“Tristan, I–”
“Wassailers, gather hither!” came a yell. “To the Pegs’ house.”
A great cheer rose and a rueful grin split Tristan’s features. “We’ve been summoned. Come. Let us enjoy this wassail, for as Hugh would say, ‘Cider we imbibe, so glad to be alive. The morrow is too late, so let us meet our fate.’”
Gwen laughed and they were swept into the procession, spirits lifted by the anticipation in the air, the merriment of the young and men chanting as they strode the lanes.
Village girls now dashed alongside with shepherd’s crooks decorated with holly and ivy while lads passed their fingers through the flames of the torches and pretended they’d not felt the sear.
The Pegs lived by the mill, a stone house with red windows and red curtains, and they all assembled around their small door, Tristan and herself wending their way to stand beside Isabelle, Rhys and Mari.
Everyone knew the words to their first wassail foray by heart, except for Isabelle and Elen who held a song sheet between them.
A fiddle struck up and they sang with gusto…
“Open your door, dear neighbours,
And listen to our sweet labours.
We’ve travelled for miles to be here
So bring us a glass of good cheer.”
They all fell silent as the door creaked open and the Pegs stood there with a lantern, two weathered faces wrinkled with grins…
“Not till you reach verse sixty,
Shall you get a tot of our whisky.”
The wassailers all chortled before…
“’Tis so cold and bitter tonight,
Won’t you gift us a steaming delight?”
But the Pegs weren’t done yet…
“We have some maggoty cheese,
It’ll gift you a dire disease.”
Guffaws greeted their offer, but the wassailers regrouped…
“But this wassail we bring to you,
As brewed by our Mrs Pugh.”
Mr Peg’s eyes widened…
“Though I fear for my life and soul,
Do give me a cup from that bowl.”
Everyone cheered and joined in the finale as one…
“We wish you such joy and good cheer
And never to lack in good beer.
