My Gift to You – Holiday excerpts from my historical fiction novel, Hatfield 1677 https://www.amazon.com/Hatfield-1677-Laura-C-Rader-ebook/dp/B0CW18FWXS/ref=sr_1_1?

Excerpt From Chapter 56 – Ben – Lake Champlain

We slept better that night than in many, and though dawn was only a glimmer amongst the shadows, I awoke refreshed. I’d hoped to travel a fair distance that day, and we started off portaging on thin but solid lake ice. Presently, to our frustration, the rising sun melted the ice just enough to make it treacherous yet not enough to pass in our canoe. Quite a lot of snow had fallen the night before, so walking seemed foolhardy.

We found a spot to rest beneath the trees beside a jumble of boulders and small slides of rock, undoubtedly cast there by the Irish Crone of Beare. We sat and talked of idle matters. Fond childhood memories, people we’d met on this journey, the cobbler’s trade, England and Ireland—anything to take our minds off our impotence.

“Soon ’twill be Christmas. And then Saint Stephen’s Day,” Stephen said, unfolding a leaf of paper. He kept a calendar, admittedly a wise idea.

“You have your own pagan day?”

“Catholic, Ben. Mama named me after him. The young men in her village called it Wren Day.”

“Wren? Like the bird?”

“Yes. A gang of lads found a wild wren and tormented the poor thing with stones until they killed it. After that, they tied it atop a pole decorated with ribbons. The older lads disguised themselves behind straw masks or blackened their faces with coal and carried the wren from house to house. At each house, they sang a song about the wren.”

“Dear Lord, you aren’t going to sing it, are you?” I asked, laughing.

Stephen laughed. “I would, if you’d pay me. The villagers would pay the lads for their songs. Or throw cold pea soup at them, if they were that sort.”

“What did they do with the money?”

“They used it to hold a dance for the entire village.”

“I suppose I can understand how, in a country haunted by the Crone of Beare, you’d want some frivolous and diverting traditions, even if they did involve drunkenness and dead birds.”

There was a rustle in an old oak tree a stone’s throw away. Stephen and I both reached for our guns. Something moved in the waning light, but in the brief time it took me to prime and cock my pistol, the rustling ceased.

Excerpt from Chapters 60 and 61 -Martha – Canada

I knew Madame de Saurel must be lonely, with no children of her own and her husband busy with his many duties as Seigneur and captain. I had taken for granted my life as a farmer’s wife, the comfort of knowing Ben would be home for supper each day, rarely away on business. I ached to have that life back again—though I supposed the threat from the Native people would remain forever.

We cut fresh butter into flour, added a pinch of salt and a cup of water, and kneaded the pâte feuilletée. While the pastry rested, we mixed butter, sugar, eggs, and ground almonds for the filling. Catherine rolled out two circles of dough, placing one in the pan. I spread the filling and was about to put the second circle of pastry on top when she stopped me.

“Non, non! C’est Galette des Rois!” she said, handing me a silver charm shaped like a chubby baby about the size of my thumb.

I looked at her questioningly, and she pointed to the edge of the pastry.

“Ici. L’enfant Christ.”

Now I understood. I set the charm atop the almond filling before I placed the top crust. Catherine crimped the edges, decorated the top, brushed it with egg, and put it in the fire’s oven to bake.

“L’enfant Christ en la galette, pourquoi?” I asked. Each word was an achievement.

 “How do you say, it is a surprise? For a person.” She pronounced it like sur-preez, but I understood…

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 “Maintenant,” she exclaimed, “la Galette des Rois.” She sliced it into nine equal portions.

“Pierre,” she called to her husband. “S’il te plaît?” She spoke to him rapidly in French.

“Oh, yes, Martha, I am to explain the tradition of the King’s Cake. The youngest—Sarah—passes out the cake, one piece to each of us. Whoever has the piece with the Christ child is King or Queen for the day and may pick a companion to be their Queen or King.”

“Sally, you have a special task today. You will pass out the cake,” I said.

Sally smiled and picked up the first plate of cake as though it were made of glass, setting it in front of Monsieur de Saurel…

“Monsieur, why did we cut nine pieces?” I asked once Sally had served us all. “There are but eight of us.”

“Oui, Martha, the extra slice is la part du Bon Dieu, the part for a good God. It is a tradition to set that piece aside lest a stranger or person in need should come to our home,”

Monsieur de Saurel explained. “Place it by the crèche, s’il te plaît.”