Marley was dead, to begin with. Ooops, that's not the right story. Let's try that again.
William le Fevere was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. Years ago, at the burial, Robert de Rainault had watched them nail the coffin shut and had waited until the grave was filled. He had even stomped some of the earth down himself, just to be sure. Old sheriff Fevere was dead, and de Rainault had taken his place long ago.
De Rainault was cold and he was ruthless. He had no particular love for his fellow man (nor woman neither). Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, "My dear Sheriff, how are you? When will you come to see me?" No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what time it was, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to
such and such a place, of de Rainault.
But what did de Rainault care? It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance.
But enough of the Dickens - on with the story.
Once upon a time, Christmas Eve: The Sheriff of Nottingham leaned back in his chair at the high table, tired from a long day of counting the tax money his soldiers had collected that day. He drained the rest of his spiced wine and closed his eyes.
"Gisburne, I don't know where you got this wine from, but it really is excellent. Pour me another glass." When no additional wine presented itself, he looked down the table and noticed that his favourite whipping toy was not there. He spotted Sir Guy attempting to slip out of the great hall. He was wearing his best tunic and a small patch of green poked out of one pocket.
"Where do you think you're going, Gisburne? I don't seem to remember telling you that you were free to go."
Gisburne froze and turned back to his employer. "I thought..."
De Rainault smiled. "You thought? Such a momentous occasion, twice in one lifetime?" He dropped the smile and stood up. " Get back here."
After Guy reluctantly returned to the high table, de Rainault said, "I want you to supervise the clerks in the counting rooms tonight."
"You want me to count the taxes?"
The Sheriff gave him an exasperated look. "Of course not, you idiot, I want the tally to be correct. I want you to stand there and glare at them. Make sure they keep working - until dawn if necessary."
"But, my lord, I thoug..." His voice trailed off under the glare of the Sheriff.
"Do you have something better to do? And what is that in your pocket?"
Gisburne flushed and put his hand protectively over his pocket. He reluctantly removed the contents. "Mistletoe, my lord."
"I can see that it's mistletoe, you simpleton. What are you doing with it?"
De Rainault snatched the greenery from his hand. "Oh, don't tell me that you were planning to escape from your duties and run away to a Christmas celebration - perhaps planning on using this on some poor girl?" He flung the offending plant across the hall. "Christmas celebrations are a waste of time. Look around you, Gisburne." He pointed to the silent, frigid hall they stood
in. "This is the way I celebrate Christmas."
"But you are not celebrating."
"Exactly. What should I celebrate? The birth of a god I barely believe in? Or perhaps a pagan festival that I believe in even less? What is Christmas but an excuse for gluttons to eat until they can't move and drunkards to drink themselves into a stupor?" De Rainault paced to the other end of the dais.
"How would you have me celebrate Christmas? Shall I decorate the castle with greenery? Hang holly and ivy and your damnable mistletoe from every surface? Should there be a yule log burning in the hearth?" He gestured to the cold, empty fireplace. "Or perhaps I should have a feast? With groaning tables filled with roast pig and a roast goose and pies and barrels of wine? And
would you have musicians and players and fools and dancing?"
"It would be nice," Gisburne said softly.
The Sheriff turned and stormed back to his steward. "Nice? I'll tell you why it would not be 'nice'. The castle would be filled from top to bottom with drunken fools and screaming children, eating my food and destroying my home and *I* would be expected to pay for it all, down to the last plum. And worse, I would have to invite my brother, or even, God help me, my mother." He
sat back down in his chair and picked up his wine glass again.
"No thank you. This is how I will celebrate Christmas - in peace and quiet, just me and this excellent wine." He casually waved a hand at Sir Guy. "Now go and get that money counted. The King wants it for the new year."
On his way out, Sir Guy passed Edward of Wickham and "accidentally" bumped into him, knocking him to the ground. Edward brushed himself off and came to stand in front of the Sheriff. De Rainault ignored him, and continued to
lounge in his chair, sipping his wine and staring off to the far corner of the hall.
Eventually, Edward offered a tenuous, "My lord Sheriff?"
Without moving any other muscle, de Rainault turned his gaze on the village elder. After several minutes he sat up and said, "You might as well go ahead. It's not like you can make my day any worse."
"My lord, I have a boon to ask of you. We are collecting funds to help the poorest among us. In this festive season, will you donate money or extra food or clothing so that others may have a happier Christmas? (Yes, we know that Wickham would've actually celebrated something else a couple of days before. Edward is being politic.) (And, yes, we know that this is a very dangerous
thing we have Edward doing. Just go with us on this one.) (And, yes, we know that this doesn't sound much like Edward. Just go with us on this one too.)
The Sheriff gave Edward a look of total disbelief. "Have you completely lost your mind? What would make you think that I would ever give anything to you rabble? If you need money, go to your precious wolfsheads or go to the church - it's their job to take care of beggars. Or the poor could always sell their
children to get the extra money." Anger began to darken his face. "And if they would rather die, then they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population."
He stood and leaned forward with his hands on the table,
looking down at Edward. He said in a low voice, "This is how far my Christmas charity will extend - I will give you one minute to be out of my castle. Be grateful - on any other day I would've had you thrown directly into the dungeons."
As Edward quickly backed out of the room, de Rainault settled back into his chair and poured himself another glass of wine. What was it about Christmas that made otherwise sensible people go insane? Bah.
* * * *
Several hours later, Robert de Rainault took himself off to bed. (Well, actually, a servant took him off to bed.) As they crossed the great hall, the floor undulated strangely beneath his feet. Colours were bright and strange.
On his way up the stairs, he noticed a painting of old le Fevere that he thought he had exiled to a storage room long ago. He stopped to stare at it.
Le Fevere. He hadn't thought of the old lecher in years. If there had been anyone whose hatred of Christmas had exceeded his own, it was the old sheriff.
As he stared at the portrait, he thought it winked at him. He turned to the servant and asked, "Why has this painting been hung here?"
"What painting, my lord?"
When de Rainault turned back to the wall, the painting was no longer there. In silence, they continued to his rooms.
* * * *
Robert de Rainault sat in a chair in his rooms, feeling deeply disturbed. He had a great feeling of dread, as though something terrible was going to happen. He had just convinced himself that it was nonsense, and he should climb into bed, when he heard a dragging and clinking sound.
He turned to see an apparition before him. It was le Fevere, as he had been in life. He was as de Rainault remembered him, hugely fat with his chain of office around his neck. The only change was that he was dressed all in white, with pale, white skin and white hair and beard. He was wrapped about with heavy chains. The sheriff stood up and approached the spirit.
"How now!" said de Rainault, caustic and cold as ever. "What do you want with me?"
"Much!" -- le Fevere's voice. No doubt about it.
"Who are you?"
"Ask me who I was."
"Who were you then?" said de Rainault, raising his voice.
"In life I was your employer, William le Fevere. You don't believe in me," observed the Ghost.
"I don't," said de Rainault. "You are simply a bad dream, caused perhaps by a bit of undigested beef."
At this the spirit raised a frightful cry, and shook its chain with a dismal and appalling noise. He let out a string of colorful and inventive curses.
Startled, de Rainault fell back into his chair. This was indeed le Fevere.
"But why do you walk the earth, and why do you come to me?"
"It is required of every man," the Ghost returned, "that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellowmen, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the world -- oh, woe is me! -- and witness what it
cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!"
Again the spectre raised a cry, and shook its chain and wrung its shadowy hands.
"You are fettered," said de Rainault, trembling. "Tell me why?"
"I wear the chain I forged in life," replied the Ghost. "I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. A link was made every time I hurt someone and every time I did not help those who needed me. And you wear a chain that is just as long.
You have but one chance to avoid my fate." The spirit stepped closer to him. "You will be haunted," resumed the Ghost, "by Three Spirits."
"Without their visits," said the Ghost, "you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first tomorrow, when the watchman calls One. Expect the second on the next night at the same hour. The third upon the next night at twelve. Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us!" With that, the spirit threw a sheet over de
Rainault's head. When he pulled it off, the spirit was gone and the window was open.
De Rainault closed the window, and being, from the emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or the lateness of the hour, much in need of repose, went straight to bed without undressing and fell asleep upon the instant.
From a side room, the spirit came out, wiping flour from his face and pulling off his false beard. He walked up to the bed and looked down at the sleeping man. "Those herbs that were slipped into your wine are certainly working. You'll see whatever we want you to." He hurried back to the other room and
whispered, "Tell them that we can begin whenever they're ready, Little Flower."
