The Christmas Wassail

TWENTY

It was a fortnight later when I finally discovered the community of Sweetwater, with its moated manor house, tucked away in the countryside between Winchester and Southampton.

The journey had taken me longer than I had expected; though perhaps no longer than I had any right to expect, it now being past the middle of January. The weather had indeed worsened the further the month progressed, with heavy snow showers and driving winds forcing me to seek shelter in friendly monasteries and other religious houses for as much as up to two days at a time. Added to this, of course, I had been peddling my goods around the villages and hamlets through which I had passed, and often been detained by their inhabitants, who were starved of news from the outside world once passing traffic had grown scarce on the frozen roads. Wayfarers were few and far between in the depth of winter, and I was a welcome presence in nearly every dwelling at which I stopped, whether manor, smallholding, cottage or hovel. With Christmas over for another year, and with the days not yet sufficiently longer so as to be noticeable, the inevitable pall of depression was clouding the minds of country folk; and so my advent was hailed with relief and the chance to hear of other people’s doings or to discuss such news as had reached them in the summer months rarely passed up.

Of these latter events, most of my customers wanted to know of the happenings in London during June and July, of the new king and, most of all, if the rumours that he had had the deposed young king and his brother murdered in the Tower were true. These rumours now seemed rife throughout the country — the West Country, at least: I couldn’t answer for other parts — and I did my best to reassure anyone to whom I spoke that the stories were false. The trouble was that I had no proof to offer as to the young princes’ actual fate and found myself resenting the fact. It was high time, I felt, that the king made the whereabouts of his nephews known.

The worst part of the journey was crossing the great plain near Salisbury. I passed the brooding Giants’ Dance, the Stone Henge as our Saxon forebears had named it, raised who knew how many hundreds of years before they had set foot in this island. I had encountered a particularly violent, but fortunately brief, snowstorm that afternoon and, for a while, had been forced to shelter among the stones themselves. I can recall even now, after all this lapse of years, how uneasy they made me feel, as if some magic possessed them. I remember how relieved I was when the snow abated and I was finally able to press on.

It was two days later, with a fragile sun riding high in the noonday sky that, thanks to a passing woodsman who knew the surrounding countryside like the back of his own hand, I arrived at Sweetwater Manor. This, as I have already said, was a moated house and the main gate was approached across a wooden bridge, wide enough and strong enough to admit a substantial cart. There was a bell on a rope hanging beside the gate, which I pulled as hard as I could. The sound of its clapper jangled away into the distance and then the silence came creeping back, more profound than before.

The place might have been deserted: there was no sound or sign of any life anywhere. I could see the byres, the pigsties, the sheep pens, but animals were keeping themselves close and not venturing forth in such freezing weather. The outhouses also appeared devoid of life, and I was just beginning to wonder if the whole compound was indeed untenanted when a spiral of smoke went up through a hole in one of the outhouse roofs, followed within a few seconds by the emergence of a young housemaid from a side door of the main building. She skidded across the frozen courtyard in her wooden pattens and disappeared inside the hen coop, presumably to collect the morning’s eggs.

I clanged the bell again, louder and more imperatively than before. And again.

At this third summons, the main door of the manor opened and the steward stepped out, a cloak held firmly around him and using his staff of office as a prop to help him walk across the slippery ground. He opened the gate, obviously in a furious temper.

‘Where’s that fool of a porter?’ he demanded.

Not being able to say, I simply shrugged and stepped inside.

‘Pedlars round to the kitchen entrance,’ the man snapped, having now taken a good look at me.

‘I wish to see Master Tuffnel,’ I said. ‘Master Cyprian Tuffnel.’

For a moment, he was palpably taken aback by my knowledge of his master’s name, but he quickly recovered and pointed with his staff to the right-hand side of the building.

‘Kitchen,’ he said briefly.

I repeated my request, but only succeeded in goading him to a frenzy.

‘Kitchen,’ he roared again.

‘I’m not here to sell anything,’ I answered quietly. ‘I wish to speak to Master Tuffnel about the mummers to whom he gives shelter every winter.’

‘Oh, them!’ The steward spoke scornfully. ‘Bunch of rogues! I don’t know why the master puts up with them.’ He flushed slightly, aware of having spoken out of turn, and to an inferior. He drew a deep breath preparatory to ordering me once more round to the kitchens.

He was forestalled by a shout of, ‘Oswald!’ An elderly gentleman in a furred cloak, and leaning heavily on an ivory-headed cane, was making his precarious way towards us. The steward started forward.

‘Master, you shouldn’t be out of doors in this weather. You might slip and break a leg. I can deal with this impudent fellow.’

The newcomer paid him no attention, instead looking steadily at me. ‘If you’re Roger the Chapman,’ he said, ‘as I presume you are by your pack, I’ve been expecting you. Give me your arm and we’ll go inside. Oswald,’ he addressed the steward once again, ‘have wine and biscuits sent to the little solar and then see to it that I’m not interrupted.’

So it was that, some ten or so minutes later, I had shed my pack and cloak and was gradually thawing out my grateful body in front of a roaring fire, while my host busied himself with piling yet more logs on the blaze.

‘Warmer now?’ he asked me. ‘You must have had a cold journey.’

I nodded, holding my hands to the flames, but I was not inclined to waste any time on small talk. ‘How do you know my name and why have you been expecting me?’ I demanded. ‘Where are Tabitha Warrener and Ned Chorley? I need to speak to them.’

Master Tuffnel seated himself in a chair opposite mine, on the other side of the hearth. I could see now that, as I had expected, he was an old man, probably in his seventies like Sir George Marvell and Alderman Trefusis.

‘One thing at a time, young man,’ he said with his pleasant smile. ‘I know your name because Tabitha told me about you. She also said that she would be very surprised if you failed to come after her and Ned. And, finally, you cannot speak to them because she, Ned and the others have gone.’

‘Gone?’ I jerked forward in my chair. ‘Where?’

‘To France.’

‘France?’ I stared at him stupidly.

‘To France,’ he repeated with emphasis.

‘When?’

‘Over a week ago. In fact, shortly after they arrived here. They set off for Southampton two days later and, as I’ve heard no more of them, I can only presume that they found a ship’s captain willing and able to take them and their gear. There are always a few willing to brave the winter storms in the Channel if, of course, they are offered sufficient money. And I understand that Ned and Tabitha did very well in Bristol.’

‘When … When will they be back?’ I wanted to know.

Master Tuffnel shook his head. ‘I fear they won’t be coming back. They intend to make their home in France. Both Ned and Tabitha spent so many years in that country that they can speak the language after a fashion. Well enough, at any rate, to make themselves understood. Tobias, Dorcas and her brother, Arthur, will learn it gradually. You need not be afraid for them.’

‘Afraid for them!’ I was on my feet, shaking with rage. ‘Afraid for those murdering ruffians! Do you know that they have brutally killed three men, one of them an entirely innocent young lad, as well as trying three times to murder me? Do you know this? Have they told you?’

At this moment, a serving-man appeared with a tray on which reposed a jug of wine and various plates of small cakes and biscuits. He looked aghast at me towering over his master, my features undoubtedly contorted with the anger I was feeling. I must have looked a menacing figure.

‘Are — are you all right, master?’ he stammered, setting down the tray. ‘Shall I call the other servants?’

Cyprian Tuffnel waved him away with an airy gesture of one hand. ‘No, my dear fellow, no! I’m sure I’m perfectly safe with Master Chapman.’

The man went with lagging steps, casting anxious glances over his shoulder. I sat down again in order to reassure him, but once the door had closed, I returned to the attack.

‘These people are murderers, sir,’ I said, slapping the arms of my chair and breathing hard. ‘They deserve no man’s goodwill, and certainly not mine.’

‘I understand your feelings, believe me,’ he said gently, ‘and I sympathize with them.’ He rose and poured out two glasses of wine, one of which he handed to me before resuming his seat. ‘But war, Master Chapman, is a brutal business and those of us who have been soldiers, particularly foot soldiers in the ranks, people like Ned and Tabitha, hold life cheaper than most others.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘Ned, yes. But that doesn’t apply to Tabitha.’

‘Most certainly it does.’ He sighed. ‘So many people think, mistakenly, that that French girl, the one they burned as a witch at Rouen, was the only woman ever to enlist as a soldier, masquerading in men’s clothing. There are dozens of them, I can assure you, in every army of every country throughout Europe. And those that do take up the calling make excellent soldiers. They are far more ruthless than men.’

I was amazed. The idea of women as fighters, braving dangers, brandishing and using weapons, accustoming themselves to the horrors and gory sights and sounds of battle, had never occurred to me.

‘And Mistress Warrener was such a woman?’ I asked, still struggling to come to terms with the idea. ‘A soldier?’

Master Tuffnel smiled gently. ‘Tabitha was one of the very best. Not only was she extremely courageous, but she was also a good captain. She cherished the men under her command; looked after them like a mother. She might have them flogged or their ears lopped for disobedience — indeed, I’ve seen her hang a man herself from the bough of a tree for whatever crime he had committed — but woe betide anyone else who laid a finger on them. And the offence she found the most unforgivable was cowardice, betrayal of one’s fellows.’

There was silence for a moment or two, the crackling of the logs on the hearth the only sound in the room, while I marshalled my thoughts and a pattern of events became clearer to me. I remembered Cyprian Marvell’s nocturnal visitor and his stubborn refusal to reveal what the man had wanted. He had not denied that it was one of the mummers nor that he had paid him money, but no more. Family honour was at stake. I raised my eyes to Master Tuffnel’s.

‘Am I to assume that Sir George Marvell stood accused of cowardice and betrayal?’ I asked at length. ‘And also Robert Trefusis?’

My host shook his head sadly. ‘Oh, never to their faces. Never officially. They remained heroes in the eyes of the world. Only those of us who were there knew the truth, and that included Tabitha and Ned Chorley.’

‘Who were where?’ I asked.

‘At the siege of Dieppe.’

‘Dieppe?’

‘Yes. Why? You sound as though the name means something to you.’

It did. Of course it did. The last piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. Alderman Trefusis had uttered the word ‘Dee’ as he lay dying. But not the name ‘Dee’, nor even the first syllable of the name ‘Deakin’, but the beginning of the word ‘Dieppe’. The word carved so savagely into Sir George’s chest was not ‘DIE’, but again the start of that same place name. My theory that the murderers had been interrupted had been correct: the letters ‘PPE’ should have completed their handiwork.

I looked up to find Master Tuffnel frowning at me in a puzzled fashion. Before he could say anything, however, I leant forward, my elbows on my knees, and said urgently, ‘Tell me about the siege of Dieppe.’

Old soldiers love telling tales of past glories, or even, as in this case, past defeats. He settled himself more comfortably in his chair and took a gulp of wine to ease his throat.

‘It was forty years ago this August just gone,’ he said. ‘The year of Our Lord One Thousand, Four Hundred and Forty-three. I know that for a certainty because I had just celebrated my thirty-second birthday. The town had been snatched from us in a daring raid some years before. I forget exactly when. In any case, it doesn’t matter. Suffice it to say that in the November prior to my account an English army under the command of the great Talbot of Shrewsbury, including among its officers myself and two of my closest comrades, Robert Trefusis and George Marvell, was at last sent to lay siege to Dieppe and win it back again. This host also counted Tabitha Warrener and Ned Chorley among its ranks. Ned was an archer.

‘We weren’t in any hurry. Talbot reckoned that King Charles was in no position to come to the relief of the town, and so it proved. A fort was built overlooking Dieppe — an immensely strong affair, like a small town itself — the artillery was hauled into position and we settled down to bombard the walls for as long as it took to force the citizens into surrender.’

Here, Master Tuffnel broke off, staring into the heart of the fire, seeing sights and hearing sounds that I was unable to share.

‘And did they?’ I prompted him.

He jumped. ‘What?’

‘Did the citizens of Dieppe surrender?’

‘Oh … Oh, no. By the following August, against all the odds, they were still holding out, still defying us, but getting near the end of their tether. We knew, because we had intercepted several of the messengers, that the city fathers were imploring King Charles to come to their relief, but none of us, least of all old Talbot, thought that their prayers would be answered. Life was quite pleasant. There was the occasional sortie against the town, but the gunners were doing most of the work. The rest of us diced, played cards, visited the camp whores, caught the usual diseases, slept, quarrelled … but in general were quite content to await the inevitable outcome.’

‘So what went wrong?’ I asked as once again he paused. ‘It’s obvious that something did.’

Cyprian Tuffnel gave a bark of laughter. ‘Oh, something went wrong, yes, indeed. In the middle of August, a few days before the Eve of the Assumption of the Virgin, our scouts brought us news of the approach of a French army under the command, not of King Charles, but of the Dauphin, Louis. That’s the King Louis who died this past year. I don’t know if you ever saw him or know anything about him?’

‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ I replied. ‘I saw him at a distance eight years ago on the bridge at Picquigny, but I was also once acquainted with a young woman whose father had served in Louis’s Scots Guard. She admired him greatly and thought him one of the cleverest, most shrewd men she had ever known, whose natural cunning made up for the fact that he was no soldier.’

My host nodded. ‘Your friend was right, but at the time I speak of no one, at least on the English side, was aware of his brilliant mind. All we knew was that he had a poor reputation in battle, that he dressed and looked more like a mountebank than a prince and was generally considered hopeless as a fighter. So when we stopped laughing, we just widened the ditches around the fort a little, altered the position of a few guns and calmly awaited his arrival. What our scouts hadn’t told us, because their information was faulty, was that Louis had with him Dunois, the Bastard of Orleans and the Count of Dammartin, a brilliant captain of the Ecorcheurs. He also had artillery.

‘The upshot was that we were taken entirely by surprise by the scale and ferocity of the attack, which was of sufficient strength to breach the walls of the fort and to enable a vast number of the French to get inside. By the time darkness fell we had just about managed to drive them out, but inside the fort it was a shambles. No quarter had been asked and no quarter had been given. The place was a charnel house and the atrocities committed on both sides had been vicious. Neverthless, we thought that was that: the French must surely have had enough — their casualties had been as great as ours — and they wouldn’t attack again.’ He took a deep breath before continuing, ‘That statement, however, is not quite true. I should have said that most of us thought that the French would not attack again. But there were a few so appalled by the day’s carnage that they decided not to wait and find out. Some time during the night they slipped out of the back entrance to the fort and disappeared into the darkness …’

I interrupted. ‘Don’t tell me,’ I said. ‘Let me guess. George Marvell and Robert Trefusis were two of those who deserted.’

Master Tuffnel curled his lip. ‘It didn’t need much guesswork, did it? But you’re right, of course. My two best friends’ — he spat into the fire where the spittle boiled and sizzled — ‘had run away. Later, they declared that they had gone for help, and because of their good name they were given the benefit of the doubt. But no one who was left in that fort believed them.’

‘And did the French attack again next day?’

My host’s face grew grim. ‘They did, and they took the fort within three hours. The atrocities that followed were horrific. Louis and Dunois and Dammartin did what they could to control their men, but they were really able to do very little. The citizens of Dieppe all flocked out to join in the slaughter and avenge their sufferings.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I suppose one can hardly blame them. Ned Chorley was captured and his captors had just started to get to work on him — they had chopped off his bowstring fingers and were trying to gouge out his eyes — when Tabitha and some others managed to rescue him, killing quite a few of the enemy in the process. After that, it was every man for himself. Some of us managed to get away and lose ourselves in the surrounding countryside before somehow or other getting back to Calais, but the men who had deserted during the night were never forgiven by the rest of us, and never will be. I understand that George Marvell had the gall to name his son after me. Well, I never had a son.’ His voice grew bitter. ‘But if I had I’d have strangled the child at birth rather than call him George.’

There was another, even longer silence when he had finished speaking while we both sat quietly, thinking our own thoughts.

I could only guess at what Master Tuffnel’s were. The terrible sights and sounds of that long-ago battle, imprinted forever on his memory, must have been rolling around in his head, his feelings toward the men who had betrayed them as simple and uncomplicated as they had always been. Mine were far more confused.

To begin with, I suppose my sympathy was with the two mummers. They had seen their fellow soldiers butchered in the most horrible ways, and although no doubt the outcome of the French attack would have been the same even if the deserters had stayed, no one relishes the thought of betrayal. If Tabitha Warrener and Ned Chorley had confined their murderous activities to Sir George and Alderman Trefusis, I might have been inclined to pardon them. But they had come after me and, in doing so, killed Dick Hodge in the process. For that I could never forgive them.

‘Did they tell you,’ I asked Master Tuffnel, ‘that they tried their best to murder me? That an innocent young man mistakenly had his throat cut instead because he was wearing an old cloak of mine which I had given him? Did your precious friends, the mummers, tell you that? Or hadn’t they realized their error?’

My host gave an involuntary shiver. ‘Oh, yes, they’d realized it and were distraught. They guessed that you would come after them and thought that you would bring the law with you. That is why they travelled as fast as they could to get here, and why they decided they must go to France, if they could find a ship, and settle there, in spite of Dorcas’s condition. Tabitha said that if they were unable to find a ship’s captain who would risk crossing the Narrow Sea in midwinter, then they would lie low until the spring. But whatever happened, they would not return here.’

‘I should have brought the law,’ I said bitterly, ‘but I wasn’t absolutely certain that I was right. Almost, but not completely, and I wanted to hear what they had to say first.’ A red mist of rage swam before my eyes and I cursed my own folly. ‘But they would have escaped anyway, wouldn’t they?’ I consoled myself. ‘You wouldn’t have helped to detain them, would you, Master Tuffnel? Not your precious friends whom you’ve known nearly all their lives? You’re as bad as they are.’

I was suddenly conscious that I was shouting at the top of my voice and, before I could stop myself, I shot out a hand and sent the wine jug and beakers and plates of sweetmeats flying, spilling all over the floor and rolling on to the hearth. I don’t know what I looked like, but my host shrank back in his chair and raised his arms as though to defend himself.

Two of the servants came bursting in, obviously disturbed by my raised voice. One was holding a club between his hands and, having taken a glance at the scattered things on the floor, they advanced ominously.

Master Tuffnel, recovering from his initial fear, waved them away.

‘An accident,’ he said quietly. ‘Master Chapman was explaining something to me and hit the jug off the tray. Just pick up the plates and beakers and bring more wine. That will be all.’

The servants obeyed reluctantly and then withdrew, keeping a wary eye on me throughout. They plainly didn’t think it an accident. Feeling somewhat ashamed of myself, I sat down again.

‘I’m sorry,’ I apologized roughly. ‘I shouldn’t have behaved like that. But I was very fond of Dick Hodge, the boy who was murdered.’

Master Tuffnel nodded. ‘I understand that. And I really have nothing to offer in Tabitha and Ned’s defence, except that evil begets evil. And in spite of having been a soldier, I have always thought that war is an evil. It is not a popular point of view, I know, but one to which I strongly adhere. It brutalizes men — and women — and I have often regretted helping Ned and particularly Tabitha to lead that life. But I love them both and couldn’t have held them here with the prospect of seeing them end on the gallows. Although I have reason to believe that it was Dorcas’s brother, Arthur Monkton, who actually made both the attempts on your life and killed your young friend, I can’t pretend that the others, with the exception of Dorcas, were ignorant of his intentions. In fact, I know they weren’t. And I beg you not to think that I approve of what they did. I am a Justice of the Peace and do not believe in people taking the law into their own hands. But I also understand how their sudden encounter with George Marvell and Robert Trefusis affected them, even after forty years. Ned and Tabitha had spent a lifetime hating them, and that hatred boiled over when they clapped eyes on them again.’

And with that I had perforce to be content. Besides, I could not rid myself of the uneasy feeling that if I had not meddled, if I had left the law to take its course, Dick Hodge would still be alive. In any case, there was nothing I was able to do now. The mummers had gone beyond my reach, and the reach of justice. I should just have to accept the fact.

Master Tuffnel begged me to stay the night beneath his roof, but although I was very tired and would have welcomed a decent bed, I refused the offer. He was too closely associated with the mummers, obviously finding it difficult to blame them for what they had done, for me to feel comfortable in his company. So I refused, and he directed me to the nearest decent inn, where he assured me I would be well fed and housed without being robbed.

And the next day, I started on my homeward journey.

What else was there to do?

With luck, I should be home in time for Candlemas, and soon a new year would be beginning.