“Who was Stephen, m’lord? He is a saint or prophet I assume, but do you know why he is worthy of a feast?”
The king looked pleased, as he often did when I asked him questions. Despite his growing reputation as a font of Christian virtues like patience and hope, he mostly seems as if ordinary things vex him, but not questions. He is tall and strong; the silver in his hair and beard command respect without spreading seditious rumors about his advancing age.
“Saint Stephen was among the first Christian martyrs, my boy,” replied the king. His moustache danced when he spoke. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. The cold helped. It is difficult to enjoy a good laugh when you have to assume that your toes are still there.
“Why was he slain, m’lord?” I tried to pose my questions in sets of three. Wenceslaus is quite pious, and superstitious, and the number three can make his eyes glow with wonder in almost any place we find it: three goats wandering in the road; three graves in a swamp; three birds flying through an autumn fog. I think he could be persuaded to do many, foolish things, if some ominous trio or other appeared while you were selling him the scheme.
“For the same reason I may be, my lad. He was a convert to the faith, and became one of Our Savior’s first deacons. He was obliged to deliver an apology before the Sanhedrin in the year 36, and his eloquent defense of his faith so enraged the rabbis assembled there, that they called for him to be stoned to death. His last words were a prayer for forgiveness for those who slew him. Do let me know if you see my brother and his wicked friends start gathering stones, will you?” The king smiled and winked. His smile always transformed his face, and mine.
We were making progress through the snow. The king’s footprints were deep, so I had to be careful not to trip and take a spill into the snow, but they made my path clear. He did not move swiftly, but he was always determined, steady—sure of himself. I caught it from him, I suppose. The moon was glazing the snow with light. How humble things can shine, when their hour comes!
I was sure the king knew where we were going, though he had asked me the way. “M’lord, begging your pardon, but does the number of Christian martyrs ever give you pause? Few were those who were martyred for loving the old ways, as far as I know.” This was the third, and probably the most dangerous question. Wenceslaus rarely gave me a thrashing, so I was not afraid of that sort of penalty, but his mood could darken and stay black for days. He was curt and surly and hard to live with when that happened. I’m still not sure what it means to be a page, though I’ve served Wenceslaus since my seventh name day. I do as he tells me, but I try to show him that I am no fool.
He surprised me by laughing. He has a raucous, lusty guffaw, our king. “If the fear of death prevents us from doing what is right, we are dead already,” he replied, taking my hand to help me over a fallen tree. “How much further to the poor fellow’s hovel, my boy?”
I hoisted the sack I had been clumsily dragging through the snow onto my shoulder and took a deep lungful of the frost cleansed air. We were about a league from the lights of home, moving toward the edge of the forest. I could remember watching the wretch stumbling this way a fortnight ago, and then veering toward the font to the west. “Not far now, m’lord, if my wits haven’t frozen. West, toward the virgin’s font, I believe.”
Wenceslaus dug his staff into the snow, whispered what was probably a prayer, and turned west. What he had said about his brother turned in my gut. Boleslav, the king’s younger brother, covets his power and remains faithful to the old gods. He is clearly biding his time, waiting for the king to expose his neck. Wenceslaus jests about it, but I think he knows there is a serpent in the little garden of his court. Were I the king, I would have strung Boleslav up to thrill the peasants long ago. Wenceslaus does not just talk of being a Christian, though. He seems quite serious about living like one.
The snow could not prevent us from reaching St. Agnes’ font, and as we approached it, I spotted a feeble light in the peasant’s shambles, between the trees and a muttering creek. I pointed the way, and Wenceslaus picked up his pace. “You are quiet, my boy. Have you no more bees in that hive of a mind? Talking has made the journey shorter.”
He was baiting me, but we were almost out of the winter’s claws, so I was emboldened. “M’lord, how comes it that some have more than enough to eat and drink, and dress in finery and dwell in proud castles, while this wretch begs alms and lives as a beast might, in a filthy nest?”
Wenceslaus stopped then, and turned to look me in the eye. I have seen him look that way at a deer or a wild boar, taking their measure before he looses an arrow and ensures that we dine handsomely on the one he has chosen after the hunt is over. I shuddered; I do confess it.
“Our Savior proclaimed that the poor will always be with us, my lad. It is our duty to offer them charity and succor when we are able, to be sure, but there is much sin and want in this world, and we will only find real justice in the world to come, when Our Savior welcomes us.” He was not jesting, nor was he annoyed by my query. He spoke as much to himself as to me, as if he was reading a map to reassure himself and offer me guidance at once.
“I understand, m’lord. But those words of Our Savior have always puzzled me. Mayhap, you can aid my understanding?” We were close enough now to hear the wretch singing loudly and badly, as was his wont when begging in the shadow of the king’s castle. Wenceslaus had commanded me to bring enough flesh and wine to have a little feast with the wretch, and some good logs for whatever passed for a fire in his nest. The straps of the sack I had filled at his order were biting my shoulder like a lash.
Wenceslaus’ look softened. I think he would have made a fine scholar, if his blood had not been royal. He liked to talk of the meaning of things, both for sport and for wisdom’s sake. He has helped me with my reading and figuring, when his mood is right. “What puzzles you about them, my lad? Like the rising of the sun or the blowing of the wind, some things do not change: those in want sought Our Savior’s aid long ago, and they will seek the aid of your grandchildren, by and by. Is there a mystery there?”
We were close enough now to the nest to smell it, which my nose resented. “Of course you are right, m’lord,” said I, “But what if Our Savior meant to say that the poor are most loved of all by Him, and will dwell with Him always?”
Wenceslaus grinned then, and patted my head as my father was fond of doing, while he still lived. “Honey comes from that busy hive now and again, my lad. Hail the wretch now, for we are practically in his home already!”
I did as he bid me, and the sorry singing ceased. The wretch crept out of his nest and ogled us, trembling. What remained of his teeth were bared, and he brandished a potshard, as if he expected to be robbed. “What do you want of me?” his question was equal parts indignant and afraid.
“We have come to share meat and drink with thee, friend,” said Wenceslaus, with genuine warmth, “for St. Stephen’s feast is upon us, and good fellowship is the finest tribute we can offer to him and Our Savior.”
The wretch looked dumfounded. After a moment’s thought, he bowed to us both, and gestured toward his nest hospitably. I was not surprised. Wenceslaus’ honesty coats his tongue with gold.
We trudged through the last of the snow and just as we were about to stoop and enter the wretch’s nest, Wenceslaus turned to me and winked. Then he pulled back his hood, removed his crown and placed it gently on the wretch’s head. Our little feast was shared by brothers.
There are countless renditions of the carol that obviously inspired this brief tale; my favorite can be found below, performed by the contemporary, Canadian band, The Skydiggers:
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