Drage sits still

Drage winced. He had told the spider not to bother his Mama, but he had not thought of poor, timid Hetty. He was a little sorry he had brought his spider now.

But perhaps she was only crying because of the wedding. Alred had sworn he would cry, though Drage did not see why he should – or, if it made him cry, why he did not put a stop to it, since it had been his and Papa’s idea.

The Mass went on, however, though it was not long before Old Aed’s old son was fidgeting furiously in the front row.

Drage thought that this was more like it. There was glory in the boldness of it, for climbing into the clothing of a kilted man meant crossing a certain expanse of bare leg.

On the other hand, after Donnchad abruptly settled, Drage began to fear that it had been a fool’s mission, and that his spider had met an untimely demise, long before they had reached the part where Father Aelfden took out the bread and wine.

“Quit fidgeting,” Old-​​Papa whispered.

“I’m not! I’m just looking around.”

“That’s fidgeting.”

“No, it’s not! What old Donnchad was just doing – that was fidgeting.” Drage could not suppress a giggle. “And what about Hetty? She was crying.”

“Sit still, or I shall make you cry, and fix you so you can’t sit down without ‘fidgeting’ for a week.”

Drage sat still. Old-​​Papa knew everything that little boys liked, but he also knew how to whip a behind like no other man. Drage’s own Papa had learned all he knew about whipping from the business end of Old-Papa’s switch.

He sat still – except for the standing and kneeling parts – through the Kyrie and the Gloria and halfway through the Epistle, and then he was distracted by an agitated clinking sound behind him.