How Mrs. Claus Saved Christmas (20 page)

Before Henry VIII's edict changing England from a Catholic to a Protestant country, long lines of pilgrims would have circled the cathedral, each waiting for a turn to pray at the shrine to St. Thomas à Becket in a small side chapel. So many pilgrims went there for so long that grooves were worn into the hard stone chapel floor—often they would fall on their knees when they entered and actually
crawl
to the altar to pray. Now such behavior was frowned upon, especially with Puritans running the town, and so no pilgrims came and crawled and prayed.

About eight thousand people lived in Canterbury, quite a respectable number for that time, and their homes were much the same as those in London. The few wealthiest residents resided in fine stone structures. From my vantage point of a roadside hilltop a quarter-mile from the West Gate, I could look down over the town wall and see clearly where these well-to-do folk lived. I suspected that one particularly large home must belong to the city's mayor. Then there were the middling homes of merchants, their plaster walls supported by wooden beams. The vast majority of the houses were modest, squarish cottages with thatched roofs. The portion of the town streets I could see looked much cleaner than those in London. At least, there were fewer pigs on the loose, rooting through trash.

I was tempted to go into the town and find some small, quiet church at which to do Sunday worship, but there was another matter that needed immediate attention. I had Pamela Forrest's letter to her sister Elizabeth, and no real idea of whether or not this Elizabeth Hayes would even consider taking in a stranger, and a fugitive from the Roundheads at that. If she turned me away, I wasn't really sure what I could do next, besides try to hide myself away in the country until I could think of a different plan. Pamela had assured me Elizabeth would make me welcome, but I couldn't be certain this would be the case.

The same number of people lived outside the town walls as inside them. These “outer” families usually owned or worked on farms, and their cottages were within easy walking distance of Canterbury's shops and churches. Elizabeth Hayes, I'd been told, lived a mile to the east of the city with her husband, Alan, and daughter, Sara. Anne's directions to me were to go to the river just past town and follow the path beside it past a grove of poplars. I would soon see a cottage surrounded by flower bushes, with a mighty oak tree towering over it. That, Pamela said, was her sister's home. Of course, Pamela couldn't provide me with a specific address, because these things were not yet in use. People lived where they lived, and you found them by looking around and asking.

Church bells had begun to peal back in the town by the time I saw the Hayes cottage. The cheerful ringing echoed down the road as I walked, and I thought again how foolish it was for a country to go to war, even in part, because people could not agree to let each other worship as they pleased. Then I paused, because the door of the Hayes home was opening, and I got my first look at my prospective hostess.

Elizabeth Hayes

Elizabeth Hayes was slender and dark, a lovely looking woman of perhaps thirty. Her brown hair cascaded past her shoulders, and her smile was warm and unforced. I liked her on sight, but didn't have the chance to speak, for she was dressed in a long, clean frock and clearly on her way to church. She paused just outside the door, gesturing for someone to follow, and a moment later was joined by a sturdy-looking child I knew must be her eight-year-old daughter, Sara. If I liked Elizabeth Hayes the first time I saw her, I loved her daughter. Unlike her dark-complexioned mother, Sara was light, almost pale, with white-blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. It seemed to me that there was something very special about this child, a sort of inner glow. Was it obvious to everyone else, or only to me? Sara had a serious expression as she tugged a kerchief in place over her hair, and took her mother's hand as they walked toward the town. They nodded to me as they passed where I stood perhaps twenty yards from their cottage. Elizabeth said, “Happy Sabbath,” in a bright, friendly voice, while Sara quietly murmured, “Good day,” and looked quickly away. It was obvious she was a very shy child. It would be a bad thing, I decided, to interrupt their stroll to church by presenting Pamela's letter, and so I decided to sit for a while in the shade of the towering oak and eat the last of my fruit and cheese. Time enough when Elizabeth returned from worship to introduce myself. I did wonder where her husband might be, since only mother and daughter had left the cottage. Either he was sleeping in—not likely in those days and that place—or else he was away on one of his voyages.

I rested my back against the tree and munched an apple. Families made their way down the path, heading into town and church. Many people called out greetings to me. It seemed almost impossible that the same England that was home to such warm, friendly folk was at the same time split by civil war. During the time it had taken me to walk from London to Canterbury, I had heard bits of gossip about the first clash between royalists and Roundheads at Edge Hill. The king's forces, apparently, had barely gotten the better of the fight, and the Roundheads had retreated back toward their strongholds near London. Oliver Cromwell, I guessed, would have taken part in the fighting, and I hoped he had survived.

The breeze was cool, but the sun was warm, and after I'd eaten I suppose I must have dozed, for suddenly I snapped awake with the feeling of being watched. My pleasure in the fine morning had made me forget, for a while, that I was on the run, but now my fear of capture overwhelmed me. I gasped, opened my eyes, and there, perhaps five feet away, was little Sara, who must have been as frightened as I was, for she whirled and scampered back to her mother, Elizabeth, who stood at the cottage door.

“Sara, remember your manners,” Elizabeth cried. “Ma'am, I apologize for my daughter. She should not have approached you as you slept. Are you hungry, perhaps? I'm about to prepare our Sabbath meal, and you're most welcome to join us.”

For English country folk of the time, inviting a stranger in to eat was not an uncommon thing. Hospitality was cherished, even among the poorest people. Whatever God gave you was to be shared with open arms and a generous heart. Elizabeth's invitation provided me with a perfect opportunity to introduce myself, and I took advantage of it.

“Missus Hayes?” I asked politely. “Please don't be surprised I know your name. Mine is Layla, and I'm a friend of your sister Pamela Forrest in London. We work in the same place.”

“Well, now!” Elizabeth exclaimed, her smile growing even wider. “Pamela has told me often about how much she enjoys where she works and the kind people there. Though, you know, I can't ever get her to provide many details, like what, for instance, you
make.
”

It was gratifying to know that Pamela was keeping our secrets, even from her beloved sister. “Oh, we make many things,” I said vaguely. “I don't know from one day to the next what we'll be putting together.” That, certainly, was true.

“Well,” Elizabeth said, “by the sun I can see it's getting past noon, and some food will make a pleasant day seem even better. Sara, get out an extra plate, and please see the table is free of dust.” The child hurried inside. Elizabeth took my arm and led me through the door.

The cottage was unremarkable. It was, in the 1640s tradition of rural England, one large room with a narrow ladder leading up to a small loft. In one corner of the downstairs room was a fireplace, which provided both warmth and a means to cook. Pots dangled over the fire on hooks, while pans might be placed directly in its embers. A pallet covered by a quilt in another corner was where Elizabeth and her husband slept. I knew little Sara would have her own place up the ladder in the loft. There were a few simple chairs with high, straight backs in front of the fire, and there was a small table where Sara was busily setting out three sets of plates, cups, and knives. She had taken these from a cupboard standing against the plaster wall. I could see these things clearly because the sun was shining through several open windows. The windows had no glass—only the very richest people could afford such luxury—but were protected by heavy wooden shutters that could be closed and latched in case of bad weather or when the people inside wanted privacy. Somewhere behind the house, I knew, would be the “privy,” and some yards away from that, a well.

“I'm sorry my husband, Alan, isn't here to greet you, too,” Elizabeth said as she poured some water from a bucket into a bowl. “Here, please soak this cloth and wipe the dirt from your face and hands. I can tell you've been traveling for some time. Anyway, Alan has just left as part of a crew sailing over to the Americas and will be gone at least a year, since they are delivering goods in several places and then picking up other goods to bring back to English markets—mostly tobacco, I believe.”

“You and Sara must be lonely with him gone,” I said.

Elizabeth reached out and affectionately ruffled her daughter's fine blonde hair. “Well, of course we miss Alan, but we're a sailor's family and have learned to accept his lengthy absences. Are you hungry, Layla? What we have to offer isn't fancy, but it's healthy and filling. Bread to start, from local wheat. Fine cabbage and carrots from Sara's garden in the back. I'm sorry we can't offer you beer, but the water from our well is so fresh and clear that it's what we prefer to drink. The cheese is good; all our local dairy is excellent. And, for an after-sweet, we'll have pears from our very own tree. Will that do?”

“It all sounds delicious,” I replied, and helped Elizabeth get out the food and set it on the table. Sara helped, too, but I noticed she still avoided looking directly at me, and she didn't say anything at all. When everything was ready, we pulled chairs to the table. Elizabeth offered a short but eloquent blessing, thanking God for both food and a new friend to share it with. As we ate, Elizabeth and I enjoyed pleasant conversation. Sara didn't talk, but I could sense she was listening and remembering every word I said about my husband, Nicholas, being a colonist in the New World, and how someday soon I planned to join him. Elizabeth told some amusing stories about Pamela and their happy childhood together. She'd always thought her older sister would live right beside her in Canterbury, Elizabeth said, but then Pamela met Clive, whose ambitions took him to London—“We country folk don't need barbers, really”—and so now the sisters seldom saw each other.

“We send letters back and forth though, whenever someone we know comes to Canterbury from London or vice versa,” Elizabeth said as we finished the last of our cheese and prepared to wipe the plates with cloths to clean them.

“That reminds me of something,” I said, though I really hadn't needed reminding. I'd just been waiting for the right moment. “Your sister sent you a letter that I hope you'll read.” I took it from my pocket and handed it to her.