Meet Me At Candlemas Love through the ages

Our love could never be… yet its flame has burned on

My secret has been safe these long years. But this Candlemas it will be discovered. Human hands will hold it for the first time since my own on the night when I knew all was lost.

I don’t mind. Jade and Harry are a couple fast in love, I think. She has dark skin like my Will. Perhaps she works outside, too.

Will Forester worked our neighbour’s land. He was the love of my life – but we would never have met without the Lord of Misrule.

“Here’s a pretty partner for you,” he said, thrusting his sweating painted face close to mine. He looked so demonic that even though I knew it was only old Tom, our neighbour’s steward in disguise, I complied immediately and made my reverence curtsey. Then Will took my hand to join the dance.

“You dance well, Mistress,” Will said as I looked up into his handsome face. “Thank you. So do you.” He had eyes as bright as autumn conkers; they sparkled at me and in that very second, something strange, as bubbly as fresh-brewed cider, began to ripple through my chest.

“You know the tradition, Sir.” My whole body seemed to sparkle back at him. “For the feasts of the twelve days of Christmas we must all obey commands of the Lord of Misrule.”

“This was one instruction I was most glad to heed.”

I knew that I wasn’t supposed to stare back at him so boldly but I couldn’t look away: dark eyes bound me as tightly as the press of our bodies in the dance. His arm around my waist pulled me closer so we could continue our whispered conversation in plain sight of the other dancers.

And so it began.

For country folk, the twelve days of Christmas were full of parties and celebrations. It was a happy time: of madness and mayhem when normality somersaulted.

My father, the yeoman farmer served at table to workers; boys became bishops and labourers danced with ladies. In the topsy-turvy world of the twelve days, Will and I went unnoticed. To all but my mother.

“Come, Agnes, I have a special Christmas gift for you,” she said on the evening of the Mystery Play.

“Mother, it is exquisite.” I gaped at the intricate leather open-work locket. “Lady Marjorie wore one just like it filled with pomander last summer when plague was rumoured.”

“So she did.” Mother smiled brightly. “And it will be a fitting thing for you to wear when you have your own household. Let this locket be a symbol of your new future. You are a lucky girl.” She tapped my arm. “You are to be married to our neighbour, Sir Richard, in the new year.”

“But Mother –” I could barely breathe for the horror of it. “He’s an old man – thirty at least. And he has already been married.”

“His wife,” my mother crossed herself, “has been gone since Easter and this is a good match for all. Your dowry of four head of cattle is all arranged. We have but to set a date.” “But – I – cannot –” “Of course you can.” Her voice was sharp as a slap and then her eyes softened. “Whatever – hopes –” she swallowed, “you’ve been harbouring – you must lay them aside. You are a child no longer. You’re a woman: our choices are never easy. It is important to choose wisely and in a worldly way.”

For me the Mystery Play was ruined. Even though my Will was chosen to

play the evil King Herod and spoke his part so well everyone cheered instead of booing as they were supposed. I watched all from within a fog of misery.

But Fate was kind to us: Mother went home with my little sister, leaving me in guardianship of my father. As mead flowed and he became engrossed in conversations about costs of cattle feed and prospects for winter sowing, I was able to slip away.

Will knew at once there was something wrong. I sank against his chest, hoping he would tell me it could be all right; that he would make it right.

“Agnes –” He pushed me gently back, holding me at arm’s length. “We can make sure this cannot happen. But I need you to be strong.

“Tomorrow is Twelfth Night: final and finest feast of the season. You need to attend the party as if all is well. Do not dance with me. And then – when all is mellow and your mother is easy in her mind, you may slip away. Wait until the punchbowl has been round at least four times. Meet me at the place where the stile cuts through to the West Road, and trust me, Agnes. I will have a gift for you.”

It was hard to play the part of a young girl excited for a party and pleased at her prospects. I dressed in my best muslin and wore the locket my mother had given me. She nodded her approval with a tight little smile.

Never has a party passed so slowly. I watched in agonies as my handsome Will partnered other girls; I clapped with everyone else when the giant crib-shaped mince pie was brought into the barn, borne aloft by my father’s labourers; I agreed when everyone said, as they always did, that it was the finest mix of mutton, fruit and spices ever.

And I watched like a fox stalking prey for the fourth round of the punchbowl then crept out into the black silent night.

Cold slid between folds of my cloak like a malevolent hand; I dipped my head against an icy drizzle.

“Agnes!”

His jacket smelled of damp wool. I wondered how long he’d waited. He kissed me deeply until our bodies became one wet mass of wool and dizzy desperation.

“You promised me a gift,” I said, pulling away, head still spinning.

“So I did.” He smiled slowly and from his pocket withdrew a ring. It was woven from straw and something soft.

“I cannot afford fine jewels, Agnes. It’s a straw ring but I have woven into it a lock of my hair. My heart, you know you have.” I stroked it in wonder. “Will you – Agnes – will you give your present consent?”

“Yes.” I spoke without hesitation, knowing how binding was the promise and astonished I had not thought of this solution myself. “I give my present consent to be your wife.” I felt a grown woman, saying it.

“And so, since we both give our consent –” he caressed my cheek – “we cannot be betrothed to another.”

Then he kissed me again and sky and stile all disappeared.

When I awoke, Will was sitting with his back to me. The locket containing his ring swung forward as I stirred; I tucked it beneath my gown. “Agnes, I have to leave.” “I don’t understand.” “My Lord has called out for the new Duke of York. I muster in the morning.” His voice was flat. “We march to meet the Lancastrian forces.” “But you – cannot – fight!” “Sweetheart, you know I cannot refuse.” He flashed me a little half-smile. “But no harm will come to me; I am a lucky man.” “How do you know?” “Lucky to come home to such a wife.” I gasped: it was the first time he’d spoken the word aloud. “They say it will only be a skirmish. We’ll be back by Candlemas.” His voice was full of conviction. “Meet me here on the evening of Candlemas; bring my priest-blessed candle.”

February brought bitter cold. Fields were too hard for ploughing; the people gathered for Candlemas praying for a thaw.

I waited on the West Road as Will had asked. I waited until my hands were welded to the candle. When it guttered and left me alone in darkness, I understood it was over.

News reached us only later: four thousand men killed at Mortimer’s Cross on February the second; Feast of Candlemas. But I already knew – for if my husband had been alive he would have kept his promise.

By Shrovetide I was Sir Richard’s wife; a wedding that gave name to the child I carried. Will’s son was born at harvest time. Everyone said how lusty and strong he was for a seven-month babe.

My secret was safe; so too the locket with Will’s ring that I sealed into the bricks of this chimney that Candlemas 1461.

I watched other families love and laugh around this fire; I saw my chimney covered by strange fashions. And finally with sadness I witnessed my family home abandoned to the four winds.

But now this girl, who through twists of generations is my kin, has come with her lover to breathe life where there was silence. So as her mallet smashes away bricks and my precious locket falls into her hands, I smile a blessing.

“Wow!” she says. “I wonder how long this has been here…”

I watched, hiding my AGONIES as my HANDSOME Will partnered OTHER GIRLS