The Christmas Wassail (4 page)

‘We-ell, not quite,' I said. ‘You know the ending to this story as well as I do. You've heard it before. The other gods and goddesses all missed Balder so much that they begged Odin to bring him back to life. So he did.'

Adam nodded, then said thoughtfully, ‘Like Our Lord, Jesus Christ.'

I don't know how long Adela had been standing in the parlour doorway, left open by Adam, or just how much she had heard, but our son's unconscious blasphemy set the seal on her wrath. He was seized from my lap and, to his utter astonishment, given a resounding slap where it hurt the most before his mother turned on me.

‘Don't ever,' she raged, ‘let me hear you telling him, or any of the children, stories like that again. I won't have you corrupting their minds with such evil, irreligious nonsense.' She turned back to Adam and shook him hard. ‘And don't let me hear you repeating it, either. You're to put such wickedness out of your mind. Do you understand me, Adam? Men only made up those stories when they didn't know any better. But we do! There is only One God and Our Lord Jesus Christ is His Son. I don't ever want to hear those pagan names on your lips again.'

I was by now in as much of a temper as she was. ‘That's just plain stupid,' I rasped. ‘If he can't mention Tue, Woden, Thor and Frig, how is he going to pronounce the days of the week? You perhaps don't realize it, my dear' – there is nothing like a ‘my dear' to emphasize how angry you are when arguing with your wife – ‘but we talk about them all the time.'

Adela stared at me for a moment or two, her breast heaving, then she quite suddenly burst into tears. ‘I hate you!' she sobbed and rushed from the room.

Adam and I stared at one another in consternation.

Of course, she didn't really hate me.

I put Adam to bed in the little room he shared with Nicholas, then went in search of Adela in our own bedchamber, where she always took refuge when upset. It took all my well-known tact and charm to win her round – plus a solemn promise never again to tell the children ‘pagan legends' as she called them – and in the end we decided to go to bed ourselves and make up in the usual way. It was pitch dark outside and a fine snow was still falling. As my wife pointed out, it would save candles and more logs for the parlour fire; but as I couldn't help reflecting, rather sadly, there had been a time, not that far distant, when such a mundane consideration would not even have entered our heads.

I woke after some hours with a raging thirst, the result of three beakers of ale and two bowlfuls of rabbit stew, and went downstairs to the water barrel in the kitchen to slake it. The snow had stopped now, as a peep out of the back door into our little yard confirmed. In the distance, I could hear the rattle of the night-soilers' carts as they went about their filthy, stinking business, cleaning out the public latrines and cesspits as well as the private privies of anyone who was willing to pay for their services. Occasionally, I did so myself and decided that if I continued to earn good money at my peddling, I might do so permanently. It was a happy thought and I smiled. Then I went back inside, shutting and bolting the door after me.

I was still thirsty, so I fetched another cup of water and perched on the edge of the kitchen table, swinging one leg. It had not been the best possible start to Christmas, but that had been largely my own fault. I shouldn't have stayed in the Green Lattis, drinking, and I shouldn't have lost my temper when I discovered that Richard Manifold had usurped my right to tie the kissing bush to the ceiling hook. Or should I? I wasn't quite sure.

Thinking about the Green Lattis brought back the memory of the face I had seen across the ale-room. I was still unable to put a name to it, but I was possessed of the strong conviction that it had been in the wrong place. It hadn't been in its familiar surroundings. Had it been, I felt certain I should have known who the man was.

‘You'll recollect, given time,' I told myself. ‘Let it alone and it'll come to you. It always does.'

But I couldn't stop worrying at the problem, like probing an aching tooth with one's tongue, so I deliberately diverted my thoughts to a different worry, and one that I could do nothing about. It was a month or so now since rumours began circulating that King Richard – a man I loved and deeply admired and who had, on several occasions, claimed me as a friend – had had his two nephews murdered. These stories had started during the late rebellion, and I thought I knew who was their author: one of the king's most implacable enemies, John Morton, Bishop of Ely. But once the rebellion had been put down, skilfully and with very little loss of life or retribution, I had confidently expected the king to deny the calumny publicly and to produce the two boys, alive and well, for all the world to see. It hadn't happened, and although I kept telling myself that my belief in King Richard's humanity and probity was as strong as ever, now and again I felt that belief to be a little shaken …

It was useless to think like that. I stood up abruptly, swallowed the remaining water, replaced the cup on the shelf and went back to bed. In spite of my cluttered mind, within five minutes I was asleep and snoring. Or, at least, so Adela informed me in the morning.

It was at breakfast that Adela, looking a little heavy-eyed as though she had slept badly, informed Nicholas and myself that our first task on this Eve of Christmas would be to go down to Redcliffe Wharf where, so she had been informed, the Yule logs were being distributed.

‘Now you know what to look for, Roger,' she instructed me. ‘A log that's not too wet, so that it won't burn at all, but not too dry, either. A bit green and damp so that it will burn throughout the whole twelve days until Twelfth Night. If it stops burning, that's bad luck for the coming year.'

‘I wanted to go and watch the mummers arrive,' my stepson protested indignantly, but his mother was adamant.

‘That's not until this afternoon,' she said. ‘There will be plenty of time for that afterwards.'

‘How do you know it's this afternoon?' Nick, though normally a quiet and amenable child, could be awkward when he chose.

‘Sergeant Manifold said so.'

‘I didn't hear him.'

‘That'll do, Nicholas!' Adela so rarely called her son by his full name that he looked startled. ‘You'll do as I tell you.'

Not another Christmas disagreement, please Lord, I prayed silently. Out loud I said, ‘I should appreciate your company, Nick. Then, if I choose the wrong log, I'll have someone to share the blame with.'

That made him grin and restored his good humour. ‘Can we take Hercules?'

‘Yes, if you like. Although I warn you, he's bound to be more of a hindrance than a help.'

So as soon as breakfast was finished, I set out with the two of them for Redcliffe Wharf. Before leaving, I gave Adela a smacking kiss and the purseful of money I had made the preceding day. Pleasurably surprised by the amount, she not only returned my embrace with interest, but actually conceded that perhaps, after all, I had earned those extra two beakers of ale in the Green Lattis.

Early as it was, the streets were already crowded as people began their last-minute preparations for the holy day on the morrow. As we made our way across the bridge and along Redcliffe Street the crowds grew thicker, and several times Hercules was obliged to growl menacingly at strangers who jostled us too closely. Like ourselves, many of those on foot were making their way towards the quayside where the Yule logs were being handed out. My hopes of getting one exactly suited to my wife's requirements faded.

We had just turned into one of the narrow alleyways which run between Redcliffe Street and the Backs, when a great shout went up from some of the people ahead of us. ‘A mill! A mill!'

Every man loves a good fight, and immediately all those behind us began surging forward. I hauled Hercules up into my arms, told Nicholas to hang on to my cloak and on no account to let go, then used my height and bulk and strength to heave aside my neighbours and push us clear of the alley.

A circle of spectators, about eight deep, had already formed about the two contestants, but I edged my stepson to where a pile of Yule logs, a little apart from the rest and so far unnoticed by others, formed a platform from which the fight could easily be viewed in comfort.

To my astonishment, this was no bout of fisticuffs between a couple of crane workers or dock-hands – which was not an unusual sight along the Backs – but a set-to between two young men who, judging by their clothes, were of some wealth and standing. The savagery of the blows which they were inflicting on one another argued an enmity deeply felt and of long duration, but they had, at least, chosen to fight with their fists rather than their daggers or swords which, together with their cloaks and hats, were piled at the feet of an onlooker.

It was not easy to distinguish between them. They were of a similar age – somewhere, I guessed, around nineteen or twenty. Both were of slender build and both had brown curly hair. Indeed, except for the fact that one wore a blue tunic and the other a green it would have been almost impossible to tell them apart.

After a few minutes watching them, it became apparent that ‘blue tunic' was getting the worst of it. He had been knocked to the ground twice in the last few seconds and was obviously tiring. His opponent, on the other hand, still seemed fresh and ready to continue handing out punishment indefinitely. And perhaps he would have done had there not, at that moment, been an interruption.

Some of the spectators were suddenly and violently scattered by a horse and rider plunging between them. A whip flashed, catching ‘green tunic' across the shoulders, and a stentorian voice shouted, ‘Stop this! Stop it at once!'

It was Sir George Marvell.

S
ir George threw himself from his horse and seized ‘green tunic' by the scruff of his neck, at the same time bellowing, ‘You great oaf! You young bully! Leave your uncle be!' He then gave the lad a shove which sent the latter sprawling on the ground and turned to the other, who appeared to my eyes as the slightly younger man. But if he had expected sympathy, he was disappointed. ‘Get up, for Sweet Christ's sake, Bart! What are you, a man or a jellyfish? If you can't stand up to a lout like James, God help you! You should be ashamed of yourself!'

The man in the green tunic, referred to as James, got to his feet and gave a snort of laughter. ‘There's one thing to be said about you, Grandfather: you don't have favourites. We all get to feel the rough edge of your tongue.' He stooped and proffered a hand to his opponent, still struggling to rise. ‘No hard feelings, Bartholomew. But you shouldn't be insolent to your elders and betters, you know, even if I am your nephew.'

‘You're not better than me. Father!' The other youth, now on his feet, laid a hand on Sir George's arm. ‘Tell him to stop teasing me. He's always on at me and I don‘t like it,' he whined.

The onlookers had fallen silent, delighted by the spectacle of an aristocratic family, oblivious of dignity and pride, tearing itself apart. But the charade was not yet played out. A female voice, shrill and full of venom, demanded, ‘What have you been doing to my son, you hulking brute?'

The knight spun round, his face as black as thunder. ‘Leave this to me, Patience! This has nothing to do with you. Just a lads' quarrel, that's all. Bart's not hurt. Go home!'

Patience! This, then, was the present Lady Marvell, mother of ‘blue tunic' and the woman Burl swore was last night's visitor to the Green Lattis. I craned my neck in order to obtain a better view of her and was rewarded by seeing her clearly in profile as she turned her head to look at another woman who was pushing her way angrily through the crowd. I saw a thin face with a sharp, prominent nose and very black eyebrows, the latter finding an echo in her son's slightly coarser features. Her slender frame was expensively dressed in a brown fur-trimmed velvet cloak and hood, which was definitely not the garment she had been wearing the previous evening – had it indeed been her whom Burl and I had seen.

The second woman who had joined the group was equally, if not quite as richly dressed in a cloak and hood of red wool with a trimming of marten fur framing her face. This I was unable to see because she was turned away from me, addressing Sir George, but her voice was as high-pitched as Lady Marvell's and every bit as vituperative.

‘What is going on here?' She stabbed a forefinger at Bartholomew Marvell. ‘What has that little bastard been doing to my son?'

The youth called James stepped forward hastily and, putting an arm about her shoulders, said something in a low voice, plainly remonstrating with her, but gently.

She put up a hand to caress his cheek, her response to his words carrying easily to where Nicholas and I were standing.

‘No, I will not be silent! If your own mother can't be your champion, who can? You have been pushed to one side all your life for that idiot there, who she says' – the woman rounded fiercely on Patience Marvell – ‘is your grandfather's son but who might be anyone's by-blow for anything we can tell. After all, he was an old man when he married her and quite probably impotent by then.'

You could have heard a pin drop. This was entertainment of a very high order; better than the mummers, who were arriving that afternoon, could offer. This would provide gossip in every home and tavern in the city for months ahead. But there was still more to come. With an ear-splitting shriek, Lady Marvell threw herself on her tormentor, clawing at her face and neck and giving voice to imprecations which no lady of breeding should even know, let alone utter.

Sir George seized his wife by the shoulders, spun her round and slapped her face with the full force of his arm behind it. At the same time he addressed a thickset, middle-aged man whom I had noticed standing quietly at the front of the crowd watching the unfolding of the little drama with, I thought, a certain cynical detachment. ‘Get your wife home this instant, Cyprian! I shall have something to say to you all once we're there.'