Five minutes later, they left the great hall, passing the grumbling cooks, the supercilious kitchen cat  and the snoring guards, Vaclav pulling the laden sled of logs, wine and pots of cabbage, while Pavel carefully carried the meat and vegetables. There was no sign of Peter.

“Well, Pavel, has he gone home?”

Pavel shook his head, shivering miserably. “I think he’ll carry on along the forest fence to get all the blown down branches. It’s more sheltered that way, Sir.”

The duke nodded. “So, if we cut straight across the fields, we’ll get there first? Well young man, best foot forward. Quicker we walk, the less the wind will nip at our heels.”

On and on they plodded – not a great distance, but with deep snowdrifts and a howling wind which made progress slow. Pavel stumbled often, nearly falling with his load. The light began to fade, making the snow glow with a strange light. The duke puzzled how strange it was that he’d known nothing of the struggles of this old man who worked the fields for him. He wondered how many more were fighting to stay alive, when a stone’s throw away was Duke Vaclav in his castle, feasting every week and wrapped in furs. Why wasn’t I told? he asked himself, and heard another question come back: Did you really want to know?

The snow was falling again – harder, darting out of the darkening sky and blinding poor Pavel, hands numb with the cold and feet that battled with every step. Suddenly, he stumbled and fell into a huge drift, and cried out. Vaclav turned, and hurried back.

“What lad? What’s this? Tired out?”

“No, Sir,,,,but….it’s so cold, the wind is stronger and it’s getting dark.”

Vaclav laid gloved hands on the lad’s shoulders. “We’re nearly there, are we not? Think of Peter, who has to face this every winter’s day. Take my cloak – it’ll wrap round you twice. Oh -and stop trying to make your own tracks. Follow the sled runs, or walk in my footprints. Much less effort and it’ll save the snow running into your boots.

Pavel was encouraged by the duke’s kindness. “Gladly, sir!”

As they went on, Vaclav was careful to take smaller steps, so Pavel could save his strength by stepping in the duke’s prints. The page found the going far easier, and he began to feel curiously excited, even happy.

When they reached Peter’s dwelling, Vaclav’s eyes clouded with sadness as he saw the pitiful way pieces of old wood had been roped together to keep out the weather. Inside, the snow had drifted in and lay unmelted on the earth floor. In the corner, a rough fireplace stood, cold and empty. “First things first,” he said, “lets get the fire going!”

This was Pavel’s area of expertise, and soon a roaring blaze lit up the room. Vaclav swept out the melting snow and started scrubbing vegetables (a skill he’d always meant to learn), while Pavel hoisted the huge joint of meat above the fire to finish cooking. They found Peter’s cooking-pot and Vaclav fetched water. It was starting to boil, and the dumplings had just gone in, when the door opened.

“Who are you – and what are you doing in my home?” demanded the old man, dropping his burden of wood. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he recognised the Duke of Bohemia and fell stiffly to his knees in horror and puzzlement.

“Get up, Peter, please,” cried Vaclav, “goodness knows I should be the one on my knees, begging your forgiveness for my ignorance and selfishness. I may be rich, and some call me a king, but all my money and my power have not made me a better man than you.” And he handed the old peasant a mug of ruby wine.

“Wine?” spluttered Peter (who like all Bohemians was first and foremost a beer drinker), “so kind…but perhaps not on an empty stomach?”

“Then let us fill your belly first! Come sit by the fire and feast with us!”

So long into the evening, duke, page and peasant shared a meal, talking and laughing as if they were old friends. Peter told Vaclav of the lives of those who lived around the woods and fields of Bohemia, and Vaclav listened and suggested many ways in which he could help, starting with a new cottage for Peter after Epiphany.

And when the duke stood up to leave, and Pavel, dozing by the fire after all, scrambled to his feet, old Peter suddenly remembered that this was his lord and began to offer his gratitude and allegiance.

But Vaclav brushed his thanks aside. “I should be thanking you,” he said, “for you have given me far more than food or fire. Now I know that my fortunate birth doesn’t give me the right to wealth and comfort while my people starve. And I’ve feasted with kings and princesses and great warriors, but I have never enjoyed a meal so much as I did this one tonight!”

The wind had fallen and the sky had cleared. The snow lay deep, crisp and even, and the air was full of the freshness of midwinter. In the velvet black sky, a single shimmering star shone down upon a silent earth, lighting the way for Pavel and Vaclav as they made their journey home.

Vaclav (aka Wenceslas) was a real person, Duke of Bohemia 921-935 A.D. They were murderous times, and he was stabbed to death in a plot in which his own brother was implicated. He was revered for his courage, piety – and not least his personally-executed deeds of compassion to the poor of his dukedom. He is considered the patron saint of the Czech Republic, and his statue in the famous “rectangular square” in Prague named after him, has presided over tragedy and joy, winter and spring again.