Winter came. Snow covered the fields and forests, spilling off the sloping roofs of the tenants’ houses. The tenants stayed inside, weaving, spinning, repairing tools and furniture, salting and smoking meat, using the time as best they could. In the villa, everyone avoided the open reception hall, sitting in smaller rooms warmed by braziers. Hrotgund continued to read, but now by candlelight. She and Ingund wrapped themselves in furs, and found even more time to talk.

The Roman New Year approached: the first day of the month of Janua. The evening before it, after Mass and a supper of lentils, pork ribs and bread, she went to her room, and, still wrapped in her fur and wearing her warmest woolen robe, got into bed and fell fast asleep.

She woke to shouting and what sounded like drums. Listening harder, Hrotgund could hear singing. She got out of bed and put on her boots, clutching the thick fur all about her. Feeling her way along the wall, she got to the villa’s entrance and went outside.

Now she could hear it plainly: shouting, singing, flutes and drums. The slaves had cleared a path through the snow and so she carefully made her way to the villa’s gate, then opened it.

Further down the hill, in the middle of the courtyard, she saw a huge fire, with silhouettes dancing before it. Indistinct figures were shouting, small groups were singing together, musicians strolled about with drums and pipes. As she approached, still in the shadows, she saw buckets all about, some on their sides, spilling beer. She made out women in the dark on their hands and knees, with men behind them. But unlike her aunt, the sounds they were making were sounds of pleasure. She recoiled when she saw a man with horns leap past the fire, then return – he was wearing a bull’s head. Another joined him, but with the larger, branch-like horns of a stag. Suddenly she heard a sound to her left and looked to see a woman coming towards her, her hair covered with a scarf, her breasts filling the top of her robe, her face… with a beard. The “woman” was a man, dressed in women’s clothing, wearing cloth breasts. Seeing her, he shouted drunkenly, “Look! It’s the princess!” Others turned their heads, some too drunk to care, others starting towards her, including the horned men and others half-naked.

She froze in terror, unsure what to do. Feeling a hand grip her shoulder, she spun around, ready to scream, and found herself face to face with Father Elias, not wearing his white robe, but simply covered in a dark wool smock and fur. “Come!” he said, and dragged her by the hand back towards the villa.

Stumbling as she went, struggling to follow his urgent step, she barely noticed when they got inside the gate. At once he shut and barred it. Turning to her with unfamiliar ferocity, he said, “You must NEVER go out on New Year’s Eve. Never! You do not know what might have happened to you!”

As he began to lead her back to the villa, she said, “But they are my friends, Father, they know me.”

“They do not know themselves, child. Not tonight. They are mad with the pagan revels. What those men were doing, those women... And you saw the beasts’ horns, did you not? Beasts’ horns, on men’s heads, such as one wears to worship the demons? How some of the men perverted their own sex, and dressed as women?” His voice was filled with horror, but also relief, as he brought Hrotgund inside and closed the villa door.

At morning Mass, he spoke fervently against the sin of celebrating the New Year. “Imagine! Some Christians still give each other presents, just as the pagans do!” They thought nothing, he thundered, of abandoning all restraint. But few were there to hear him; most of the Christians missed Mass, still deep in beer-drenched sleep.

Later he apologized to Hrotgund. “I should have warned you about the pagan celebrations. Even those who call themselves Christians still observe them. And I fear it will be years before the Church convinces them to set them aside.”

“Those were Christians, Father?”

“Yes. Christians like most of those in Gaul.”

Easter -->