‘Look at those little girls’ heads,’ said Milly, suddenly appearing at Marion’s elbow. ‘Hair that colour you’d think as good as a fire, you could warm your hands at it.’ She guffawed. ‘Not that it seems natural.’

‘Dick had hair like that,’ said Marion, thinking with great sorrow of Dick at last year’s feast.

‘What have you got burning there, Tom?’ Peter asked, indicating the fire.

Tom gave him a sly look, and said, ‘It’s that old apple tree, was by the corner in the orchard – not born fruit for years.’

‘Apple? They could have used that down at the Mill.’

‘Your Peter,’ Tom said to Marion, ‘he’d always have a use, other than burning it, for every bit of wood in the village. We’ve got to burn something, Peter you old misery. You’d be the first to complain of raw cold food.’ This banter between Tom and Peter as to the uses of wood was a regular pastime, and each man respected the other. There were not many suitable subjects for jokes in their lives.

The feast was formal. It was the only formal meal, sitting at a table with food before them and ale being brought round, that the villagers enjoyed in the year. At the Michaelmas feast, everyone stood around in the Hall and cut bits off the huge joints of deer meat and took them to their families on the points of their knives, and at the pre-Lent feast the food was more ordinary and everyone ate knowing how low the general food stocks in the village were, so it was not an occasion for rejoicing but for eating while they could. But this Christmas feast was a ceremony and one that they could all enjoy, and it was mainly due to Dame Margaret that it was orderly, warm, and as lavish as possible. She also saw to it that portions of meat and bread and whatever luxuries there were, were sent to the old and the infirm who could not be present.

The Hall darkened as the great door was shut to keep out the cold. It became even more crowded as newcomers arrived, shuffling up to the fire and standing as close to it as they could. The steam from their cloaks rose with a smell of damp wool and long-unwashed bodies. Then with burning faces and hoods thrown back, they retreated a little and a new wave of dark hooded villagers sidled up.

Marion, standing on the far side of the fire, behind the back of bellowing, basting, sweating Rob, looked across the glow to the red-lit faces of the villagers beyond. Dobbin was there with Jill, both looking sullen and subdued, for since the death of his baby no villagers had spoken to Dobbin although he had been working with them as usual. With them was One-eyed Wat, his dark hair carefully pulled over his scarred eye socket, his good eye constantly swivelling around in anxiety, and with him stood several more silent children, also from Dobbin’s first marriage.