How Mrs. Claus Saved Christmas (17 page)

While Charles was away fighting the Scottish rebels in 1641, Parliament went even further. It wrote prospective laws that required the king to get Parliament's approval for any ministers he wanted to appoint, and created the Assembly of Divines, a committee that would make new rules for religion in England—rules that would reflect the beliefs of the Puritans.

“They're going to ban Christmas right away,” Arthur predicted when the news reached us at the toy factory.

I thought of Oliver Cromwell, and how he had told me he would try to persuade people to give up Christmas rather than order them to do it. Though he was still not the most prominent member of Parliament, people were starting to mention Cromwell's name more often. Many poor people in particular admired him. Whenever he made speeches, he always emphasized that the best government was one that let ordinary people have some influence—“democracy” was what he called it.

“If the Puritans truly want to respect the wishes of the working class, they'll soon learn that Christmas is too important to too many people for it to be outlawed in England,” I said. “I've told you about Oliver Cromwell. Surely if reasonable people like him are involved, Christmas can still be preserved, and peace in England, too.”

“Don't be too certain that this Cromwell is going to be around much longer,” Arthur said. “There are rumors that the king intends to charge his main opponents in Parliament with treason, and have them arrested and perhaps even executed. Cromwell could be one of them.”

On December 25, 1641, Christmas in England was celebrated as usual. Waits strolled through cities and villages singing their joyful holiday songs. Poor people scraped together their few pennies to buy a goose, and on the wonderful day itself groups of working-class people marched to the homes of their wealthy neighbors and shared fine food and drink with them there. Some churches held special holiday services, though Puritan congregations ignored the holiday completely. Arthur, Leonardo, and I had a wonderful time making our quiet way into many, many English homes to leave small gifts of toys and peppermint candy for the children living there. We regretted very much that we could not leave something for Puritan children, but our tradition had always been to avoid homes where, for one reason or another, parents did not want us to go. Still, the overwhelming number of families in England very much wanted visits from Father Christmas, and it was our pleasure to oblige.

As soon as our special night of gift-giving in England was over, I left for Italy, since the children there hoped to discover gifts from Befana when they woke up on Epiphany, or January 6. There were no Puritans in Italy complaining about this wonderful way of helping celebrate the birth of Jesus. I dressed up as the old woman who had given directions to the Wise Men and loved every moment of it.

From Italy, I returned to Nuremberg, intending to spend some time there with Attila, Dorothea, and Willie Skokan. In Germany, as in Italy, holiday celebrations were universally enjoyed. For the past hundred years, Germans had started the fine new custom of bringing small evergreen trees into their homes around Christmas, and decorating these trees with candles and bits of bright paper. These Christmas trees were lovely to look at, and their clean scent would perfume the room. Willie Skokan had an idea about these trees, and shared it with me when I briefly stopped in Nuremberg before Epiphany to collect the toys and candy Befana would leave in Italy a few days later.

“Candles are dangerous, and these trees, once they dry out, might easily catch on fire,” Willie told me. “I'm certain there are already many people who would like decorations that involve less risk. Someday, Leonardo and I will invent some safer kind of lights, but this will take awhile. Meanwhile, I think we ought to find other colorful things to hang from these trees—peppermint candy, for instance.”

“You're experimenting with peppermint candy, too, Willie?” I asked. “You know that back in London, Leonardo has found a way to decorate peppermints with bright red stripes.”

Willie looked reproachful. “Of course I do. Leonardo and I write to each other constantly. He was interested in improving the appearance of the candy. I propose to change its shape. If, instead of round little lumps, we could stretch them longer and thinner, then perhaps we could wedge these bright red-and-white sticks between the fir tree boughs. Even better, what if this candy took on some sort of curved shape, so it could then dangle from the Christmas tree branches?”

“You mean, something like the kind of cane old people sometimes lean on, Willie?” I replied.

His eyes lit up with excitement. “Perfect, Layla! Peppermint candy
canes
! I'll get to work right away!” I knew Willie would soon have samples to show me, but I wasn't able to remain in Nuremberg long enough to see them. A letter arrived from Arthur telling us that a final, terrible mistake had been made by the king and that war would erupt in England at any moment.

“Under no circumstances should you return to England, Layla,” Arthur wrote at the end of his letter. “Any war is bad enough, and this one may cost everyone here their beloved Christmas holiday. Leonardo and I will do our best to carry on, but things in this country are so dangerous that you must go over to the New World and help your husband spread Christmas joy there.”

Three days later I walked back into the London toy factory and informed Arthur in friendly but firm fashion that I would decide when and where I went, not him. “I married Nicholas to be a full partner in his mission,” I told my old friend. “You wouldn't tell my husband it wasn't safe enough to stay and help you. I know you're trying to protect me, Arthur, but I really don't need protection. Now, tell me what has happened.”

The king, Arthur said, had finally had enough of Parliament telling him what he could and could not do. Acting on their own authority, its members had already tried and convicted his archbishop and his most trusted general, and right after Christmas rumors began to circulate that Parliament next intended to accuse the queen of treason, too, because the Puritans believed she was telling the king to make the country Catholic again. Now, Charles dearly loved Queen Henrietta, and he immediately decided he would eliminate her enemies. He had his staff draw up warrants for five members of Parliament, all of them outspoken critics of the king. Then, leading one hundred musket-bearing soldiers, Charles actually marched to Parliament, interrupted its meeting, and announced he was there to arrest the men.

“But they had learned he was coming and left the building before he arrived,” Arthur told me. “The king demanded to know where they had gone, and no one would answer. He then dismissed Parliament and told everyone to go back home, but no one left. He stormed out and Parliament carried on with its daily business.” Now, Arthur added, the king had left London for the north of England, where he was beginning to gather an army. Not enough Englishmen were willing to fight for him, so he was trying to hire what were called “mercenary” troops from Europe. Some of the European royal families had also promised to send soldiers to Charles—the last thing they wanted was for their own subjects to see a king deposed in favor of democracy. Queen Henrietta supposedly was ready to cross the English Channel and meet with foreign rulers to make sure they supported her husband.

In London, Parliament recruited its own army, one consisting mostly of landowners and their workers. Leaders of this rebel army were working very hard to convince working-class people that their lives would be better without a king. For once, the Puritans among them were careful not to threaten Christmas. Instead, they talked about taxes based on what was best for the majority instead of what a single ruler wanted, and how law should be based on the common good rather than a king's whim. What reasonable poor person could disagree? Other than Charles and Parliament, though, it soon became clear that nobody else wanted this inevitable war. In the end, Charles and the rebels would collectively have about fifteen thousand troops, even though almost a million British men could have enlisted to fight.

When I heard that Oliver Cromwell was going to make a speech in a public park about the war, I decided to go. He stood on a tree stump so everyone in the crowd of about two hundred could hear him, and he spoke very well.

“We did not choose to quarrel with the king, and still don't wish him any harm,” Cromwell insisted. “If he will simply abide by the law and honestly consult Parliament before he imposes taxes or makes new laws, then Charles may come back to London and we will welcome him.”

“You Puritans just want to take over so you can force your religion on us,” someone called from the back of the crowd.

“Not at all!” Cromwell replied. “This war, sir, is not about religion. It is about whether the king will listen to the voices of the people. I hope that someday all of you might understand God's will as we Puritans do. I pray for this constantly. But all we would impose on anyone is a nation where every voice has importance.”

“So you would not take away Christmas?” I called out.

Cromwell's eyes locked on mine, and I knew he recognized me, though it had been eight years since we met in his kitchen.

“No one is mentioning Christmas just now, missus,” he replied. “The fate of our nation is at stake. Let us discuss Christmas after the larger matters are settled.”

Cromwell talked a little longer, about how he was raising a company of soldiers in Cambridge and why the able-bodied men listening to him should sign up to fight against the king. One or two asked directions to his estate and set off to enlist. Everyone else drifted away, but not before several muttered to me that they were also worried that the Puritans would ban Christmas if they won the war against Charles.

I was leaving, too, when Cromwell came up behind me and tapped my shoulder.

“So, Missus Layla Nicholas, wife of Nicholas Nicholas the colonist, I perceive you still love your sinful holiday right well,” he said, a slight smile on his face. “I had hoped, because you seem to be an intelligent woman, that you might have changed your mind by now.”

“I'll never change my mind about Christmas,” I replied.

“Then you entirely support the king and his Catholic ways,” Cromwell said. “I would not have suspected you for a royalist sympathizer.”

“My sympathy is for the poor people of England, and I understand, as you apparently still do not, how much Christmas means to them,” I said. “Can you not look all around you, Mr. Cromwell? Most of the people you see are wearing rags. They work hard all day and have very little to eat at night. But they still love God and their special day on December 25 to give thanks for his son while having some brief joy for themselves. Why would an apparently decent man like you want to take this away from them?”

Cromwell sighed. “Why cannot
you
understand? I see the same poverty you do. I see the backbreaking labor, the empty stomachs, the desperation. But I also see the everlasting glory ahead for all who renounce this pagan celebration. God will give eternal reward to those who worship respectfully, not obscenely. Christmas represents all the sin in our modern age. It is no surprise that the king and his evil queen love the holiday. One day soon we will remove its temptations from this land, and when we do God will be pleased and bless Britain accordingly.”

It would have been easier for me to think Cromwell was just using Christmas as one more excuse to go to war with the king, but that wasn't true. He hated Christmas just as passionately as I loved it, and we both felt we knew what was best for the people of England.

“You told me you would never simply take Christmas away,” I reminded him. “You said you would try to persuade the people to give it up instead.”

“And so I will, missus, once the king is brought to his senses,” Cromwell replied. “With God's grace we will avoid war, the king will listen to Parliament instead of his Catholic queen, and once political peace is restored we Puritans will convince everyone about Christmas and its evils. Perhaps you and I can debate the issue here in the park. But that must come later. As you can see, my friends are ready to leave.” He gestured toward a half-dozen men gathered nearby. Their hair was cut short in the Roundhead style. All but one wore somber black garments. The other man wore black trousers, too, but his cloak was blue.

“I thought Puritans found bright colors to be sinful,” I said to Cromwell.

He grinned. “Ah, missus, Richard Culmer wears blue as a sign to the common people that he holds their interests close to his heart. A godly man, Richard, but beware. He is less inclined than I to respect the opinions of others. If he believes you are set on preserving Christmas, he is likely to mark you down for future reference.”