The Christmas Wassail

FIFTEEN

In the chill, grey dawn of the following morning, just as the wintry sun rose like a smoking orb over the city rooftops, I approached the Bell Lane stables. I strode out freely, unencumbered by my pack, it having been agreed between Adela and myself that I would simply ride to Nibley Green, make my enquiries and return immediately whatever the outcome. I would waste no time trying to sell my wares, but make all haste home in time for Twelfth Night Eve, my daughter having added her voice to her stepmother’s in demanding my presence for this culmination of the Christmas festivities.

Adam, too, had added his mite. ‘If you don’t come home you’ll be a Bad Man and I shan’t love you any more.’

It was small wonder, I reflected, that friends and acquaintances regarded me as too lenient a father. Most of the men I knew ruled the roost in their own households. I never seemed to have mastered the art.

As I neared the recently opened gates of the stable yard, I saw a recognizable figure approaching from the opposite direction, emerging into Bell Lane from the narrow alleyway leading from the castle. I touched my cap and called out, ‘Good morning, Mistress Warrener. You’re abroad early.’

Tabitha was dressed very much as she always was when not performing. The same wide strip of faded cloth was tied around her head, wisps of grey hair escaping from beneath it. The nondescript skirt was kilted about her knees revealing a pair of strong, manly-looking legs in woollen hose and two large feet in wooden clogs. A thick shawl draped around her broad shoulders was her only concession to the biting cold and her raw, red hands were deformed with chilblains.

She nodded as soon as she realized who it was had hailed her and bade me, ‘Good day.’

I followed her into the stables, where she was greeted by the head stable man.

‘Master Monkton saddled you with the task of visiting the horses today, then?’ He grinned as he uttered the word ‘saddled’, proud of what he considered to be a witticism. (He was a simple man, easily pleased.)

Tabitha grunted, not seeing the joke. ‘Arthur’s hurt his hand,’ she said. ‘He needs some salve, so I’ll trouble you for an apothecary’s direction as soon as I’ve looked at the animals. They’re going on all right, I suppose? There’s no need for this daily visit as far as I can see, but Arthur insists on doing it. I don’t know if he told you, but we’ll be leaving on Twelfth Night. We’re giving our last performance on Twelfth Night Eve, then we’ll join in the first-footing and the wassailing round the castle orchard before getting underway first thing next morning. I’ll settle up with you the previous day. Mind you render your account to me as I’m the only one of ’em as can read and write.’

The stable man nodded. ‘Don’t fret yourself, Mother. Master Monkton’s explained everything to me already. What’s he done to his hand?’ Before Tabitha could reply, however, he turned to me. ‘Your mount’s ready and paid for, Roger. I’ve given you that same brown cob as last time.’ He grinned broadly. ‘He shouldn’t prove too much for you, but if he does, my advice would be get off and let him ride you instead. It’ll probably be quicker.’

The stable boys were sniggering fit to burst their laces. I gave my most long-suffering smile, but resisted the temptation of a riposte. (This was just as well, as it happened, as I was unable to think of one.) Instead, I addressed Tabitha Warrener.

‘You’re off, then, next Tuesday, mistress? We shall miss you.’

She twitched a straw from one of the mangers and began to chew on it. ‘Aye, we’re off,’ she agreed. ‘It’s Sweetwater Manor and winter quarters for us before the worst of the weather sets in. And Dorcas is getting near her time.’ She bit off the end of the straw and spat it out. ‘Before you go, are they true, all these rumours about the knight that’s been murdered? That the body was mutilated by someone carving letters into his chest?’

‘Yes, quite true,’ I said. ‘Sir George’s grandson and I found the body.’ The head stable man and stable boys had stopped making jokes at my expense and drawn closer in order to hear the better. ‘His throat had been viciously slashed and the word “DIE” cut into his right breast. Also, his eyes had been gouged out.’

The stable boys looked slightly green about the gills. Even the stable man swallowed rather hard. Only Tabitha showed no emotion.

‘Why “DIE”,’ she asked, ‘when he was already dead?’

I shrugged. ‘Nobody knows. There seems to be no answer to that question.’

I wasn’t about to proffer my own pet theory. For the moment, that was a secret between James Marvell and me.

Tabitha didn’t labour the point, merely jerking her head in the cob’s direction. ‘You don’t usually ride,’ she said. I made no answer. ‘Although,’ she went on, ‘I can see you haven’t your pack with you, so I would hazard a guess it’s private business that you’re on.’

I grunted, which she could take as a yea or nay as she pleased, and climbed awkwardly into the saddle, disposing of my few necessities in one of the saddle-bags. There then followed the usual difficulty of arranging my cudgel, one of the stable boys eventually solving the problem by couching it, like a lance, at my side. I thanked him and gave him a groat, which he had the impudence to bite just to make sure it was good. Finally, with everyone grinning like idiots, I dug my heels into the animal’s sides and the horse started forward with a jerk which nearly unseated me. As I rode out of the stable yard into Bell Lane, I didn’t dare look behind me. I didn’t need to. Their shouts of merriment pursued me all the way to the Frome Bridge.

Once free of the surrounding hills, I felt bold enough to urge the cob to a canter. I was feeling more nervous than I would admit, facing the realization that I had rarely ridden a horse on my own before. Nearly always in the past, I had had a companion who could come to my rescue if necessary. Furthermore, it was winter and the ground in many places hard as iron. There had also been a frost overnight and treacherous patches of ice occasionally made the cob almost lose its footing. I cursed myself roundly for having agreed to the expedition.

As the day wore on, however, it grew a little warmer and the sun rose higher in the heavens, sparkling on meadow and forest and streams alike, turning everything into a world of faery. When my stomach told me it was dinnertime, I stopped on the edge of some woodland at a charcoal burner’s cottage and persuaded the goodwife to sell me bread and cheese and ale. Afterwards, much refreshed, I continued my journey in better heart, even spurring my sluggish mount to a short gallop on a stretch of flat, open ground between two belts of trees. But for the most part, we went at a comfortable canter.

Nibley Green lies north of Bristol by some fifteen to twenty miles and so, on horseback, could be reached in the better part of a day. Nevertheless, it was growing dark when, following a friendly shepherd’s careful directions, I reached the scatter of outlying cottages leading to the main street and the village green. Many of them still bore evidence of the battle fought in the area some thirteen years earlier when the Berkeleys fought the Talbots in a private dispute over land. There was one ale-house with a bush of holly outside that looked clean and seemed not too rowdy and, moreover, had an outhouse where I could stable the cob. I dismounted, unhitched my saddle-bag and cudgel and went inside.

A quarter of an hour later, I was comfortably ensconced in front of a blazing fire, making short work of one of the landlady’s beef and oyster pies and drinking her health in a beaker of exceptionally fine ale.

‘You keep this place on your own?’ I queried.

She was a big, full-bosomed creature with the very dark hair and eyes that indicates Celtic blood. And, indeed, we were not far from the marches of Wales.

She shrugged. ‘Since my man died twelve years ago come next Eastertide. It’s not unusual. Many women keep ale-houses and inns.’

I tapped my plate with my knife. ‘This is splendid fare.’ I glanced around me at the empty benches and stools. ‘You should be doing a better trade than this.’

She laughed. ‘It’ll fill up again after Christmas. But nobody has money to spare at this season of the year. People stay indoors with their families. Besides, it’s early yet. A few will drift in later and sup their Christmas ale.’ She seated herself opposite me and watched me eat. ‘You’re a stranger in these parts. Where are you from?’

‘Bristol.’ I wiped the gravy from my chin with the back of my hand. ‘You say you’ve been here twelve years?’

‘Longer. I said my man died twelve years since.’ She eyed me shrewdly. ‘Seeking information, are you?’

‘I’m looking for a family called Deakin. It’s possible they came here about three years ago to live with Goody Deakin’s sister after they were turned off their holding in Clifton Manor.’

The landlady bit her thumbnail reflectively. After a while she nodded. ‘Yes, I do recollect them: a mother, father and a good-looking son.’

‘Was the son’s name Miles?’

‘Yes. Now you remind me of it, I believe it was. When he first came here he was in a sorry state. Someone had beaten him badly. Almost, I would say, to within an inch of his life. I never got the full story from Agnes Littlewood, nor from the old man, her father. But my belief is that there was a woman in the case. Some irate husband had given that lad a beating that had very nearly killed him.’

‘Not a husband,’ I said. ‘A brother. And the lady in question was more than eighty years old.’

She stared at me in disbelief for several seconds, then, realizing I was in earnest, started to laugh. ‘I don’t think Agnes ever knew that. She would have found it too great a joke not to share.’

‘This Agnes Littlewood, she was Miles Deakin’s aunt?’

‘That’s right. His mother’s sister.’

‘Do the Deakins still live here?’ I tried to keep the eagerness out of my voice.

My hostess shook her head. ‘Well,’ she amended, ‘Agnes and her father, old Alfred Littlewood, do, but the Deakins moved on again after a year or so. I fancy the two women didn’t get on.’ She settled herself more comfortably on her stool, her dark eyes bright in the firelight. ‘Tell me about young Miles and the eighty-year-old woman and you shall have another piece of pie free of charge.’

This was an offer too good to resist. Besides, there was nothing secret about the history of Drusilla Marvell and her swain, so I told the tale with a few imaginary embellishments of my own to make it even more interesting and amusing. But I stopped short of recounting recent events, afraid that they might alarm the landlady into sending a warning message to the Littlewoods.

‘So why are you looking for Miles Deakin?’ she asked when I had finished.

‘Dame Drusilla’s brother died recently,’ I answered truthfully.

My companion laughed. ‘So the lady feels free to find him again, eh? And has commissioned you to do so.’ I didn’t reply, letting my silence tell the untruth for me. ‘Well, as I say,’ she went on, ‘Miles and his family have long gone, but Agnes might know where and be able to point you in their direction. I’ll show you her cottage in the morning. Meanwhile,’ she added as the ale-house door opened and a couple of the villagers came in, ‘we have company at last. And by the look of that powdering of snow on their coats, it’s settling in to be a miserable evening. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll bring you that second slice of pie.’

I awoke next morning to a light fall of snow which had turned streets and rooftops white, and for several moments was afraid that I might not be able to get home again the following day in time for Twelfth Night Eve. A quick foray out of doors, however, showed that the fall was not deep — a sprinkling merely — and I was able to enjoy my breakfast of fried herring and freshly cooked oatcakes with an easy mind. The bed I had occupied overnight had been clean and comfortable and I had slept well. I felt refreshed in mind and body.

My hostess indicated a cottage at the end of the village street as that belonging to Agnes Littlewood and her father, Alfred, and when I considered sufficient time had elapsed for them to have eaten their breakfast, I set out. The cottage was typical of others I could see, being one-storeyed, made of daub and wattle and thatched with moss and twigs. A rough patch of ground to one side suggested that in the summer months an attempt was made to grow a few herbs and vegetables, and it was possible that one of the pigs in the common sty at the end of the street was theirs. I could also hear the bleating of a goat somewhere about.

My knock on the door was answered by a very thin woman in coarse, homespun clothes with a narrow face and two faded blue eyes that, once she realized I was not one of her neighbours, regarded me with suspicion.

‘Yes?’ Her voice was sharp and I could see her looking for any clue that might suggest my calling.

‘Mistress Littlewood?’ I smiled ingratiatingly. ‘The aunt of Miles Deakin?’

This was the last thing she had expected and she paused in the act of closing the door in my face.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

‘I–I’m trying to discover the present whereabouts of Miles — er — Deakin,’ I faltered, suddenly finding it more difficult than I had anticipated to think up a reason for my enquiry. ‘A — er — a lady in Bristol is anxious to see him again.’

It sounded feeble even to my own ears, so I was astonished when the woman sighed and said, ‘You’d better come in.’

Inside, it was extremely dark and cramped, with the only light coming from a small window at the far end of the room and a rush light burning on the table. A fire on the central hearth belched smoke through a hole in the roof and bedding was rolled up against one wall. I realized why the Deakin family had left and was only surprised that they had stayed as long as they had. Five people crowded into such a confined space must have made life well nigh impossible.

Agnes Littlewood closed the door and took the bellows to blow up the fire. A flame or two appeared before it died down once more to a sullen glow. She didn’t ask me to sit down although the room boasted two three-legged stools as well as a rickety chair with arms pulled up close to the hearth. ‘Well,’ she said abruptly, ‘who is this woman who wants to find my nephew?’

‘A lady,’ I corrected her. ‘A very wealthy lady. She knew Miles when he was in Bristol some three years back and now wants to meet him again. Her … Her patronage could be greatly to his advantage.’ The lies were starting to stick in my throat.

‘You mean the old woman, do you? The one whose brother broke nearly every bone in poor Miles’s body and got my sister and her husband turned off their land?’

‘Yes,’ I admitted, feeling suddenly ashamed that I had shared this story with the landlady of the ale-house the night before, and treated it as a joke. I added, ‘The brother’s dead now.’ What I didn’t say was that I was searching for Miles because I thought he might be that brother’s murderer and the killer of yet another man. The burden of guilt was almost overwhelming and I was beginning to wish heartily that I had never let James persuade me into undertaking this mission.

Agnes Littlewood shrugged. ‘It’s no good coming to me. Miles left two years back. Never said where he was going — or even that he was going. Went out one day and never returned. My sister and her man waited another six months, but when he didn’t reappear, they moved on to our other sister at North Nibley, where they still are today. But I can save you a journey if you’re thinking of going there. I visited them all only last week, and they know no more now of Miles’s whereabouts than they did on the day he disappeared.’

‘You’re sure of this?’

She threw me a look of contempt without deigning to reply.

‘Thank you, mistress,’ I said eventually. I felt certain she was telling me the truth. There was nothing more to stay for. ‘I’ll take myself off then.’

I turned towards the door but as I did so, I heard her take a breath as though she would add something. I turned back, raising my eyebrows.

She hesitated, then said, ‘Someone who knew Miles did say he thought he’d seen him in Bristol three months ago. It was someone who lives down that way and was passing through North Nibley on his way to Gloucester. He recognized my brother-in-law in the street and stopped to talk to him. Mind you, he wasn’t at all sure it was Miles he’d seen, but he thought it might have been.’

‘Three months ago,’ I repeated and Agnes Littlewood nodded. ‘But the man was uncertain?’ She nodded again. ‘Who was the man? Do you know his name?’

‘I think my sister called him John Cleghorn and said he was a baker by trade. But she didn’t set much store by his having seen Miles. She remembered Cleghorn and thought him a bit of a liar.’

‘Why would he lie about such a thing?’

Again came the shrug. ‘Why do people lie about anything? Why are you lying to me now?’

I was taken aback. ‘Am I?’ I managed to get out.

‘Yes.’ She was unequivocal. ‘But you’re not going to tell me why, so I’m not going to waste my breath asking.’

Before I could gather my wits together and decide whether or not to tell her the truth, the door opened once more and an old man, leaning heavily on a stick, came in, pausing just inside the doorway. This, I guessed, must be Alfred Littlewood, but the light of the snowy scene outside was behind him, and I could not immediately see his face.

‘There’s someone here,’ he said, raising his head and turning it from side to side. ‘A stranger. I’ve warned ’ee, Agnes, about letting in strangers.’ He sniffed. ‘An’ I reckon it’s a man an’ all.’

It was then I realized that he was blind.

His daughter pulled him inside and shut the door. ‘You’re letting all the cold air in, you silly old fool.’

‘Who is it? I’ll not be kept in the dark.’

The irony of the remark seemed to strike neither of them. Agnes removed his hat with an impatient gesture and pushed him down into the chair.

‘It’s only a nice young fellow asking about Miles. There’s nothing to be afraid of. He’s going now.’

I was at last able to get a good look at Alfred Littlewood, an old, bent man with wispy grey hair and a weather-beaten skin. Round his head, covering his eyes, was a dirty bandage which sank into his eye sockets as if there was nothing behind it. And with a shock of distaste, I knew suddenly that the sockets were empty: the eyes had been torn out. At the same moment, I remembered yet again something I kept thrusting to the back of my mind; the removal of Sir George Marvell’s eyes from his dead body. The bile rose in my throat.

I saw Agnes look at me sharply and with contempt. She had noticed my expression of revulsion, although she was wrong in thinking her father was its cause. But before I had time to say anything in my own defence, the old man lost his grip on his stick and it dropped with a clatter. I stooped quickly to pick it up while he groped around ineffectually with both hands. And it was then I suffered a second shock. The first two fingers of his right hand were missing.

Without thinking about what I was doing, I grabbed his right wrist.

He let out a yell that demonstrated his lungs, at least, were in good working order.

‘What’s he doing? What’s he doing? I warned you, Agnes, about letting strangers into the house. He’s going to murder the pair of us.’

‘Don’t be foolish, Father,’ was the acid retort. ‘All the same,’ she added, addressing me, ‘I’d like an explanation of your conduct. And come to think of it, you haven’t yet told me your name.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ I said, releasing the old man’s wrist and restoring his stick to him. ‘My name’s Roger Chapman. Master Littlewood,’ I went on, ‘this Christmas we’ve had a troupe of mummers to entertain us in the castle yard at Bristol. One of the men, the older one, a man of maybe your age, has injuries just like yours except that he’s not blind. But one of his eyes has terrible scarring around it and the first two fingers of his right hand are missing.’

Alfred Littlewood at once became very excited. ‘What’s his name? What’s his name, young fellow? Do you know it?’

‘Ned Chorley.’

Alfred’s face fell and he shook his head. ‘Thought I might’ve known him, but I don’t. However, I’ll tell you this. Your mummer was once an archer in the French wars, like me. We were the cream of the army, we were. We were the English Goddams them French bastards feared the most. And if they caught us, do you know what they did to us? First, they hacked off our bowstring fingers, because without the first two fingers of your right hand, you ain’t never going to be able to pull a longbow again. Then them devils gouged out our eyes and cut off our balls. Finally, if you were lucky, they finished you off with a dagger thrust or strangled you with a rope.’

‘And if you were unlucky?’

‘They turned you loose to wander about until you died.’

‘That happened to you?’

He nodded. ‘But I was found by two of our scouts who’d got into the French camp in search of information. They guided me back to our own lines.’

‘And this Ned Chorley?’

The old man sucked on one of his few remaining teeth. ‘He must’ve been rescued before they really pushed out his eyes. He were more fortunate than me, then. But his days as an archer would’ve been finished.’

I stared ahead of me blankly, getting my thoughts in order. So Ned Chorley had been a soldier, an archer. The idea had never occurred to me, and yet I realized that it should have done. I remembered suddenly his talking about King Richard and what a good strategist he was, his glowing admiration for his military skills in the way only an old soldier would appreciate. And the missing fingers, the scarred eye, were now explained. At some time in his life he had been taken prisoner by the French, but rescued before they could really wreak their vengeance on him.

I brought my attention back to Alfred Littlewood. ‘You’re quite sure you never met him, master?’

The old man shook his head impatiently. He was beginning to lose interest in the subject. ‘Where’s my dinner?’ he whined.

‘It’s not dinnertime for a while yet,’ Agnes snapped. ‘You’ve only just had your breakfast, you greedy old villain. Sit there and warm yourself at the fire while I see Master Chapman out.’ She opened the cottage door again with a gesture it was hard to ignore. As I huddled my cloak around me and stepped out into the still lightly falling snow, she asked, ‘Will you go on to North Nibley?’

‘No. I must be home in time for Twelfth Night Eve,’ I said. ‘I’ve promised my wife and children to be there. Besides, I doubt if your brother-in-law could give me any more information than he’s given you. If this John Cleghorn lives in Bristol or in Clifton Manor, I’d do better trying to find him myself. Though from what you say I don’t suppose he’ll have anything of interest to tell me.’

I moved away and heard the door shut behind me before I had gone more than half a dozen steps.

I saw no reason to linger in Nibley. The journey had not been entirely fruitless, but I doubted I was going to learn anything more. Also, the snow might increase and I had no wish to be stranded. If I left now before conditions worsened I could be much more than halfway to Bristol by nightfall, which meant that, although I never liked travelling on a Sunday if I could help it, I might very well be home by dinnertime the following day. So I said farewell to my hostess, who seemed genuinely sorry at my decision to leave, fetched my reluctant horse from his cosy stable and set off southwards, comforted by the thought that I had something, at least, to report to James Marvell and that the journey had not been a complete waste of my time and his money. There was now at least the possibility that Miles Deakin might be somewhere in Bristol. If we could find a baker called John Cleghorn, maybe he would be able to tell us more.