Christmas with the Cromwells
December 24, 2024
Christmas with the Cromwells
‘Oh Mother, must I attend?’
‘You know you are his favourite nephew, Henry.’ My mother firmly tugged a white coif down over her ears, then fixed an austere wimple. ‘Besides, James will be there,’ she continued. ‘You get on splendidly with James. And Mary and little Frances.’
‘He smells worse than putrid pottage, Mother. As well you know. Or he has done for the last two weeks. Ever since…’ I pulled my most disapproving face. ‘Since the war ended. Since the fun ended. Since they won.’
I slumped down with my greatest harrumph, creasing my sky-blue silk, French pantaloons as I did. Mother took one look at me and shook her head.
‘You can take those off for a start. Black breeches and clean, knee-high stockings only.’
The tradition of visiting Uncle Oliver every December 25th was never one I looked forward to. Christmas 1653 looked like it may be the worst yet. Far from making us feel welcome when we arrived, Uncle Oliver, or My Lord Protector as he now insisted on being called, merely nodded and gestured to us to recline upon the barren floor of his once great dining hall. Cold, uncomfortable and with several splinters spurring my buttocks, I sat chewing on mouldy cockle bread and sipping a frankly tiny measure of very weak, distinctly eggy mead. Around the hall, a hundred guests did likewise and I counted not one smile between us. There were no holly bunches, no mistletoe hung from door frames and, in the grand fireplace, no Yule log burned.
Cromwell cleared his throat. ‘Friends, I bid you welcome to a new celebration. A time to reflect, in the sight of God, on another year passing.’ He bowed his head as if in prayer. ‘Silently,’ he whispered.
My cousin James stood beside him. Although he too had bowed his head, he raised it shortly after. Perhaps to check we were following suit. Perhaps out of boredom. I tried to catch his eye with a raise of my eyebrows. He sneered back at me.
Pottage breath, I thought to myself. Scurvy carbuncle. A pox on your family, you great cat-a-mountain. Oh, how I wished for a mince pie.
The collective silence was broken by the loud peal of the doorbell. A minute later, the great hall doors opened and a maid entered, followed by the baker, the butcher, the farmer and several of his seasonal workers. Their arms were laden with baskets full of the most wondrous fayre: a giant tureen of steaming pea soup, roast woodcock, a juicy suckling pig, savoury bread, quince tart, cinnamon custard and enough smoky, mulled wine for us all.
Cromwell’s eyes bulged. ‘What do you mean by coming here today?’ he roared. ‘You dare to bring the devil into my house. Out! Out!’
The butcher raised a hand. ‘But we have an order for you, your, er, maj…your maj…’
Cromwell rolled his eyes. ‘I’m your Lord Protector.’ He placed his hands on his hips and turned to face us all. ‘Didn’t I make that absolutely clear?’ He turned to face the butcher once more. ‘An order you say?’
‘Um, yes, that’s right,’ stammered the baker. ‘A full banquet, you see. To be delivered on December 25th to this address.’
‘You placed it last year, guv,’ said the farmer. ‘Been fattening the pig ever since.’ He patted the glistening pig in the basket he carried. ‘He was my boy’s favourite, Peregrine Porker.’
‘Mmm,’ agreed the butcher. ‘Broke my heart to kill it. Little mite’s still crying in his cot, so I heard.’
‘Poor wee beggar,’ sniffed the baker.
‘Well, that’s right,’ said the farmer. He doffed the peak of his cap to Cromwell. ‘Not that we hold it against you, Sir. It’s just–’
Cromwell strode forward. ‘It’s just heresy. I did no such thing. And I will thank you not to accuse me, Your Lord Protector, of such acts. Now, I suggest you take these hellish victuals out of my sight at once.’ And with a mighty shove, he sent the farmer headlong into the others, knocking them one by one to the ground. The baker managed to catch the bread and juggle the tarts to safety. The butcher tightly grasped the woodcock to his ribcage with success. But the tureen of steaming pea soup flew high above them all, tipping out its contents like a swarm of verdant locusts. I watched, and I must admit watched with some glee, as the rich, green mixture landed on Cromwell, covering him from his head to his sober brogues. Cromwell fell to his knees, gasping, clawing at the exasperated farmer who in a gesture of self-defence, brought the pig down hard upon the Lord Protector’s head.
‘Guards!’ spluttered Cromwell, sending globs of pea this way and that. ‘Soldiers! Come quick. Quick!’
The door was flung open and four soldiers ran into the room, each wearing the unmistakeable pikeman’s helmet of the Roundheads.
‘What goes on here?’ asked one.
The second took one look at Cromwell and shook his head. ‘Looks like we got ourselves a Mummer. Dressed up just like the Green Man, is he not?’
‘Only with a pig’s head,’ said the third. ‘Pagan dress!’
‘Or it’s a mormolukee!’ shouted the fourth. ‘Right before us as we live and breathe! Bundle it up, my brothers. Bundle it up and we take it kicking and screaming to the dungeon.’
Despite his protests, Cromwell was bound, gagged and led away by the soldiers, spending Christmas in his own cell. They would learn their mistake the hard way when they finally relented to Cromwell’s beseeching family and took him some mouldy cockle bread and very weak, distinctly eggy mead later that day. In the meantime, we danced, drank and feasted like it was 1652.