Lady Appleton and the Yuletide Hogglers

Kathy Lynn Emerson

(originally published by Crippen & Landru in a special Christmas edition)

Susanna, Lady Appleton sat at the coffin desk in her study on Christmas Eve, one hand holding a quill, the other idly toying with a length of multi-colored cloth. It was beautiful stuff, soft and smooth to the touch, more durable than it looked, and specially knitted for her by a silkwoman of London as an early New Year's gift from her foster daughter, Rosamond.

She sighed, feeling sorry for herself. The silk was a poor substitute. She'd rather have Rosamond at Leigh Abbey in person for Yuletide.

Her gaze drifted from the letter of thanks she'd intended to write to the view beyond her east-facing window. She could just make out the track left in the snow by her servants. They were in the woods beyond the orchard by now, fetching home the Yule log. Rosamond had always loved that part of the holidays.

So had Susanna, when she'd been younger. But this December had been uncommon cold and the drifted snow lay deep across the land. She was not of a mind to celebrate in any case. In this twenty-eighth year of the reign of Queen Elizabeth—1586—Susanna faced her fifty-second Yuletide season with a singular lack of enthusiasm.

The manor house felt empty. Foolish to think so when she employed some thirty persons, but this year few of those dearest to her were in Kent to share the festivities. Rosamond was in London. So was Rosamond's husband, Rob. It was Susanna's fervent hope that they would soon mend the differences between them. It had been almost eight years since they'd married. Full of sixteen-year-old self-confidence, they had confounded all their elders' plans by eloping. Susanna had promised herself not to meddle, but it was difficult to see those she loved so unhappy.

Stretching, wincing when she heard a shoulder joint pop, she rose and went to stand beside the window. The late afternoon sun still shone brightly, reflecting off the brilliant white carpet spread across Leigh Abbey's fields. Beyond the fields were the orchards. Beyond the orchards lay the forest where, even now, the Yule log was being decorated with ribbons.

On the other side of the wood was Whitethorn Manor, but not Nick Baldwin. Susanna sighed again. Nick, too, was in London. She could not begrudge him the reason. At long last he'd reconciled with his half sister. He was to spend Yuletide with her and a newly acquired husband. They had invited Susanna to join them. She'd nearly accepted but had come to her senses in time. Why willingly subject herself to unsubtle hints that she and Nick should wed when she never had any intention of remarrying? Nick understood. At least, she thought he did. But everyone else, even the local vicar, thought her an unnatural woman because she insisted upon retaining control of her own lands and goods and person. Widowhood had given her freedom to do as she pleased. She would not give that up, not even for love.

The sound of music drew Susanna's gaze back to the edge of the wood. The revelers were returning, dragging the heavy Yule log behind them and singing about the holly and the ivy. The former was used to decorate the interior of the house; the latter adorned the outside of the door.

Susanna left the window, meaning to return to her desk and finish her letter to Rosamond but as she turned, she glanced through the corner room's other window and caught sight of a second group approaching Leigh Abbey. On foot, they came from the direction of the nearest village, Eastwold, and had nearly reached the gatehouse. They were the parish hogglers, come to solicit contributions for the church.

Plucking up the purse she had ready for them, Susanna made her way to the nearest stair and descended to the ground floor. The passage that circled the snow-covered inner courtyard took her to the Great Hall, already decorated with boughs of holly—and yew, bay, rosemary, and box, too—but she continued on until she reached the small parlor, a comfortable room much frequented by the women of the house.

Susanna smiled when she saw the flowers twined through the spinning wheel in the corner. It would not be used again until Plough Monday, the first Monday after Twelfth Night. During Yuletide, all but the most necessary work—cooking and caring for animals—was forbidden.

Otherwise, everything looked the same as it always did—the broad wooden bench under the window, cushioned with embroidered pillows; the small, carpet-draped table holding Venetian glass goblets and a crystal flagon; a portrait of Queen Elizabeth on one wall; a chest that held books. Susanna often read to her maidservants while they sat and wrought.

A cheery fire blazed in the hearth. Susanna settled herself in the Glastonbury chair drawn up close to the warmth and was waiting when her gatekeeper admitted the little party of villagers. They were singing as they entered the parlor, one of them off key. Since she had trouble carrying a tune herself, Susanna did not complain. She waited until they fell silent, then held out the small velvet pouch full of coins.

"For your trouble, good sirs. And for the betterment of the Parish of St. Cuthburga."

The local carpenter, Thomas Sparke, stepped forward to accept the contribution. He was a young man yet. He'd taken over his father's trade only a few years earlier. He bowed deeply as he took the money—so deeply that Susanna wondered if he might be mocking her. Electing a Lord of Misrule for villages had gone out of fashion along with choosing boy bishops in churches, but the Yuletide tradition of irreverence toward one's betters lingered on.

Susanna knew all the men in the Hogglers' Guild. Eastwold was a small village with barely two hundred inhabitants and most of them had ties to Leigh Abbey that went back for generations. Nathaniel Lonsdale, vicar of the parish of St. Cuthburga, was Susanna's appointment. He was, in fact, a kinsman of hers.

Young Sparke reminded her of his father. He had the same splotchy face and bushy eyebrows. Just as Gerald Sparke had been, Thomas was a churchwarden. So was Alan Peacock, the big-boned, fair-skinned fellow standing just behind Sparke in her parlor. He had likewise replaced his father, now deceased, as Eastwold's miller. Had it really been sixteen years, Susanna wondered, since young Alan married her tiring maid, Grace Fuller, and set the entire village buzzing?

Carpenter, miller, schoolmaster, baker, and town herdsman—all were present to beg for alms. But where was the blacksmith? Grace's uncle, Ulich Fuller, was the most senior member of the hogglers and, as such, should have been the one accepting her offering, not young Sparke.

She asked the question aloud.

"He's growed too old and infirm," Sparke said. "With so much ice and snow on the ground, he dare not brave the track hissel."

The smug expression on the young man's face irritated Susanna, as did the knowledge that Ulich Fuller was only a few years older than she was.

"Another song," said Alan Peacock, and at once all the hogglers burst out with "The Boar's Head Carol," effectively ending Susanna's chance to ask any more questions.

By the time the hogglers left Leigh Abbey, the Yule log had arrived and was ready to be placed in the hearth in the Great Hall. Susanna left the small parlor and joined the rest of her household. With exaggerated formality, her steward, Mark Jaffrey, presented her with a charred piece of the previous year's Yule log. Susanna held it to a candle flame until it caught fire, then used it to light the new log.

A great cheer went up when the wood began to burn. Another followed when an enormous bowl of spiced wine was carried into the room. And so the Yuletide festivities began. Some little time passed before Susanna thought of Ulich Fuller again. When she did, she made her way to the place near the hearth where Mark sat on a bench with his wife.

Jennet Jaffrey was Leigh Abbey's housekeeper and Susanna's dear friend. They'd been together more than thirty years, ever since Jennet first entered Susanna's service as her tiring maid. It broke Susanna's heart to see how frail the other woman had become. Jennet's spirit remained undaunted, but her body had grown weak and wasted after she began to suffer palpitations of the heart. None of the herbal remedies Susanna had tried had cured her condition. On the other hand, some of the nostrums had produced a beneficial effect—Jennet had already lived many years longer than most people who experienced her symptoms.

"What ails Ulich Fuller?" Susanna asked them, certain they'd know. Fuller was married to Mark's sister, Anne.

"His joints are all swollen, especially his hands and knees," Jennet said. "He's turned the smithy over to his apprentice."

"It is difficult for him to walk, then."

"He manages well enough when he must."

"Not well enough for the hogglers. They left him behind this year."

Jennet's eyebrows lifted in surprise and she laughed. "The more fools they. I warrant they'll be taking their horses to Dover to be shod from now on."

Early the next day, Susanna rode into the village. She was accounted an expert on herbs and herbal remedies and took with her a small jar of powdered turmeric. The plant was a rarity in England, and used mostly as a spice in cooking, but she had discovered that it also relieved the pain of inflamed joints.

"Good day to you, Goodwife Fuller," she said when Anne admitted her to a small, well-kept house in the center of the village. Anne herself was also small and well-kept, a lively little bird of a woman with sharply defined features and, hidden beneath her coif, the distinctively large ears that marked her as a member of the Jaffrey family.

Anne Fuller bobbed a curtsy and offered a gap-toothed smile. "Good morrow, Lady Appleton. What a lovely hood that is."

Susanna reached up to touch the length of cloth Rosamond had sent her. The day was noticeably warmer than those that had gone before. Disdaining the weight of wool, she'd draped the silk over her bonnet—one additional, if thin, layer to keep off the chill. She'd looped the trailing ends twice around her neck but they still dangled nearly to her waist in a waterfall of color.

"A gift from your nephew's wife," she told Anne Fuller. "For reasons best known to herself, she's invested in the business of a London silkwoman."

"A profitable trade," Ulich Fuller called out from his chair by the fire. "Mistress Rosamond always were a clever lass." He started to rise, but Susanna gestured to him to remain seated.

"I'm told your joints trouble you, Goodman Fuller. I have brought you something to relieve the pain." She handed the small jar to Anne. "Mix a teaspoon of this powder in a cup of warm milk to make a healing drink. You may give him up to three cups a day."

Anne's eyes widened. "Milk?"

Susanna had expected this reaction. Most people considered milk a drink fit only for children and the aged. Besides, most of the milk a family's cow produced went into making cheese.

Fuller muttered something unintelligible under his breath. She could guess that he, like so many who did not know better, thought that drinking milk caused sore eyes, headaches, agues, and rheums.

Fuller’s gray hair was thinning and his face was deeply lined, but he'd lost none of his bulk. His biceps bulged beneath his plain linen shirt and his shoulders, though stooped, were massive. It must gall him not to be able to work at his forge, but one glance at his hands told Susanna that he could no longer safely grip his tools. She doubted he could even shoe a horse with knuckles that swollen.

"Asses milk will do," she said briskly, "if you do not have a cow. Or, if you prefer to suffer, I can take my offering home again. I have other uses for the herb." She did not tell them that it was one of the most expensive in her stillroom. What good was having such a thing if she could not use it for good?

Anne's answer was to tuck the little jar into a pocket, but she cast a worried glance at her husband. Ulich's face had gone an unhealthy shade of purple, evidence that he was struggling to hold his tongue. Neither wished to insult the lady of the manor but clearly she had said something to upset them.

Anne drew Susanna off to one side on the pretext of putting the jar away in a cupboard. "Is there not a salve that will help the pain?" she asked.

Susanna hesitated. "There is, but it is made with a deadly poison, the same one used to kill rats and mice."

"Mousebane?"

"That is one of its names. The ground dried roots, mixed with oil and rubbed into aching joints, would ease the aches that afflict your husband. But should even so little as a grain be left on your hands after you apply it, and you then touch your hands to your lips, it could prove fatal."

"It is worth the risk, Lady Appleton. Never have I seen Ulich so distraught as when the other hogglers refused to take him with them. They said he'd slow them down. And then that dreadful boy, Thomas Sparke, suggested that he might follow after them, mounted on an ass and wearing a gown, pretending to be the Virgin on her way to Bethlehem. They laughed at him, Lady Appleton, after all the years of service he's given to the Hogglers' Guild."

"They're young and foolish," Susanna said. "They'll learn in time to appreciate the wisdom of their elders."

Anne gave a derisive snort. "Not that lot. They're set to bury Ulick, but he's not dead yet."

"Nor am I," said Susanna with a laugh. "Try to get him to take a dose of my medicine before you come to Leigh Abbey for the feast. Have you a horse or a cart for the journey?"

Anne's smile was rueful. "He means to walk, stubborn old fool."

"And to dance a jig, too," Fuller bellowed from his place by the hearth. Age and infirmity had not affected his hearing.

It was a tradition of long standing for the entire community to gather at Leigh Abbey on Christmas Day. Susanna's cook had outdone himself. There were enough minced pies to feed everyone, made with dried fruits and spices and mutton, in remembrance of the shepherds. Each one contained thirteen different ingredients, to represent Christ and his apostles. There was brawn, too, with mustard. And bread and cheese and fruit and nuts and spiced ale that had roast apples floating in it. But the much-anticipated centerpiece was carried in on a huge platter. It held a large pastry case surrounded by jointed hare, small game birds, and wild fowl. Inside the pastry was a turkey. It had been stuffed with a goose that had been stuffed with a chicken that had been stuffed with a partridge that had been stuffed with a pigeon.

Well into the celebrations, Susanna noticed that Alan Peacock had taken the vicar aside. The two men’s heads were bent so close together in earnest conversation that strands of Peacock’s wheat-colored hair mingled with Nathaniel Lonsdale’s graying locks. They wore identical solemn expressions on their faces, out of keeping with the good cheer all around them. Frowning, Susanna had already started toward them when Peacock lifted his head and, catching sight of her, gestured that she should come over.

"There's been a theft," he said in a low voice when reached them. "Someone has stolen all the money the Hogglers' Guild collected."

"I said he should not bother you with this," Lonsdale interrupted, "although you are clever at finding things out."

Susanna felt her eyebrows lift at the grudging compliment. Her cousin the vicar, whose bulging eyes gave him an unfortunate resemblance to a freshly landed fish, had never approved of her interest in solving crimes.

"No doubt it was some vagabond who took the money," Lonsdale continued. "He'll be long gone by now."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not."

Susanna’s first thought was that she must discover where the vicar's wife had been at the time the money went missing. Jeronyma Lonsdale had once had a bad habit of taking things that did not belong to her.

She turned to the miller. "Where was the money pouch kept?"

"In a locked coffer in Tom Sparke's cottage."

And Sparke, she recalled, lived beside the village bakehouse, just two doors away from Ulich Fuller’s smithy. Fuller had been angry with the younger man, and determined to prove that he was not too old to be useful. As he'd threatened, Fuller had walked to Leigh Abbey from Eastwold, a distance of a mile and a half. And when the piper had played a jig, he'd done a fair job of fulfilling the second part of his promise, too. Although he'd clearly been in pain when the music stopped, the triumphant look in his eyes had told everyone present that he did not count the cost.

"Did the thief take the coffer as well as the pouch?" Susanna asked.

Alan shook his head. "The coffer was left behind." His shifted his feet and looked uneasy. "Tom kept the key on a nail with some others."

"Then anyone could have come in when the cottage was empty, opened the coffer, and taken the contents."

Looking miserable, he nodded in agreement. "There was nearly five pounds in all. We counted up the take when we returned from our rounds."

"You and Tom?"

He nodded. "The others went home to their wives and their supper. I locked the casket myself, but I left the key with Tom."

So, Susanna thought, Alan might have had the opportunity to take the pouch, if Tom had been distracted at just the right moment. Susanna sent a speculative look his way. Did he need money? Like his father, he was always buying up land and expanding the mills he owned. Perhaps he had overextended himself and did not wish to go to the moneylenders.

Considering that she had three potential suspects, not counting the vicar's mythical vagabond, Susanna expected to discover the truth within a day or two. Warmer temperatures increased her optimism, but although she set out with high hopes, she met with disappointment. The vicar's wife had been away from home, visiting friends at Cobham Hall. There was no way she could have stolen the money. Alan Peacock appeared to have learned from his father's failings and was in no need of ready coin. He had everything a man could ask for—prosperity, a loving wife, and a fine brood of children.

That left Ulick Fuller, but Susanna had seen for herself how difficult it was for him to get about. She also saw, when she visited Tom Sparke's cottage, that the key that unlocked the coffer was a tiny, delicate thing. It was easy to pick out from the other keys hung on the nail but, given Fuller’s swollen knuckles, he would have found it nearly impossible to insert such a small object into the lock and turn it, let alone fumble it back onto its nail.

By New Year's Day, Susanna despaired of ever discovering who had stolen the hogglers' money. She distributed gifts to her household and accepted presents in return. And in the evening, Rosamond's silk scarf once again wrapped around head and throat, she prepared to go out into the orchard and join in the wassailing of the trees.

Ulich and Anne Fuller were among the first to arrive, just as the sun was setting. Fuller used a staff to help him walk. From her window, by the light of the torches set out on poles all along the track to the orchard, Susanna watched the couple make their ponderous way across a small bridge. Then Anne went on ahead, perhaps to locate a convenient log for her husband to sit upon. Susanna lost sight of them once they were in among the apple trees.

Poor Anne, she thought. No doubt she was having a hard time getting Ulich to drink the milk posset. Susanna wondered if he'd be more amenable if the herb were mixed with ale or beer.

Wassailing the apple orchard to ensure a good crop for the next year's cider was an old tradition in the Parish of St. Cuthburga and one Susanna particularly enjoyed. Even the church did not object to wishing the trees good health and abundant crops. The celebration began shortly after sundown, as soon as the villagers had gathered in front of the oldest tree in the orchard.

One of Alan Peacock's daughters, fourteen-year-old Jane, had been chosen for the honor of fishing the crust of bread out of the bottom of the large wooden wassail bowl and placing it in the crook of the tree. Wearing a wreath of greenery as a crown, she climbed a short ladder, clasping the crust in one hand and grinning at the crowd. Then, with a dramatic flourish, she turned her back on them to reach even higher and leave her gift.

Loud noises filled the air—drums and horns and people banging on pans with ladles. Tom Sparke poured mulled cider around the base of the tree as the crowd began to sing.

"Old apple tree we wassail thee," the assembled revelers caroled, "hoping thou will bear."

Susanna, smiling, let her gaze rove over the villagers, delighted to see them enjoying themselves. She did not realize at first that the Peacock girl had failed to descend the ladder after leaving the crust. Young Jane was still perched atop it, fumbling among the branches and nearly losing her footing in the process. Curious, Susanna moved closer. She reached the tree just as Jane finally scrambled back down the ladder.

The flickering light of the nearest torch illuminated Jane's face, showing Susanna light blue eyes gone wide with surprise and a frown of consternation. When Jane realized who had come up beside her, she gave an cry of relief and thrust a heavy leather pouch Susanna's hands. The clink and jingle of coins rubbing together was all but drowned out by the singing, but Susanna had no doubt that this was the money the hogglers were missing.

"I found it tucked into the hollow of the tree," Jane said in an awed voice. "Do you think someone left it as an offering to the orchard?"

"I think someone hid it there, and that you were a clever girl to find it."

Jane's father appeared at her elbow. The astonishment on Alan Peacock's face would have exonerated him of guilt even if Susanna had not already eliminated him from her list of suspects. Tom Sharpe was next to notice what they'd found.

"Give it me," he demanded, reaching for the pouch.

"I think not," Susanna said. "This money has been collected for the church and to the church it will go." She looked around for her cousin Nathaniel and found him standing a short distance away, arm in arm with his wife, still singing. She handed the bag back to Peacock's daughter. "Take this to the vicar, Jane." Her gaze swept over the rest of the crowd, stopping only once before Peacock reclaimed her attention.

"Who took it?" he demanded.

"A better question is this: who gave it back?"

"It were tooken a week agone," Sparke said. "The thief never did mean to give it back. It were hid amongst the branches of that tree."

"Yes. In that tree. Where it was sure to be found." Susanna considered this a moment longer. "It was a jest, I think, and best forgotten now that the money has been returned."

Both men grumbled at this.

"Even supposing you did learn who took the pouch, would you truly wish to prosecute that person to the full extent of the law?"

They exchanged a look. The theft of more than a shilling commanded the death penalty, although juries were often moved to exonerate such offenders rather than send them to the hangman. Still, it would be a serious step to press charges, knowing that the accused might well be executed.

"In any case," Susanna said in a soothing voice, "I doubt we will ever know who was to blame."

Reluctantly, and only after several more minutes of debate, Sparke and Peacock agreed to let the matter drop.

Unaware of the little drama playing out beneath the oldest tree in the orchard, the majority of the villagers had continued to sing and dip into the wassail bowl. As soon as the two hogglers went to confer with the vicar, Susanna turned her attention back to Ulich Fuller. He was still where she'd seen him last. He stood with his back against one of the other apple trees. His staff was propped up next to him, a clear reminder that he was not agile enough to have climbed a ladder to place the bag in the tree. Apples did not grow as tall as oaks or elms, but the crook of the tree and the hollow where the pouch had been left were not within easy reach even for a tall man. For someone whose knees could barely support his weight, the feat would have been impossible to accomplish.

But a smaller, more agile person could have left the bag there.

Someone who might have wanted revenge for Ulich's sake on the men who'd taunted and demeaned him.

Her speculations solidified into a certainty when she realized that Anne Fuller was no longer standing beside her husband. In fact, she was nowhere in sight. Susanna frowned. Did Anne believe she was about to be arrested? She had been watching the tree. She'd doubtless seen Jane find the bag and give it to Susanna and Susanna knew she'd been looking their way when Peacock and Sparke were arguing. If she'd leapt to the conclusion that they would prosecute, that she faced the death sentence . . .

Alarmed, Susanna left the revelers and set off along the track that led back to Leigh Abbey. There was no other way for Anne to have gone. But where was she going? If the constable were to be sent after her, she'd have no place to hide.

Desperate people did foolish things. Susanna knew that well enough. She quickened her steps, even though the footing was treacherous. The warmer temperatures of the last week had thawed the ice and snow and left mud and slush in their wake.

Although she had torchlight to guide her, she found it difficult to see where she was stepping. The track was worn deep from so many people passing over it, but it was not the only path through the snow. The main trail led across the narrow wooden bridge over the stream. Another, left by those who'd brought the Yule log home, went straight out onto the frozen surface of the water. The ice had been hard and solid as any road a week before, safe to pass over even with such a heavy burden.

Just as she reached the middle of the bridge, Susanna heard an ominous cracking sound followed by a cry of panic. Dreading what she would see, she leaned over the railing and peered out across the frozen water. There was no moon this night, but the rush dips stuck into brackets at either end of the bridge were enough to show her that the ice had thinned from the warmth of the last few days. Deep fissures scored the surface of the stream. And there, balanced precariously on a floe, was Anne Fuller.

"Stay still!" Susanna called to her. "I'll bring help."

Anne started at the sound of her voice and nearly tumbled into the frigid water. Susanna started to run back toward the orchard, but the other woman's shout stopped her in her tracks.

"No! Let me drown. It is better this way. It will be accounted an accident."

Afraid that if she left now, Anne would deliberately fling herself into the water, Susanna abandoned her plan to go for help and instead picked her way carefully along the path the other woman had followed until she stood on the bank of the stream. The waterway was not very wide, but it was deep. The ice broke into ever smaller pieces even as she watched. It was far too thin to support her weight, for she was twice Anne Fuller's size.

If only she had a rope.

And then Susanna realized that she did have a rope of sorts. She unwound the length of silk from around her head and shoulders. It was long enough to reach Anne, and sturdy enough to pull the other woman to shore . . . if only she would cooperate in saving her own life.

"You do not need to die," Susanna called to her. "I am the only one who has guessed the truth and I have no intention of telling anyone."

"If you could solve the riddle, others can, too." Anne was visibly shivering, and her footing was unsteady as the ice floe bobbed on the water. "Better to let me go my own way."

"Did you intend to drown yourself?" Susanna challenged her. If she could keep Anne talking, perhaps someone else would come along. She could still hear the singing from the orchard, but perhaps someone had noticed her absence, or Anne's.

"I meant to go home and kill myself with the mousebane I bought to ease my husband's pain."

Susanna winced. That would have been a horrible, painful death. "There's no need for such drastic action," she shouted. "No one will accuse you of any crime. And it is not as if you meant to keep the money."

Susanna felt along the muddy ground for something she could use for weight. Her fingers were nearly numb with cold before she found a rock of sufficient size, but it was frozen to the earth.

Anne's scream as the floe tipped made Susanna tug harder at the icy stone. Anne retained her balance, but only just.

"You do not want to die, Anne Fuller," Susanna shouted at her.

Abruptly, the rock pulled free. Susanna hastily tied it into one end of her scarf.

"Catch hold of the cloth," she called to Anne, and flung the length of silk toward the middle of the stream.

It took Anne three tries before she succeeded. Her hands were shaking so badly by then that she could barely free the rock to retie the silk around her waist.

Susanna knotted the other end around a sturdy sapling on the bank of the stream. "Jump over the line of open water onto the next section of ice!"

"It will crack again. I will be thrown into the water."

Susanna almost smiled. Anne had obviously decided that she wanted to live. "Jump!" she ordered.

Susanna knew that the closer to shore Anne was when the ice finally broke under her weight, the easier it would be to pull her the rest of the way. Anne was a small woman. she should be able to make some progress before disaster struck.

For once, Susanna blessed the fact that she'd inherited her father's height and sturdy frame. She'd become stout with age and lacked the strength of her youth, but she was accustomed to wielding a mortar and pestle in her stillroom and was therefore no weakling. When the terrifying cracking sound inevitably came, she was ready.

Anne Fuller windmilled her arms in a desperate struggle to stay upright, then tumbled into the water with a loud splash. Susanna planted her feet, braced herself to take Anne's weight, and hauled on her makeshift lifeline for all she was worth.

She'd forgotten how quickly clothing, especially long skirts, could became waterlogged. Beads of sweat popped out on her forehead as Anne’s weight increased. The other woman tried to crawl back up onto the surface of the ice, but the edges kept breaking off, sending up great splashes of frigid water and causing her to cry out in terror. But the silk held and so did Susanna's resolve.

With excruciating slowness, Anne moved closer to solid ground. Susanna continued to pull until she'd clawed her way halfway up the riverbank and collapsed, whimpering piteously. Only then did Susanna drop her end of the cloth to run to Anne's side. Grabbing her shoulders, she hauled her clear of the water.

"You cannot stay here," Susanna croaked at her, short of breath from the unaccustomed exertion. "You can die as easily from being wet and cold as you can from drowning." She hastily untied the silk rope and then took off her own warm wool cloak and wrapped it around the shivering woman as she helped her to stand.

"You must walk," she said. "We must reach the house with all possible speed."

Anne's teeth were chattering so hard that she could not speak, but she managed to shuffle across the bridge. The journey seemed endless. Susanna was all but carrying her as they staggered the last few steps into Leigh Abbey.

Once they were indoors, in the small parlor where a fire was already lit, Susanna got Anne out of her sodden, ice-encrusted clothing and prepared hot possets for them both. Once she had revived a little, she found clothing that would fit Anne in Jennet's lodgings. By the time Mark Jaffrey appeared, looking for his sister, nearly every trace of the evening's near tragedy had been erased, although. Mark's eyebrows did shoot up at the sight of Anne's pink cheeks and the goblet in her hand.

"Ulich said you weren't feeling well," he ventured.

"She is much better now," Susanna assured him.

"I am," Anne agreed, and drained the last of the posset Susanna had made. It contained a liberal amount of sherry sack.

Mark frowned, but said only, "The wassailing is done. The villagers are about to go home. I hitched a horse to the farm cart and persuaded Ulich to drive it . . . so the women and children don't have to walk."

"Excellent thinking, Mark," Susanna said. "His wife will be along in a moment."

When they were alone again, Susanna took Anne by the shoulders and waited until the other woman met her eyes. "Nearly an entire year must pass before the Yuletide hogglers make their next rounds. That is more than enough time for me to make clear to them that I will not donate a single penny to the cause unless Ulich Fuller is one of their number when they come again. You must tell your husband that much, Anne. But if you are wise, you will tell him nothing more."

A Note from the Author

Hogglers and wassailing the apple trees were part of celebrating the Twelve Days of Christmas in the south of England during Tudor times. No one today, however, seems to know much about either of these traditions. This story presents a sixteenth-century country yuletide as it might have been.