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I was caught up in the thrumming excitement of the crowd on that icy night, as we donned our masks and cloaks and followed the lantern-lit procession through the village and along the cliff top. A determined band of villagers had cleared enough of the snow to ensure that the festival could proceed. Glistening banks of white rose high on either side, lending a mystical light to the proceedings. A band dressed to resemble medieval mummers played raucous pipe music and kept time with bells and drums. Acrobats tumbled and children clapped their hands, squealing with glee as they attempted to emulate the more adventurous feats. The crowd assembled to watch the Lord of Misrule light a beacon at the westernmost point of the Athal peninsula. This year’s lord was a young farmer who wore a battered top hat and tailcoat. He danced and twirled his staff to the wild, rhythmic Celtic tunes and imbued the occasion with a spirit of fun and mischief. The revellers had to obey his orders or face dire consequences, he constantly reminded us.
Inside the house, a whole boar was roasting on the spit and the table groaned with delicacies. Tynan and Lucy had gone by boat to stay with friends a few miles down the coast. Eleanor explained to me and a thoroughly overexcited Vicky that the festivities might well prove too raucous for them. Rather than spoil the spirit of Montol with their disapproval, the Earl and Countess of Athal opened their home to the revels but left its enjoyment to the younger family members. Class distinction and the laws that govern sensible behaviour were suspended during the feast. Wine and ale flowed like water. Cross dressing, bawdy songs, drinking to excess and gambling on the church altar were only a few of the wanton acts of previous years, at least according to Eleanor, who imparted the news to me in a gleeful whisper. Public drunkenness and licentiousness were not only tolerated, they were expected. All guisers were given full license to indulge their passions and taste of every pleasure, however base. The Lord of Misrule could only call his reign a success if, when the world turned right-side-up the following day, his merrymaking followers recalled their antics with shamefaced blushes.
That night, the young Lord of Misrule issued a steady stream of instructions to us, his subjects. Eddie and Cad were instructed to serve wine to the servants, which they did with much aplomb, and to the accompaniment of great laughter. A young lad from the village was tasked with the job of carrying his sweetheart on his back like a donkey for the duration of the night, and two girls from the village tavern were ordered to sing bawdy songs to the lord and his friends.
When the meal was over it was time for traditional carols and a dance known as the Dons Cantol. This was an intricate performance that involved dancing around and leaping over painted, lighted candles. It required considerable skill, and I approached the activity with caution, afraid of setting light to my skirts. It seemed the done thing was to hold them up to midcalf, which I did, provoking much appreciative applause. The dancers held hands, alternating men and women, and circled the flames in time with the music.
“Now then, me lads,” announced the Lord of Misrule. He was standing on the table, top hat askew and cheeks ruddy with the effects of too much wine. “‘Tis time to choose the lass who will be yours for the night!” At least a dozen pairs of hands reached for me, and I dodged them while looking around frantically for a means of escape. I could see Sandor bearing purposefully down on me from the other side of the circle. Panic rose in my throat before rescue unexpectedly and anonymously came my way. Strong hands lifted me bodily away from the other grasping fingers, and I was thrown over a broad shoulder. The breath was driven out of my lungs by this action, and I hung limply, unable to see who had claimed me.
“Just one final rule, lads,” the lord continued, swaying slightly on his perch. “‘Tis the lasses who are in charge. From now until dawn, you must do as they say!” This order prompted some ribald shouts and much laughter as girls dragged their swains away with them. Lifting my head, I saw Eleanor in a passionate embrace with… No, that couldn’t be right. I wanted to call out in protest as I saw Vicky move determinedly toward Sandor, but I was swung purposefully away toward the stairs.
