The Christmas Wassail

SEVENTEEN

The Eve of Twelfth Night, or the Eve of Epiphany, whichever you prefer to call it, dawned with clear skies and the sparkle of frost on rooftops and the rays of a thin winter sunlight piercing the clouds. The children were up betimes, excited by the prospect of their last visit to see the mummers, of being allowed to stay up late to go wassailing with the adults and, Nicholas and Elizabeth in particular, at being king and queen of the feast. Usually this was not known until the Twelfth Night cake was cut, when the man who found the bean in his slice was named the king and the lady who discovered the pea in hers the queen. Adela, however, had cheated this year by allowing the two older children to push the pea and bean into the cake after it was baked.

Adam had protested loudly to begin with, but a promise that he should be king of the feast the following year had pacified him with surprising ease. In spite of all that had been going on around him, he, at least, had enjoyed his Christmas, the ignorance and self-absorption of childhood protecting him like a magic cloak. The climax of this, the penultimate of the twelve days of Christmas, was to be his visit to the castle for the mummers’ final performance. And it was to be his favourite play, St George and the Dragon.

When I had returned home the previous afternoon, I had told Adela of my visit to Burl’s cottage, although not the reason for it, and of my promise to Jenny that Dick should have my old grey cloak. This had met with her full approval and so, when she set out for the Tolzey that morning, it was folded up in her basket, ready to give to her friend.

The children, including Luke in his box on wheels, and Hercules had gone with her and I was attending to the Yule log, thanking heaven that tomorrow I could finally let it go out, when there was a knock on the street door. Wiping my grimy hands down the sides of my jerkin and cursing under my breath, I opened it to find James Marvell standing outside.

‘Master Marvell,’ I murmured politely, struggling to keep the annoyance out of my voice, ‘what can I do for you?’

He gave a faint smile. ‘I’ve disturbed you,’ he said, making it obvious that I had been unsuccessful at hiding my feelings. I made a feeble protest, which he ignored, and continued, ‘I thought I should tell you that my father had a secret visitor last night, and now seems more depressed and downhearted than ever.’

‘You’d better come in,’ I invited and led the way into the kitchen. My hands were black from the Yule log ashes and I knew I dare not risk entering the parlour in such a condition. I had too healthy a respect for Adela’s temper if she found filthy fingermarks in this holy of holies.

I poured myself a bowl of water from the water barrel and, with the help of a piece of rough grey soap, began to scrub them clean. My uninvited guest sat down on a stool and watched me curiously. (I assumed that in the Marvell household a servant would have been summoned to provide the soap and water.)

‘You say this visitor of Master Cyprian’s was secret. So how do you know about him?’

James put his elbows on the table and propped his chin in his hands.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ he said. ‘All that’s happened in the past two weeks kept going round and round in my head; thoughts of Grandfather’s mutilated body, the death of Alderman Trefusis, Father’s growing depression, as if he knows something the rest of us don’t. I ate and drank my All-night, hoping that a full belly would help me sleep, but it didn’t. In fact, it had the opposite effect. It made me even more restless and full of energy. In the end, I got up, took my candle and started to go downstairs. I’d descended one flight and reached the head of the staircase that leads down into the hall when I heard a knock on the street door. I remember thinking how stupid it was of anyone to call at such an hour when the servants would all be in bed — I’d heard the Watch cry two of the clock some little while before — and also that in the present circumstances no one was going to risk opening a door at that time in the morning, when to my utter astonishment Father came out of his private room, candle in hand, and did just that.’

‘Opened the door, you mean?’

‘Yes. He didn’t hesitate and was plainly expecting someone. I quickly extinguished my own candle and drew back into the shadows, waiting to see what happened and to rush down to his assistance if it should prove necessary.’

‘But it didn’t?’

‘No.’ There was a pause. ‘He simply let the person in and they both disappeared into his room.’

‘So?’ I demanded impatiently, wiping my hands dry on the piece of sacking we kept for that purpose. ‘Did you recognize the latecomer?’ My excitement was mounting. I was finding it hard to breathe.

‘It was a man,’ he said at last, ‘but I couldn’t see his face. He was wearing one of those head masks that people wear at Christmas. A dog’s head.’

A dog’s head mask! Someone had talked recently of such a thing, but I was unable to remember who or when or where. I cudgelled my brains, but to no avail. What was even more infuriating was the vague recollection that I had had this same feeling even earlier. When whoever it was had mentioned the dog mask, I had experienced a jolt of recognition, a sensation that I had heard the phrase before. And I was certain it was not all that long ago.

James must have seen something in my face for he asked eagerly, ‘Does it mean anything to you, Master Chapman?’

I shook my head. There was no point in raising hopes that I might not be able to fulfil.

‘Have you asked your father about his visitor?’ I queried.

‘Yes. He flew into a rage, which is very unlike him — he is normally the most unemotional of men — and told me to mind my own business. “It’s nothing to do with you!” he said. And then added, “You’re better off not knowing.” Naturally, I couldn’t accept that, especially not when he looked so haggard, and told him so. He had calmed down a little by then — he cannot sustain anger for very long — but still refused to say more. I would, however, have continued to press him, but just at that moment Bart came looking for me on some pretext or another. I forget what and it doesn’t really matter. He was just snooping. That twitchy nose of his had told him that something was up; that Father and I were having a private conversation, and he had come to find out what was going on. I think, for once, Father was relieved to see him, said he wanted to talk to him about the will and marched him off to his private sanctum, so I came to see you to find out if you had any ideas to offer.’

I perched on the edge of the table, frowning. ‘Last night,’ I said, ‘or early this morning as it really was, when your father and his visitor went into his private room, was all quiet? Did you hear raised voices at any time?’

‘No. Not once. And I stole downstairs and listened at the door for several minutes. There was a low, sustained murmur, but that was all.’

‘Do you think money changed hands?’

James shrugged. ‘That I’m unable to say. But I know for a fact that Father keeps a locked casket in the cupboard because I’ve seen it. Whether or not it contains money I’ve no idea. It used to be Grandfather’s room, but since his death Father has taken it over, now that he’s head of the household.’

He looked at me hopefully, as if expecting me to come up with some sudden and brilliant insight as to the identity of the unknown guest, but I was obliged to disappoint him. No flash of inspiration illumined my somewhat clogged and dull early morning mind. In fact, if the truth were told, I was growing weary of the whole unpleasant business and wanted nothing more than to forget it and enjoy what was left to me of Christmas. Tomorrow, with the Mass celebrating the coming of the three wise men to the stable in Bethlehem and the showing to them of the Christ Child — the Epiphany — the days of celebration would be over. Life would return to its normal, humdrum course until the next feast day. The twelve days would be gone and I should have spent them searching for a sadistic killer. No doubt Richard Manifold felt the same way, but that, after all, was his job.

Some of these thoughts must have conveyed themselves to James Marvell, for he rose abruptly from his stool, saying, ‘I’m sorry to have troubled you, Master Chapman. I realize that there is nothing either of us can do without knowing Dog Head’s identity, but I needed to tell someone and you are the only person I could think of. I cannot talk to either my mother or Patience or Bartholomew, and if my father refuses to confide in me-’ He broke off looking lost, then went on: ‘I hate to see him look so unhappy. He’s a good man who has had much to vex him in his life.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I have a feeling that this business must touch the family honour. Father has always been proud of our name.’

As he moved towards the kitchen door, I asked, ‘Do you think Master Marvell’s unknown visitor might have been Miles Deakin?’

He paused, his hand on the latch. ‘The thought has occurred to me, I must admit. The knowledge that Baker Cleghorn thinks he saw the man in Bristol not so long ago makes me feel sure the rogue is indeed hiding somewhere in the city and is threatening to make known his affair with Great-Aunt Drusilla. Father would find that hard to stomach and may well be paying him to keep his mouth shut.’

I considered this for a moment, but almost immediately dismissed the theory.

‘Master Marvell looks to me to be a sensible man,’ I said. ‘He must know that the story is common knowledge already in the town, among certain members of the population, at least. I heard the tale from my former mother-in-law and her cronies, one of whom supplied me with Miles’s name. The fact that no one mentions the story to your father doesn’t necessarily mean ignorance on the part of the general populace — only that they have too much respect for him to do so. And I don’t suppose anyone would have dared to throw it in your grandfather‘s face.’

That brought a momentary smile to his lips, but then he frowned. ‘So what are you saying to me? That if the unknown visitor was Miles Deakin, he must have a stronger hold over Father than anything we already know of?’

‘I’m saying that Master Marvell is surely too practical a man to pay good money to suppress a story he must realize is common currency. So, yes, I suppose if his visitor was Miles Deakin then the rogue must have some other hold over your father.’ I unhooked my leg from the corner of the kitchen table and stood upright. ‘But this is all pure speculation. The sad truth is that we know nothing definite. After twelve days and two murders we are just as far from the truth as we were at the beginning. Perhaps it’s time we shared our suspicions concerning Miles Deakin with the proper authorities. Let the sheriff and his men find him — if, that is, he is to be found.’

But James would still not permit it. His scruples forbade his great-aunt’s former suitor being thrown to the wolves, as he put it, until we had more proof of his guilt than we had at present. I thought him overscrupulous, but when he had gone, I decided he was right. My own desire to be free of the whole unhappy business was clouding my judgement.

I tried to forget about it for the rest of the day and, to a large extent, succeeded. When dinner was over, we had our own cake-cutting ceremony. Nicholas and Elizabeth were duly crowned with trailing wreaths of greenery as king and queen of the feast after finding the pea and the bean in their slices carefully given to them by Adela.

‘Cheat! Cheat!’ cried Adam, but without any real rancour. He was too excited by the prospect of going to see the mummers’ last performance that afternoon and of being allowed, for the very first time, to take part in the wassailing that evening. On previous occasions he had been regarded as too young and had been looked after by Margaret Walker who, this year, would come to take care of Luke. Our son was puffed up with self-importance at no longer being the baby of the family.

The townsfolk had turned out in force to see the mummers’ final presentation of St George and the Dragon. We got to the castle early and consequently managed to find places beside the waggon, which served as the stage. We had barely taken our places when we were joined by Jenny Hodge and her boys, Jack and Dick trying not to look too eager now that they were grown-up men of the world, but failing dismally. The latter was wearing my old grey cloak and looking very smart. I felt a pang of envy and wished I had never agreed to part with it.

‘Burl not coming?’ I enquired.

Jenny shook her head, her lips tightly compressed, and I saw the two lads glance at one another.

‘Trouble?’ I asked.

She nodded. ‘He found out about the cloak.’ She drew an angry breath. ‘Oh, I could shake our Dick, I really could. I’d dinned it into his silly noddle not to tell his father where it came from. Say it’s from one of the neighbours, I said. And he promised faithfully to do so.’

I smiled. ‘But being Dick …’ I left it there.

‘But being Dick,’ Jenny finished for me, ‘with a head full of dreams and cobwebs and about as long a memory as a newborn gosling, he lets the cat straight out of the bag. “It’s Master Chapman’s old one,” he says. “He has a new one and doesn’t need it any more, so Mam asked him if I could have it and he agreed.” Well, you know how Burl feels about you, Roger, and no one’s sorrier for it than I am. You could have heard him shouting three streets away.’

I grimaced. ‘But Dick’s wearing it, for all that.’

Jenny’s eyes lit with laughter. ‘It’s one thing that can be said for Dick. He may be a bit slow-witted but he can be obstinate. He’s a will to match Burl’s own when it comes to it. He wasn’t going to part with that cloak, not if Burl ranted and sulked until Doomsday. Burl threatened to whip him, but Dick’s bigger than he is now. He just took the whip out of his father’s hands and threw it out of the door. After that, Burl realized there was nothing he could do. And Jack took Dick’s side, of course. He always does. So, here Dick is, wearing your old cloak.’

Jenny looked round for her younger son as she spoke, but Dick had drawn back into the crowd behind him. He never relished being an object of attention.

‘Well, I’m glad he stuck up for himself,’ Adela chimed in from Jenny’s other side. ‘He’s grown into a fine young man, Jenny, and you should be proud of him.’

Jenny’s reply was lost in the sudden braying of the mummers’ trumpets as they made their appearance from the inner ward of the castle. Ned Chorley was dressed as the Doctor, and Adam began to jump up and down with excitement in anticipation of the comic scenes to come. But first, of course, there was the more serious business of St George slaying the Dragon, rescuing the Fair Maid and then being slain himself by the wicked Saracen Knight.

But, finally, Good triumphed over Evil, St George was restored to life by the Doctor, the wicked Saracen Knight was slain and it was time for the mummers to make their final bow. They did so, to much cheering and loud applause, and Toby Warrener made a speech thanking the citizens for their warm welcome and hospitality throughout their stay.

‘We shall remember you kindly,’ he finished, ‘and we shall be joining you in the wassailing tonight. Thank you and God keep you all.’

The two carts were then driven back into the castle’s inner ward, the gates closing behind them, while the rest of us began to disperse.

‘Will we be seeing you tonight?’ Adela asked Jenny just before we parted. ‘Will you come to share the remainder of our Twelfth Night cake before we join the crowds in the streets?’

Jenny sighed. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure, my dear, though in Burl’s present state of mind I doubt it. But we may meet by chance.’

And on this hopeful note we parted, Jenny, escorted by her protective sons, one on either side, to make her way home to Redcliffe, Adela, the children and I walking the shorter distance back to Small Street. Here we found Margaret waiting for us, carrying a basket containing her night shift — for she was to stay the night — as well as some Christmas fairings.

‘These will be the last,’ she warned as eager hands reached for the proffered treats. ‘I wonder you haven’t all been struck down with the bellyache.’

The streets were crowded. Torches flared everywhere, held high above the excited mob as we pushed and shoved and shouted our way towards the castle, where all the gates stood open to allow us through into the inner ward and the castle orchard beyond. Without the town walls, on the hills above the city, we could see the bonfires flaming against the winter sky. Those people who lived in the outer suburbs would now be converging on the orchard of Gaunts’ Hospital with their barrels of cider, just as we, who lived within the walls, were converging on the castle. And further out again, in the countryside, farmers and smallholders everywhere would be joining forces to wassail the apple trees, pouring their libations to the old gods and tying their ribbons and corn dollies to the branches in order to ensure that the coming harvest was a good one, even better than that of the preceding year.

We jostled our way across the barbican and in through the castle gates to find the civic dignitaries already there before us with two great barrels of cider, standing on a platform in the inner ward from which we could fill our flagons and jugs. And, to everyone’s delight, the mummers had prepared one last surprise for us as the hobby-horse, with a loud neighing and tinkling of bells, came galloping into the orchard just as the mayor was about to pour the first libation. Toby Warrener was ‘riding’ him, propelling the great wicker body forward and making the head rear up and down. The other mummers, too, appeared in wassail garb, with laces tied around their knees and knots of ribbon on their shoulders. The crescendo of noise rose to fever pitch, all of us shouting and clapping and cheering. Adam, held tightly in my arms, was very nearly sick with excitement.

When some sort of order had been restored, the procession began, the mayor and aldermen leading, around the orchard, in and out of the trees, watering them with the cider in our pots and hanging up lumps of toasted bread among our other offerings. Someone started to chant the age-old song ‘Hail to thee old apple tree’ and soon we were all singing at the tops of our voices. The air was thick with the smoke from the torches and the bonfires, and I knew a moment of panic when I suddenly lost sight of Adela and the two older children. Then the smoke cleared and there they were again at my side, singing and laughing, safe and sound.

But, at last, even the most exuberant had had enough and we began to think longingly of our beds. Adam had fallen asleep in my arms, his head resting on my shoulder, and Adela had a supporting arm around Elizabeth. Even Nicholas, valiantly endeavouring to play a man’s role, was unsteady on his feet. The singing had died away to a mumble, except for a few pot-valiant youngsters in the crowd, determined to prove they could outstay their elders. The mayor and sheriff, together with their ladies, led the way out of the orchard and the rest of us followed wearily. But it had been a good night — one of the best — and the apple crop secured for next autumn.

We reached home to find a bleary-eyed Margaret waiting up for us to report that, in spite of all the hubbub in the streets — ‘enough to waken the dead,’ she complained — Luke hadn’t stirred all night.

‘Then you’ve been luckier than I am,’ Adela retorted acidly. ‘Usually, by this time of night when I’m into my first sleep, he’s awake and ready to play.’ She smiled fondly, belying her tone of voice, and I marvelled once again at how easily she had accepted my nephew — my half-nephew, to be accurate — into her life and heart. I saw Margaret Walker grimace to herself and, knowing my former mother-in-law as I did, expected her to pass some remark. Fortunately, the other three children were beginning to grizzle with fatigue and both women went upstairs with them to assist with their undressing, hear them say their prayers and tuck them up in bed. By the time they returned to the kitchen, where I was helping myself from what little remained of the Christmas food, washed down with yet more cider, Margaret had forgotten whatever she had intended to say. Besides, she found a diversion in me.

‘You eat too much,’ she said, briskly removing the piece of Twelfth Night cake I was consuming. ‘You’ll get fat. Adela! Speak to him!’

But my wife was too tired and only wanted her own bed. While we were undressing, she asked sleepily, ‘Did you catch sight of Jenny and the lads?’

I fell between the sheets stark naked, too tired even to don my night-shift.

‘I did think I saw them a couple of times,’ I admitted, ‘but I may have been mistaken. There was such a crowd.’

Adela frowned. ‘I do hope Burl didn’t stop them from coming. I’m beginning to dislike that man. I’ve never been very fond of him …’

But her voice died away as the cider fumes and genuine tiredness took their toll. I was floating gently, weightless, and for the first time in some days untroubled by unpleasant dreams, the only irritation being a distant banging as though someone were hammering on a door …

Adela was shaking me by the shoulder. ‘Wake up, Roger,’ she hissed close to my ear. ‘Somebody’s knocking on the street door. Can’t you hear them? Wake up!’

Her insistent whisper was reinforced by the sudden appearance of Margaret in her night-shift, holding aloft a lighted candle in one hand.

‘Roger! Someone’s banging the door and that dog of yours is barking like a demented fiend. If you don’t get down there and see who it is, the children will be awake again and, in consequence, all as sulky as bears tomorrow.’

Even as she spoke, Luke began to stir in his cot next to Adela. Grumbling furiously and feeling like death, I heaved myself out of bed, wrapped my nakedness in an old bed gown which had once belonged to Margaret’s husband and had now seen better days, seized my cudgel and staggered barefoot downstairs. As I unlocked and unbolted the street door, the colourful words with which I had intended to greet the intruder died on my lips.

Jenny Hodge pushed her way past me into the hall. ‘Roger!’ she gasped, clutching my arm, ‘have you seen Dick? He isn’t — he isn’t by any God-given chance with you, is he?’

I put an arm around her and felt her trembling. ‘Jenny, what do you mean? No, of course Dick isn’t here. It must have turned midnight some time ago. Isn’t he with you?’ (People ask silly questions in the agitation of the moment, and I am no exception.)

Jack, whom I had not noticed until then, also stepped into the hall just as Adela and Margaret arrived on the scene, carrying lighted candles. My wife handed hers to her cousin and took both of Jenny’s hands in hers.

‘Jenny, what is it? What’s this about Dick?’

Jack said abruptly, ‘Dick hasn’t come home.’ Then, realizing his mother’s voice was suspended by tears, went on: ‘He came with us to the wassailing at the castle, and for a while we were all three together. But Dick met some friends and went off with them. We didn’t see him again, but naturally thought he’d come home when the wassailing was over. When we got home and he wasn’t there, we didn’t worry overmuch at first. We thought he’d come rolling in drunk, and Father — he hadn’t come to the wassailing with us — was getting ready to give Dick a taste of his belt for being so late. But,’ Jack added simply, ‘Dick’s not come home and it’s nearly dawn. You can see the first rags of brightness in the sky.’

‘I shouldn’t worry,’ I said bracingly. ‘As you say, he’s probably lying drunk somewhere in the street.’

‘If that were so, he’d have been taken up by the Watch,’ Jack said bluntly. ‘And Father’s approached the sergeant of the Watch. They’ve arrested nobody tonight.’

‘He’s more likely to be lying in the castle orchard,’ Margaret said in her down-to-earth fashion.

It seemed such an obvious answer that I could have embraced her; something she would have disliked intensely. But I know we all breathed a sigh of relief. Even Jenny dried her eyes on her sleeve and managed a watery smile.

‘Of course, that’ll be it,’ she said with a sniff. ‘What fools we are, Jack, not to have thought of it for ourselves. As soon as the castle gates are unlocked tomorrow morning — I mean, this morning — he’ll come ambling home full of remorse for the fright he’s given us.’

‘And so he damn well should be,’ Jack retorted with what, for him, was strong language. (Jack Hodge was one of the least aggressive men I think I ever met.)

Jenny apologized profusely for having disturbed our rest on what, thanks to Margaret, she now realized had been a fool’s errand.

‘Burl always tells me I act first and think afterwards,’ she muttered.

‘He didn’t think of the orchard, either,’ I pointed out as she and Jack took their leave.

Adela, regardless of her night-shift, ran after them. ‘Send us word of Dick’s safe return, won’t you?’ she urged, clasping Jenny’s arm.

‘Of course.’ The latter smiled mistily. ‘Just as soon as he arrives home.’

But Dick Hodge never returned home. His body was found in the castle orchard later that morning. Someone had slit his throat.