There he is, staring right down his long sharp nose at me. “One and a half hours to buy a bar of soap. That must be remarkable, even for a kitchen maid.”

I ask you! Sarcastic old man! And it was none of his business, anyway – that’s the cook’s place. I’m a kitchen maid, not a house maid. “I’m sorry, Mr Cameron. Er, there was –”

“I assume you were distracted by the idolatrous displays in the Guild Square.”

‘Idolatrous’ – He actually said that! I mean, this is the nineteenth century, for goodness sake! Who does he think is Queen: Boadicea or Victoria – God bless her? I saw Queen Victoria, you know, at – oh, I have told you, haven’t I.

Well, anyway, idolatrous! Oswick Wakenight! And yes of course that’s what I was doing, I thought to myself, you sanctimonious old prig.

“ ‘Walk ye not in the statutes of your fathers, neither observe their judgments, nor defile yourselves with their idols: I am the Lord your God.’ Ezekiel chapter 20 verse 18, Jenny.” In his priggish, nasal drone the word ‘Ezekiel’ sounded like fingernails scraping on a window pane.

“Yes, Mr Cameron.”

“Very well. Get on with your work.”

“Yes, Mr Cameron.”

And you get on with yours, Mr Cameron, and stop poking your sharp nose into what doesn’t concern you! And the sooner his lordship comes back, the better. Sir Ruthven doesn’t tolerate your preaching, does he!

I fetched the scrubbing brush out and had a good go at the scullery. I always feel better after that.

It was already getting dark, so it must have been about five when word comes round that we’re all wanted in the servants’ hall. When we get there, old Holier-than-Thou Cameron stands up. Oh no, I thought. He’s going to preach at us about the idolatrous goings-on at the Wakenight!

But no. For once I was wrong. Well, almost wrong.

“There has been a communication from his lordship,” he begins, and I see he’s holding a sheet of paper in his hand. He puts those silly little pince-nez of his on the point of his nose like a duchess. “The passage that matters is this.” He makes a grummelling noise in his throat and stares at the paper. “ ‘Since January the sixth is Oswick Wakenight, please inform all staff that they may have the evening off, provided that they return in time to ensure that the household runs smoothly the following day, and provided at least one senior member of staff remains in the house.’ ” He looks up, squinting over his glasses. “Mrs Davis has agreed to stay,” he added.

Cook’s staying! Oh, that’s wonderful, I thought. I needn’t be back till one at the earliest, then!

Mr Cameron stares at his sheet again. “ ‘Staff should note that Wakenight has become notorious in recent years for a certain rowdy element in the crowd, and so any member of staff who wishes may borrow a whistle –’ his lordship has a small stock of these modern police-type whistles that are most effective even in a crowd – ‘so that they can raise an alarm.’” He looks at us over his pince-nez and grummells again. “His lordship’s advice is well thought of – all staff, but especially female members of staff, would be well advised to take that offer, and not to hesitate to use it if need arise.”

So some lout threatens you, and you blow the whistle. Who will come! I mean, anyone with any nouse will run the other way! I’m taking a carving knife in my ruff – and a spare kitchen knife in my stocking top. I know what’s what – I know what it can be like at these things, believe me, especially late on.

“These are his lordship’s instructions, and they will of course be carried out. But I most earnestly recommend you all not to involve yourselves in these pagan idolatries, instead that you consider your immortal souls. I myself shall be attending a prayer meeting at Mallergate Chapel, and if any of you wish to join the brethren and sistern there in spiritual warfare against the powers of paganism and idolatry around us, I would be delighted to introduce you to the meeting.”

Paganism in the nineteenth century! And I’m as good a Christian as him any day, even if he is chapel and I’m church – my grandmother having been housekeeper to a Marquis.

Anyway, a couple of hours later Ruby and I – Ruby’s the upstairs maid, she’s a good pal of mine, and gradely company – anyway, we’re wandering through the falling snow into Old Market, so wrapped up against the wind and snow that we looked like two Eccles cakes, and chewing hot baked potatoes to warm us from the inside.

Then we hear “Hello! You’ve slidden out too?”

Oh. Oh well. Susan’s well enough, but she is a bit prissy, a bit girlish, if you know what I mean, especially for a lady’s maid. You’d think her work would have got the primness out of her long ago.

“Susan! No, we haven’t slidden out! His lordship’s given the whole house the night off! We reckon we’ve got till one-ish.”

“Goodness! You two don’t know how lucky you are. I daren’t risk past eleven o’clock – and even that’s only because Housekeeper’s too stupid to notice when I go out and come back. Hey, the fun’s starting! Can I come with you? Mary’s got a touch of the you-know-whats.”

See what I mean about Susan being prim? In plainer English, Mary daren’t go far from a privy. Not surprised – I’ve tasted their cook’s cooking. “Yes of course, Susan! Have some of my baked potato!”

We found a place to watch – in the end, anyway; you know how it goes; every time we thought we’d got a good viewpoint some toff or other would push us aside and take it over. Well, you expect that, don’t you. But we were well settled halfway up the steps at the front of the Black Boar, when the Oswick Waits started playing. They came marching out of Irkengate, and stood over to one side by the Guildhouse; when they stopped there was such a silence! But then we all cheered when we saw the Golden Queen come into the Square in a proper procession with her tough, male guards tumbling and spinning before her, all flaming in red and yellow; the music started again louder than ever, and we all watched her climb, step by step, up to the high throne, her guards dancing a fiery dance in the Square in front of her, making hot swirls as the snow blew around them. She looked so tiny up there – I could have cuddled her!

Then the music stopped, sharp; the silence held for two breaths; then we heard the beat, like a distant drum, and we all turned to watch the other side of the square.

Masked woman warriors in skull-white uniforms slow‑marching out of the snowy black gap of Micklegate, seeming to vanish and appear again against the snow. They carried white-painted staves, and they thumped them on the ground as they marched – that was the drumming we heard; the rhythm ran cold up my backbone: one, pause, two, thump – little puffs of snow came up at each thump. Susan was letting out little gasps at each step, and even I bit my lip, it was so eerie. And then, behind that ghostly army, the White King – gigantic, his glittering silver robe and crown towering high above the crowd, almost above the roofs of the houses. He lurched and lumbered in, step by step; frightening, of course, but half comical as well – and just then to me, it was more frightening for being comical. I’ve always had my doubts about clowns, you know. The icy breeze knifed through our coats – a real lazy Oswick wind, too lazy to go round you – and it blew the White King’s clothing around as well. I could see the shapes of the four big strong lads in each leg holding up his wicker frame; I could see them straining to keep control against that wind.

The warriors halted; the drumming stopped; the White King stood opposite the Golden Queen’s throne, towering over her, and we all held our breath – not just the three of us, but the whole crowd; you would have heard a pin drop. Then two by two his warriors cartwheeled towards the throne, danced as if they were dancing a mock battle with two of her guards, and each time white won against gold. And at each win the monstrous White King strode one pace forward towards the tiny Queen’s high throne. We held our breath.

Now they were face to face; his gigantic white horror against her tiny golden beauty. She stood up, drew her shining blade and swept it round in front of her; the huge head rocked a couple of times, teetered on the edge of the neck, and tumbled to the ground. As it fell, white doves with golden streamers flew out from where the head had been.

I cheered, we cheered, the crowd cheered, the warriors and guards danced and pranced while people covered the empty body of the White King with logs and branches, and finally the Golden Queen flung a torch down onto the heap. It blazed into a bonfire.

We cheered and cheered, they threw more branches and logs onto the blaze, and the Golden Queen and all the dancers, white and gold, danced their dance three times around the fire. Then they all went off – I really hope to a good bowl of hotpot. They’d need it.

“Brilliant!” breathed Susan. “How about some more baked potatoes?”

“Or a black pudding each?” said I. After all, I’d not had a proper dinner.

And we wandered off among the stalls.

It was about half past ten that things suddenly went very wrong. Yes, I know, it was our own fault – we’d got blocked in by the crowd and we tried to take a short cut. Stupid, but you can always say that afterwards, can’t you!

“You see, ladies, we just want you to be nice to us.” The speaker had a rusty old sword in one hand; the other was wrapped in his coat tail. His mates had knives.

Like I did. But mine was longer.

“So either you’re nice to us straight away, all three of you, or we’re going to show you what will happen if you’re not, by slicing one of you up, so that the other two will take the hint. So waving that knife around will just slow things down. It won’t make any difference in the long run.”

My fear was half choking me, but do you know, behind it there was a little voice, saying: He’s talking too much. He wasn’t expecting a weapon from a kitchenmaid, but I said, I’ve been around. And I’ve got him worried.

I kept my knife up in front of me, and pushed Ruby behind me – I had to use the back of my left hand, and I think she smothered a squeal. Good girl. Of course, not having been around quite as long as I have, she hadn’t thought to bring a knife; Susan had fetched out a little paring knife from her reticule that was almost useless to defend herself with – I don’t think she’d thought about protection, I think she’d just brought it simply to cut up her roast potatoes and black puddings – and anyway would you trust Susan to use a knife in earnest?

It’s up to me. I could hear the voice as clear as if it was whispering in my ear: it’s up to me.

Then I remembered my whistle. Well, it won’t help, but at least I’ll have tried, and Mr Cameron can’t say I didn’t do what I was told. I blew it – it was a proper London peeler’s whistle, and it made a gradely din; even the man with the sword blinked and stepped back. A gain – a real, actual gain! But, you know, I just couldn’t see how to use such a little gain.

“I am so glad I’m not inconveniencing you, sir,” I said aloud. “I’d hate to think that my little knife was getting in your way, sir.” Halfway through the sentence I suddenly jumped at him and slashed backhanded, like opening a pig carcass; he had to jump back. It gave me time to get my second knife out – from under all my skirts! What had I been thinking of! What’s the good of carrying a knife you can’t get at!

I kept staring at the leader, but my Uncle Ab took rabbits for the pot when the keepers weren’t looking, and he’d taught me a thing or two when I was a kid: I let my eyes widen. I could see one of the others was working himself up for a side attack – no of course he never realised I knew; how stupid do you think I am? So when he slashed forward – it was right onto my left hand blade. I speared his arm right through the muscle; he dropped his knife, and used words you really shouldn’t employ in front of a lady. Disgusting, I call it. Anyway, I was back and ready before the main thug seemed to realise what had happened.

“You seem very slow!” I remarked. “Too much ale fettling yourselves up to this? Scared of fighting women, six to three? Well I can understand that, you must’ve been scared witless.”

But really I was lucky, it’s still five and a half to three, every one of them is twice my weight, and I’m the only one with a proper knife. At least I’ll die fighting; they’re not going to get what they want without.

And then something tinkled; a coin flickered across the cobbles, in front of one of the toughs. He bent down to pick it up.

“NO!” shouted the leader.

Too late.

The stick caught the tough right on the back of the neck, smashing his face into the cobbles. Blood from his shattered face spattered his coat and he tumbled over sideways; I heard him grunt as he landed on the cobbles. He began to struggle back to his knees, but a boot kicked his chin, and he flopped to the ground.

And suddenly I was hoping again.

“I gather you are pestering these ladies,” said a nasal, priggish voice. I recognised it.

The leader didn’t relax his guard, but he did back away. “We’ll give you one last chance, mister. Get a long way away very quick, or you’ll die nastily.”

The moon was shining bright, but therefore making hard black shadows. “Oh, I do not think so. But it is in the Lord’s hand, as are all things.” I couldn’t believe my eyes; Mr Cameron himself, in person, stepping into the moonlight, a sword in one hand and its stick in the other. A butler with a sword! I mean!

But the Lord be praised for it, I thought, even if it is a weird picture. Mr Cameron – you do not cross Mr Cameron. He’ll sort these thugs out – we’re safe! Watch him beat them into meatpaste!

I even let my knife drop a little, just keeping it up enough to give him time to take over.

He took another casual step forwards. “Actually, I think you’d better be going a long way, from what I have overheard. There are punishments appointed for such crimes, extending for many years if God in His mercy spares you so long.”

Well, he sounded – you know, confident, like he always does, but I couldn’t help noticing a tiny tremor in his voice. I looked across at him – by Jingo! It’s all bravado! Underneath, he’s as terrified as me! Well, perhaps not quite, but he’s more scared than he’s pretending.

It was like it says in that Bible he’s so fond of quoting, as it were scales fell from my eyes. Suddenly, he was no longer the big boss come to rescue a gaggle of the maidservants, but an old man, as weak as I was, come to face the bullies alongside me and Ruby. Oh, and Susan.

I put my knife back up, and tried to watch the thugs and Mr Cameron at the same time.

“It must have seemed so easy when it was six men to three women,” he went on. “And only one of the three with a real weapon. A pushdown.” I could still hear the tiny shake in his voice – but could the thugs? I didn’t think so. “But now it’s five to four, and two of us with good weapons. It is less easy now, is it not?”

The leader stepped back a little, and his louts stepped back with him – to cover all his enemies more easily, I suppose. Well, one more tiny victory for our side, anyway.

I saw Mr Cameron was thinking the same; he dropped the tip of his sword. “Let me suggest something: let us be civilised. I shall start counting, and I won’t attack till I get to ten. Thus you shall have a chance of escaping the justice that you so richly deserve. One, two, six, eight –”

The leader grabbed the sleeve of the man who started to run. “Stuff it, little boy.” Well, he didn’t say ‘stuff’, you know, but I wouldn’t sully my mouth with the language that he did use. Such vulgarity! “We can take you all on, and not break a sweat. And we shall. Five to four? Five to one and a half, more like. Surely, it’ll be slower than we expected, but in the end – in the end you’re dead meat.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

Mr Cameron sounded ever so casual, and d’you know, he even began tossing another coin in his stick hand. The coin glittered in the moonlight. As the coin went up and down, so did the tip of his stick, shining silver in the moonlight: up and down, up and down, up and down. Everyone’s eyes watched it.

I was a gowk, I know, but it took me several seconds to realise what he was doing; he was giving me – he was giving us a chance to escape! Leaving him behind! I could see – the gang were all watching him – we’d get a five pace start, even with Susan slowing us down.

Escape? And leave him to be sliced up when he’d come to rescue us? No, certainly not, Mr Cameron!!

My stab took out an eye. The gang turned on me, and therefore away from him – his sword jerked out and slashed into a shoulder. The coin tinkled on the cobbles.

The leader thrust at me – is it ‘thrust’ I mean? You know, like a proper swordsman – but I think he trod on a patch of ice, because he slid sideways and lost balance. I knocked his sword out of the way – parrying, they call it, don’t they? – and nearly fell myself, but I was half expecting it.

Now we were face to face; his rusty white sword against my ivory-handled carving knife. I stood up, set my shining blade and swept it round in front of me; the leader rocked a couple of times, teetered on the edge of balance, and stumbled to the ground. As he fell, the other toughs panicked and ran.

The leader was on his feet before you could say Jack Robinson, of course he was, but too late. He waved his sword in a sort of final gesture of defiance, and ran off too.

I lowered my knife at last, and panted like a dog in the summertime.

“Thank you, Mr–”

But Mr Cameron was already speaking.

“Jenny, Ruby, my respects to your young friend. Please introduce me.”

“Y-yes Mr Cameron. Susan, this is Mr Cameron, butler to his lordship Sir Ruthven Calquhoun of Penkby House. Mr Cameron, may I introduce Susan, who is lady’s maid to Lady Arabella Monkseaton, of Monkseaton Grange.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Susan. You have been granted a most merciful escape, all three of you. And I trust you will give thanks to the Almighty for his grace in this. I suggest in future that you take more care to stay in the populous areas – it would be most presumptuous to expect the Lord to supply an old soldier to protect you a second time.”

Mr Cameron is – WHAT?

I must have shewn something in my face, I suppose, because he looked at me straight down his nose – and that’s a long way. “Young lady, do ye look on things after the outward appearance, in defiance of the clear word of Scripture? Remember, the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart; First Book of Samuel, chapter 16, verse 7. It may well be that now ‘the keepers of the house tremble, and the strong men bow themselves’, but five and twenty years ago I was fighting the French at Waterloo, with a flask of strong drink in my belt and perdition in my heart, and only the grace of God between me and a just death.” He paused, in midflow – and that was another surprise, Mr Cameron passing the chance to preach a sermon at us.

And then I was just trying to thank him again, and I could hear Susan and Ruby trying to as well, and he just turns on his heel and stalks away! Never a backward glance! I ask you!

It never was mentioned again until two days – two full days after, when I was fetching up the napkins for supper.

“Ah, Jenny,” he says, his sharp nose sniffing the napkins – did he think they’d not been washed? “Punctual for once, I see.” He paused. “Perhaps recent events may have led you to make a turn for the better.” Then – and you won’t believe this, he actually smiled at me! Yes, smiled! And he says, “That was a good night, Wakenight, was it not.”

“Yes, Mr Cameron,” I says, “It was. And mostly thanks to you.” And for the first and only time ever, I looked him in the eye. “I learned a lot that night,” I says.

He nodded. “And so did I, Jenny,” he says. “So did I.”