his chest.

‘Ssshhhh!’ Guillo hushed him. ‘There are soldiers everywhere.’

Margh nodded and blinked. He lay still while Guillo freed his hands and wiped

the tears from his cheeks.

‘I’m sorry. We were too late for your father. But I had to save you. You must

promise to stay quiet.’

Margh nodded again and Guillo freed him of the gag.

‘She fell,’ Margh said. ‘She could never have meant it. She would never do that.

Never.’ He looked at Guillo with calm resignation then settled back against the stone

hedge. This was Gran Spargo’s field, he gradually came to realize. Her sheep were

nibbling at the summer grass as though nothing was wrong.

‘So, they’ve hanged my father.’ Margh rubbed the scar on his face and heard the

echo of Arundell’s last orders. ‘See, the swallows are restless.’ He pointed to a small

flock darting around the opposite hedge. ‘In a few weeks they’re going to France. And

Spain and Portugal. Did you know the name Arundell is from the French for swallow?

Hirondelle. At the garrison, once, we had a hurling match across the causeway.

Swallows versus Nightingales. Arundell had become friendly with the captain of a

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 236 KK51 N5641462 French ship. His name was Rossignol. French for nightingale. Anyway, it’s why

Arundell has swallows on his banner.’

He fell silent, conscious that he was trying to deny reality.

‘Who won?’ Guillo finally asked.

‘The hurling? Swallows. We were too fast.’ Margh had a sudden vision of

Gerent Jewell flinging the silver hurling ball over his shoulder and Arundell lunging

through the air to catch it. Then, back to Jewell for a winning score on the beach at

Marazion. The memory was almost too much to bear. ‘They’ll hang me if they find me,

won’t they?’

Guillo nodded, and still they sat, hidden by bramble and hawthorn. Below the

soft sighing of the breeze they heard the clop of horses and metallic movements of

armoured soldiers traversing moors, scouring fields and questioning weathered souls

who looked at them blankly, replied in Cornish or Breton and spat upon their retreating

shadows. It was late afternoon when Kingston’s men gathered on the road to Sen Yust.

A blazing sunset was turning the gorse to orange when Jan Spargo pushed open the gate

and Jenna Rosewarne followed him into the field. The foursome stared in disbelief.

‘Good heavens! Margh, thank God I’ve found you,’ Jan said. ‘You’ve got but a

few hours to get out.’

***

According to English foreign policy, Captain Hugo Rossignol of the Broceliande was an

alien enemy in Penzance harbour. No one in Penzance harbour was too bothered. What

might be stopped on paper could just as easily be restarted by a nod or a wink. His

shipment of brandy and olives was duly unloaded, the Blue Boar plied him with cider

and pork pie, and the local girls plied him with compliments. But the air was edged with

tension. Everyone was busier than usual, for this open defiance of the law could not last.

Already, the king’s ships and soldiers were all over Falmouth and the released prisoners

from the Mount were watching every movement with too much interest.

The scribbled note in Rossignol’s pocket was burning a hole in its silk lining. He

wanted so much to wait. What had happened to these good Christian people was more

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 237 KK51 N5641462 than a travesty; it was a crime against God’s law. In fact, the town was almost emptied

of men. Women and children, and the occasional old man, wandered bleakly along the

harbourside as though expecting a mystical ship to appear, laden with missing fathers

and husbands and sons. The whole thing was enough to spur French hearts to wreak

vengeance for such an atrocity. As it was, he had already risked enough taking aboard

Arundell’s treatise, for nothing was surer than it would be treated as seditious by this

country’s godless government. Thank the Lord it had reached France intact. But that was

not the end of it. Arundell had included a separate request, one that beseeched the

Broceliande to return to dangerous waters.

And Rossignol had been unable to resist. Leaving young Tredannack stranded

would so acutely distress his old friend, he could never have lived with his conscience.

Besides, it would be the last thing he would ever do for Humphry Arundell, for in his

heart he knew that Hirondelle and Rossignol would never spar again. Humphry was as

good as hanged already.

But, damn it! He couldn’t wait forever and the tide was on the turn. He bade

farewell to the landlord at the Blue Boar and made his way down to the quay where he

was required to walk across another ship to reach his own. Its Cornish captain sat in a

golden circle of lantern-light, splicing rope.

‘Au ’voir, mon ami,’ he called.

‘Sowyn,’ came a friendly farewell.

‘Après la guerre.’

The Cornishman nodded and raised his hand. Rossignol stepped aboard his own

ship and prepared to sail.

On a beach near the tiny Porthennis harbour, Margh and Guillo hauled a fishing boat

across the sand to the shoreline, where the wind lashed their legs with whipping little

waves. They would have only the stars to guide them tonight. There was no moon and no

fire on the headland from which to set a course. But, with a little luck, they might espy a

lantern hung low over the side of a French ship.

‘We are too many for this boat.’ Margh shivered, although it wasn’t really cold.


‘It can’t be helped,’ said Guillo. ‘You must leave. All of you. They will not leave

your family alone until they find you. And besides, where else are you all to go?’

Margh looked back at the base of the cliffs. Hidden in the bulk of its shadow,

crouched waiting on the sand, were his mother, aunt, sisters and cousins. Jenna was

there, too, sitting apart. He did not know what to do with her, for deep inside he was

numb. He could do nothing but follow Guillo’s orders. The world was upside down and

he had no way of turning it back. In his head, the vision of Eselde falling from the cliff-

top haunted him, as did the black shape of father’s body against the sky, swinging back

and forth in the wind like a rag doll hung out to dry. His throat was blocked by a great

standing stone of outrage.

He held the boat steady while Guillo rounded everyone up. A pathetic jumble of

womenfolk and children, with not a dry eye among them. They stumbled about in

silence, finding places to sit in the unlit boat, shoulder to shoulder, snuggling up to

children and the bundles of clothes the soldiers ransacking their houses had allowed

them to take. Where on earth did those idiots think these women would go? London?

Did they think the small matter of yet another skirmish with France would stop the

Bretons reaching out to their Cornish cousins?

‘Margh!’

He turned. It was Jenna’s voice. She was barely visible. ‘I have the littlest one

here.’

‘Quickly, then, get in,’ he said.

‘I cannot come. The boat is full.’ Her voice broke and in the faint glimmer of

starlight he saw tears in her eyes. ‘I am carrying Will’s child, Margh. I want him. I want

to go to him.’

‘Jenna, you can’t. They’ve taken him.’

‘Then, tell me what I should do. I am afraid of Russell and his men. Even his

Fool terrifies me. But more than anything, I dread God’s wrath. I am not as strong as

your Eselde. I don’t think I can do as she did.’

Margh shook his head. Jenna was surely the bravest maid in all of Cornwall.

Now she was talking in riddles.


‘I don’t want to die,’ she went on. ‘I don’t have the courage. Everything I did

was to keep myself alive.’

‘You’re carrying Will’s child? Are you sure?’

She nodded. ‘I have to keep him safe. We pledged our troth with his mother’s

ring. He even asked Father Moreman to marry us.’

Margh heard Guillo’s impatient shout and turned towards the shoreline. The boat

was floating freely of the beach and Guillo was struggling to keep it still. He stared at

Jenna and felt the edge of purpose rise within him. He took his smallest cousin from her

and grabbed her wrist.

‘Once we’re aboard the Broceliande, not a word of English,’ he said.

Jenna touched his face and he felt her finger trace a line down his cheek.

‘Me ne vidn cewsel Sawznek,’ she whispered.

Aftermath

Cornwall, November, 1558

A tallow light flickers, barely visible through the shutters that close out the cold autumn

night. Vanishes behind a veil of mist that floats in from the sea and, somehow, reappears.

Still there. Undimmed. ’Tes barely there, barely there at all; and yet still emits the

promises of hearthside; draws me on with unearthly temptation. Its feeble glow shows

nothing of the headland upon which the cottage is perched, nor of the great grey killas

cliffs that rise from the Atlantic’s freezing roil; nothing of the ancient tors and quoits

that brood in knowing silence upon the moor. They have not moved for a thousand

years. Nor will they, for a thousand more. Onward, onward, down the muddy, rutty

lane, until one might knock upon the door and be invited in. To hear, in the quiet that

lies between heartbeats, only the sea, and the stories of those who know. Every so often,

their dog barks. And so I hesitate. My life has become one hesitation after another.

It is nine years to the month since the gates of the Fleet prison opened and set me

free to walk into London’s foul air. From there, I made my way to the Tower and tried to

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 240 KK51 N5641462 see my father. Of course, they turned me away. The traitors, they said, were not allowed

visits from co-conspirators. This, even though I had been found too young to be a leader

and instigator of such treacherous activity. Perhaps the guards knew better. And, yes, it

is nearly nine years since Jago watched them drag him through the streets upon a hurdle

upon his way to Tyburn, where they butchered and burned his still living body before his

very eyes, and then tore it to pieces. My father, who wanted nothing more than to live a

peaceful life, as it had been lived since the coming of the first saints, twelve hundred

years ago.

I suspect I have become unpleasant. There are few these days prepared to comfort

me for more than a night or two. The ladies who once sought my company and my music

have tired of me. Their husbands tolerate me only for the sake of my father’s hallowed

memory. And if they can taste the filth that remains in my nostrils, if I reek and am foul,

then also I am tired. My feet are beyond repair and my mind is listless, for I hear no

conversation that is not gossip and so all I have is my harp and my song. Poor Jago has

nought but me and his donkey, which carries our small load.

Rarely a day passes that I do not think of Zeus and wish for his strong body and

sure-footed gait beneath me. In my travels, along the many rutted lanes of Cornwall, I

seek out gates in hedges through which I might glimpse a shaggy pony that reminds me

of Jonathan. I stole one, once. But it was an ornery creature and ran off home. Son of

Jonathan, I said, and Jago smiled.

You have seen, I think, that it is not a far leap within the misty world of my

thoughts to cast around for a glimpse of my Jenna, and the memory of her firm and

loving body beneath me. My mind wanders just as I do, and often I see her riding like the

furies through the grounds of Lanskellan. Then, of course, I remember that I have never

been to Lanskellan. My imaginings come from Margh and the story of his heroic leap

from an apple tree. Or perhaps it was a pear tree. It matters not. It only matters that

sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see the spark in Jenna’s dark eyes. Eyes that loved me

and promised all of the earth that was hers to give. Eyes that sparked a light in my own.

And I hear her cry out as I make her my own. I hear myself promising her my own earth.

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 241 KK51 N5641462 Did I mean it, back then, to take her truly as my own? Now, I cannot say. Only that I

would mean it now. For there is not one pair of eyes in all of Cornwall’s great houses to

match hers. I know. For nine years, I have tried to find a pair. I hope she wears my

mother’s ring.

It is too late to go further. Night comes early in November, and the clouds will

keep in the darkness. These cliff-top places are no place to lose one’s way. There are so

many shades of black it is easy to believe you can see where you are going. Besides, their

dog is barking, and something stops me from going on. I find a gentle place in the lee of a

stone wall and settle down in the remnants of my father’s old demi-cloak. Its fur trim is

mangy and the velvet gossamer thin. But what does one do, when it is all that is left?

The wan morning lightens the path that leads to the edge of the cliff. To my left

and far below the sea roils and boils in drifts of grey and green and purple. The Cornish

fortress of great grey granite stands against it, forever solid, never giving an inch. Back

in Sen Yust, they tell me this is where I will find her. My Jenna and my son. And

Margh, of course. Here, on this headland fortress, they are sentinels, guarding Cornwall

against invasion, and God forbid anyone should try to invade from the sea. I smile at my

own thoughts, and let them run for a moment, with the tide, until I drag them back to

order.

I could easily curse Margh Tredannack, for the man is blessed. But in my heart, I

thank God for him. For without him, what would my love have done? Tossed herself into

a well? Thrown herself into this seething brew, and let its icy fingers choke the life from

my unborn child? Margh of Tredannack is gone, of course, displaced and replaced by

stroke of pen and ink and English spelling. And Mark Trewarne is in his place, brought

into being and duly documented by the merchant captain of a French ship. The truth

will never be entirely erased, though. For surely my old friend still bears the cruel scar

that mars his face. What will he say, I wonder, when I tell him our queen is dead and her

half-sister has taken the throne? Is there anything to say but ‘long live the Queen’, and

resume his daily toil? Or will it mean another struggle? The thought of what might

come both wears me to the marrow and makes my blood sing.


The path turns and behind me the sun casts my shadow, long and pale, towards

the cliff’s edge. Below me is a crescent of white sand and the sight before me catches at

the breath in my throat. A barefoot child in a dark smock squeals as the waves chase him

up the beach. The dog that barked at me last night chases too. It yaps and leaps. But I

cannot take my eyes from the boy. I think of my father and wonder: is there something he

would recognise in the long-limbed gait, the way the boy runs and turns and hops and

spins as the sea nips at his ankles? Familiarity makes my heart grow hot. Is it real, or is

it something fanciful I have made up out of the faint hope that somewhere on this earth,

Wynslade blood might flow in perpetuity? I hold my breath. I am so much entranced, I

fail to notice her until she has seen me. It never occurred to me that she would see me

first.

The grey November sea rushes around Jenna’s ankles, dumping gritty sand and

fragments of shell over her icy feet. It rushes in, almost to the cliff, its foaming tentacles

clawing at the seaweed she has piled high, threatening to reclaim it. But the tide is

turning and with every onslaught of the ebbing flow, Jenna’s wooden rake grabs at new,

gleaming twists of stranded weed and drags them beyond the high water mark. Her back

aches with the weight of a seven month child. She feels it kick and leans back to stretch

out.

On the cliff above her, a dark shape moves. Jenna narrows her eyes. A man’s

silhouette, tall and thin, against the pale sky; a stranger where strangers never come. He

stands so still and she feels an eerie certainty settle within her that across the void

between sand and sky, their eyes have met. Just as they met long ago in the glow of a

bright orange fire. The noise of the sea becomes distant and she stops breathing. How

many days has she woken and wondered: will today be the day? Dawns break and suns

set, and never does he come. Suddenly, he is here.

‘William!’ she shouts into the wind, and fancies she hears the watcher respond.

No! Not you. I did not call to you. I called to my son. But her son is unawares. He

prances amid the rocks and waves and throws a stick for the dog. Never mind the cuts on

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 243 KK51 N5641462 his feet from the sharp ledges and shells. ‘William John!’ It is impossible to walk

quickly. ‘Come, now. Take that bucket up to your Pa.’

On the cliff, the watcher moves, and Jenna’s heart leaps. She sees her husband

walking towards him. She sees Mark’s hands go to his head in a gesture of surprise. Sees

a prolonged embrace. Mark looks down at her, over his shoulder, then back at the

stranger. She watches her son pick up the bucket laden with wet seaweed and trudge up

the beach with it. It is almost as heavy as he is, and when he reaches her, she ruffles his

soft dark hair.

‘See up there?’ She points and sees his eyes follow. ‘There’s a man up there,

with your Pa. Go up-along and say hello.’ Her voice nearly breaks. For in her son’s face,

she sees the eyes that once smiled into hers and challenged her with the impossible. Can

you plough me an acre of land? ‘A’right?’ she says.

‘I don’t want to.’ The boy can always find better things to do.

Every leaf grows many in time. She can almost hear his harp. She reaches for the

ring that hangs upon a leather thong around her neck and drags it over her head.

‘’Tes a’right.’ She gently tilts her son’s face to look up at her. ‘Your Pa’s there,

and I’ll watch. Take this, and give it to the man. And when you do, Kerra will have a

saffron bun set aside for your tea. Now, will you go?’

The ring sits, golden and pure, in the child’s dirty hand and a tear blurs Jenna’s

last look at it. The child goes, and as Jenna watches him drag the bucket up the steep

path to the cliff-top, she wonders whether Mark has fixed the wheelbarrow. She feels

another rush of icy sea assault her frozen feet and watches as it pours into the last

furrows her rake made in the sand. Between the salt water and the sea sand. The water

comes in, over the sand, drenching it, consuming it, claiming it for its own. She watches

as her son’s willowy figure approaches the two men, sees the men watching him. She

sees the offering of a small white hand, and sees it taken by the man who fathered him

nine years ago in the shadows of fear and war and death. In the warmth of stable straw,

far off in a foreign land.

You see, Will? You see? I have ploughed you your acre of land.

She throws down her rake and walks down to where the sand is so coarse and wet

that her feet sink right into it. She lifts her kirtle and feels the chill breeze whip around

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 244 KK51 N5641462 her legs. On the horizon the bleak sky is thickening with storm clouds. It takes all of her

willpower, the sinking of her feet and the baby’s weight to stop her turning around to

watch the scene above. Surely Will can see the truth without they tell him that little

William John Trewarne is fine and slender, and draws and reads and plays a pipe and

makes up funny rhymes. That he has nothing of the sturdy reserve or the self-doubt of

his father, and has no bent for farm work.

Will he remember that once, in the midst of commotion, he sensed the urgency to

plant that one seed before it was too late? Today, the young soldier will know that the

child before him has grown from that seed, a boy destined to be at odds with his life. For

his proper place is gone for spoils of war, his grandfather a martyr and fireside legend,

and his father a wandering harper who might appear one day, and the next vanish into

the white sea mist.

Inside her, warm and snug and a little restless, Mark’s child moves.

‘I’ve not forgotten ’ee,’ she murmurs, and smiles as it kicks. She places her

hands upon her belly and traces the movement of a hard little heel. This child, she knows

already, will be sturdy and strong and determined. He will be like the tough little oak

Mark planted one moonless night in the little valley at Tredannack in the place where his

father’s remains were buried. Only he and she know, but one day, this child will know

too. All of her children will be descended from heroes and martyrs.

Jenna stands on the beach with her feet embedded in the sand. She feels her limbs

spreading roots and branches and acorns and leaves that will give birth to songs and

stories, and one day, when her writing is better, she will toss them into the onslaught of

the howling west wind.

My Ma and Pa always hush me when grown up people are talking. But I cannot

let my mother have the last word. For our visitor watches me with eyes that

must be the bluest I have ever seen, but in the shadow‐light I cannot be sure, for

when I take a geek, they seem as dark as my mother’s. Beside him on the floor

sits a harp. I have never seen one before. There are funny little piskies carved

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 245 KK51 N5641462 into it and when the fire dances in the polished wood, so do they. I wonder what

they might do when he plays. There is an oak tree, too. An old gnarled one. Not

like the young one we visit sometimes in the little wood at Tredannack. And on

a branch of this old gnarly oak, there sits an owl. ’Tes winking at me, I tell Kerra.

But Kerra just clacks her tongue and strokes my hair.

Dyweth gwesper, deweth cumplyn, Kerra croons, Sens reth wetho bes yn mytyn: Cusk en cosel fest eth lesk, Tebel spregeon veth en mesk. End of vespers, end of compline, May saints keep you until morning: Sleep very quietly in your cradle, May there be no evil spirits among us.

Two fathers watch over me. I know that now. But I wonder which is my true

father. Is there a true one, when there are two? I do not know. One sits on a

settle and watches with the blue flicker of a wanderer’s loss and fills me with

wonder and wondering. Just being here, he fills our cottage with questions.

Where has he been and where will he go and what does he want? Will he take

me away? Will he ever come back? Pa squats by the ingle and watches with the

steady grey gaze that says feed the chickens and clear out the pigs’ craow and

hush now when we’re poaching for hare. Kerra rocks me and my eyes grow

tired. Our visitor settles down on a low stool and pulls the harp to him. Between

songs, they talk about Humphry Arundell and a hero who is my grandfather,

and I wish I could have known him. They talk about a man called Smyth, who

escaped from the last battle at Sampford Courtenay. Gentle music fills my legs

with honey and the scent of summer grass is in my nose. Kerra rocks me and my

A Christmas Game/Cheryl Hayden 246 KK51 N5641462 eyes grow tired. I look at my mother and know he was her first true love. ’Tes

a’right, though, for she loves my Pa, and he loves both of us.

Modrep Maria thegan meres Eleth wen orth agan goles: Dyfun them gans tarth an geth, Clowes can an guyns en gueth. May Aunt Mary watch over us, Bright angels guarding us: Wake up for me with the break of day, Hear the sound of the wind in the trees.8

When I open my eyes, the morning has come. Kerra stirs the oatmeal and my

mother kneads bread. They watch me as I brush the straw from my hose. They

look at each other and I know he has gone. I go out into thick white fog and

wish that it was summer. He has gone away into this cloud and will not come

back. Instead, I see the grey shape of Pa coming home with a faggot of furze and

a mackerel hanging off a string. He says Darzona, William, and I should say

Darzona, Pa, but I don’t because my father the visitor has gone and it might be

his fault, or it might be mine. Then Pa says come with me, and so I do.

The harp is sitting in the middle of the barn and Pa tells me it is mine. It

frightens me, but I touch its smoothness and run my fingers over the dancing

piskies. I pluck a string and it sings to me.

An Deweth

8 Written and translated for this project by Tim Saunders

the rebels shout back – subaltern theory and the writing...

Documents