The Christmas Wassail

SIXTEEN

It was not until I was riding across the Frome Bridge the following morning, all the church bells of Bristol ringing in my ears, that I realized with a jolt that of course I knew Baker Cleghorn. Or, at least, if I didn’t know him personally, I knew of him. Burl Hodge’s son, Dick, was his apprentice and Adela bought her sweet dough at his shop. I must be getting old that I had not immediately made the connection. My mind was working more slowly nowadays. It was very worrying.

I remembered also that the baker had his shop in St Leonard’s Lane. I would visit him as soon as I could and find out what he had to say concerning his possible sighting of Miles Deakin three months earlier. But for now, my one thought was to get home out of this biting cold, for Sunday had come in with a bitter wind blowing and the last phase of my journey had been uncomfortable in the extreme. I had made good progress all day yesterday, or what remained of it after I had taken leave of my hostess at Nibley Green, my sturdy cob making a steady pace southwards, some instinct telling him he was returning home and urging him on. The result was that I had been able to break my journey and stop for the night only a few miles north of the city when the darkness and freezing conditions made it certain that I could not continue. That morning, in spite of the weather, I was up betimes, barely pausing long enough to eat my breakfast, with the result that I was within the city gates just as the bells began to ring for Tierce.

I didn’t stop to bandy words with the Frome Gate porter, although he did his best to start a conversation, inquisitive to know where I had been at such an early hour. I heard him muttering indignantly to himself as I rode away, and at any other time I might have obliged him, knowing him to be chilled and bored with his own company. But Small Street was only a street or two away. First, however, I had to return the cob to the stables in Bell Lane.

They had not yet closed for the hour or so necessary for the head stable man and his assistants to go to Sunday Mass, and I rode in through the gateway just as Ned Chorley arrived to carry out the mummers’ daily inspection of their horses. I slid thankfully from the saddle and hailed him.

He smiled briefly and said, ‘Good-day to you, Master Chapman,’ before turning to speak to the lad who had come forward on seeing him.

I clapped him on the shoulder.

‘You’ve been hiding your light under a bushel, sir. You didn’t tell us you had been a soldier. And not just a soldier, but an archer. Nor that you had been captured and tortured by the French.’

The stable lad was regarding him goggle-eyed, but Ned himself was looking red and uncomfortable.

‘There was no call to tell you, Master Chapman,’ he muttered, adding, ‘it was all a long time ago. Who told you?’

‘A man I met yesterday had the same injuries as yourself except that he was blind. His eyes had been gouged out. He said that he had been an archer — a longbowman — who had been taken prisoner by the French and explained what they did to bowmen taken alive.’

Ned Chorley was interested in spite of himself. ‘Then how is it he’s still here to tell the tale?’

‘After his captors had castrated him as well’ — I saw the stable lad wince — ‘they turned him loose to wander about until he died. As I understood it, two of our scouts who had penetrated the French camp found him and led him to safety.’

Ned Chorley nodded. ‘It happened sometimes,’ he grunted.

I waited a few moments, but as he seemed disinclined to say more, I asked him outright, ‘And is that also what happened to you?’

Again he nodded, then vouchsafed, ‘I was rescued, yes. But I was luckier than your informant. Those French devils had only just started to get to work on me.’ He shivered suddenly, but whether from the cold or disturbed by his memories it was hard to tell. He turned away abruptly, seizing the stable lad by the elbow. ‘Let’s take a look at the horses, then I can tell Master Monkton that they’re safe and well.’ He gave a snort of laughter. ‘That man’s a worrier.’

As I watched the cob being led off to his stall by another of the stable lads, I asked, ‘How’s Master Monkton’s hand? I understood from Mistress Tabitha that he’d injured it.’

Ned looked annoyed at this further interruption, but answered civilly enough, ‘It’s on the mend but still a bit red and swollen. Dog bites are nasty things and can be dangerous. The animal might have been rabid. However, it seems he was lucky and the wound’s mending cleanly.’

‘I’m glad of that,’ I said. ‘Shall we see you tomorrow night at the wassailing?’

‘In the castle orchard? Yes, indeed. We give our last performance in the afternoon. Will you and your family be coming? It’s Saint George and the Dragon. Young Adam’s favourite.’

‘I daresay,’ I said with a laugh. ‘Your performance as the Doctor is what he really comes for. He’ll miss you when you go.’

The old man nodded but showed no particular sign of pleasure. He seemed less friendly than he had been and I found myself wondering if we had offended him in some way. He disappeared in the direction of the stalls and, a moment later, I heard him talking in dulcet tones to his horses.

I took myself off to Small Street, where my arrival was greeted with greater delight than was usually accorded my return. Adela threw her arms about my neck, saying, ‘Roger! This is a pleasant surprise. We didn’t expect you until tomorrow!’ Hercules danced around me, barking like a fiend and nipping my ankles, while even the children came downstairs to welcome me without the customary demand to know what I had brought them. They were obviously stuffed full of Christmas sweetmeats, which was just as well, as for once I had nothing for them.

‘You’re just in time to see to the Yule log,’ my wife informed me with relief. ‘It’s almost out.’

It was indeed looking black with only wisps of smoke curling up from the bed of straw on which it was lying, but a session with the kitchen bellows gradually coaxed it back to life and induced a few small flames to make a reluctant appearance. I reflected with relief that there were only two more days to go before it could be left to smoulder into ashes.

‘Is there any news on the murders?’ I asked Adela as she stood watching my efforts with the log.

She shook her head. ‘I think the sheriff and his men are baffled. Did you learn anything useful on this trip to Nibley Green? Was the journey worth it?’

‘One or two things,’ I admitted, getting to my feet and regarding the struggling flames with satisfaction. ‘I must see James Marvell.’

‘Not today,’ my wife said firmly. ‘It’s Sunday. Dinner is almost ready and this afternoon you can help me put the final touches to my Twelfth Night cake.’

‘I thought you’d finished it,’ I grumbled.

‘No. I didn’t, after all, put the pea and the bean in when I made it. I thought you and Elizabeth could have the honour of doing that. You can push them in through the sides of the cake so we’ll be certain of getting them in separate halves. You can very well postpone seeing Master Marvell until tomorrow.’

So much for Adela’s plans. We had barely finished our meal when a knock at the street door heralded the arrival of James himself, come to discover if I had gleaned anything of importance during my trip.

‘You made good time,’ he said as I followed him into the parlour and waved him to a chair. ‘I didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow. But someone at church told me he’d seen you riding through the Frome Gate earlier this morning, so I came round as soon as I could. There have been no developments here during the two days you’ve been away.’

Adela came in with a couple of beakers and a jug of ale on a tray, which she placed on the hearth where a small, very desultory fire was burning. Her annoyance at James’s intrusion was palpable, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was too intent on getting an answer to his question.

‘So, do you have anything to tell me?’

I poured us both some ale and settled in the opposite chair before giving him such information as I was able.

He sat forward eagerly when I mentioned Baker Cleghorn and his belief that he might have seen Miles Deakin in Bristol three months earlier. ‘He told Miles Deakin’s father this? How long ago?’

I shrugged. ‘Recently, I assumed, when he was passing through North Nibley on his way to Gloucester.’

‘And has Master Cleghorn returned to Bristol yet?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’ll ask my wife.’

Adela, when consulted, said she had spoken to the baker only the previous day when she had visited his shop.

‘Then we’ll call on him at once.’ James, pausing only long enough to swallow the dregs of his ale, rose purposefully to his feet.

‘It’s Sunday,’ I demurred, hoping to restrain him. I had no desire to go out into the cold again and was looking forward to the rest of the day by my own fireside.

‘So he won’t be engaged in trade. We shall be assured of his whole attention.’ James picked up his cloak and wrapped it around him. ‘Where does he live? Behind the shop?’

Once again I was forced to consult Adela, who confirmed that Master Cleghorn’s house was also in St Leonard’s Lane. ‘You’re not going out?’ she asked reproachfully. ‘You’ve only just got home.’

I was apologetic, but found that my earlier reluctance to brave the elements had vanished. I was suddenly as anxious as my companion to discover what the baker had to say.

St Leonard’s Lane was only a step or two away, being the next street along in a westerly direction, running from Corn Street at one end and connecting with Bell Lane at the other. The dwellings here were substantial residences built, as were most Bristol houses, of wood and plaster and tiled with stone. The ground floors of a few, like Baker Cleghorn’s, were shops with the families living on the premises in the upper two storeys. The one we wanted was halfway along on the right-hand side proceeding from Bell Lane and was easy enough to find, a sign depicting a loaf of bread hanging above the door. This was located to one side of the shop front, now raised and bolted shut, and James had no compunction in banging on it loudly, disturbing the Sabbath peace.

We had to wait a while for someone to descend from the upper floors, but eventually the key scraped in the lock, the door was opened a crack and a voice enquired cautiously, ‘Who’s there?’

‘Master Cleghorn?’ James asked.

‘Aye. Who wants him?’

It took James some time to convince the baker that we were genuine callers and not a couple of bravos out on a Christmas jaunt, frightening elderly citizens. Our lack of masks was to our advantage and we were eventually admitted to the house and conducted to a room on the first floor. This was richly and comfortably furnished, arguing a degree of wealth which easily explained the baker’s caution. It transpired that he was a childless widower living alone except for a sister who kept house for him, but who, today, was absent on a visit to a friend.

‘So you gentlemen will, I’m sure, understand my reluctance to let you in,’ our host explained, at the same time indicating two cushioned chairs and inviting us to sit down. ‘This season of the year particularly.’

We assured him that we did and accepted his offer of wine, which he served in some very fine silver goblets. The bakery trade was obviously thriving.

‘And what can I do for your honours? Master Chapman I know,’ he added. ‘Your wife, sir, is a good customer of mine.’

He seemed unaware of James’s identity, which was all to the good. We had no desire to rouse his suspicions concerning the name of Deakin, which a connection with the Marvell family might possibly do. Instead, James claimed Miles as an old acquaintance whom he was trying to find after a lapse of some years. He then glibly explained that I had recently been peddling my wares in Nibley Green and had been told by Mistress Littlewood of her brother-in-law’s meeting with himself.

‘And Mistress Littlewood,’ I added, ‘said that you, sir, claimed to have seen Miles Deakin here, in Bristol, not three months since.’

The baker shook his head. ‘No, no! I only thought it might have been him. But I was by no means certain.’

‘You are acquainted with the Deakin family?’ I asked.

‘Yes. They were some sort of distant kinfolk of my late wife.’ He spoke apologetically, plainly ashamed of such low connections.

‘And where did you think you saw Miles, Master Cleghorn?’ James asked.

‘I’ve told you, I’m not sure …’

‘I understand that. But whereabouts?’ my companion insisted.

The baker hesitated. ‘It was only a fleeting glimpse and in the most unlikely of places.’Again he paused, adding, ‘It’s that really which convinces me I was completely mistaken.’

‘Where, Master Cleghorn?’ James spoke through clenched teeth. He was beginning to lose patience.

For a long moment there was silence, then the baker resolutely shook his head. ‘No, I refuse to say. I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I realize now that I was totally in error. That it could not possibly have been Miles. I therefore prefer to keep my own counsel.’ And he got to his feet, making it plain that our visit was at an end. ‘I’ll wish you good day.’

In the face of so pointed a dismissal, we had no choice but to leave. Our host’s face had set in rigid lines. He was not to be bullied or persuaded.

Once out in the street again, James gave vent to his anger. ‘The old fool! Why did he suddenly put a clamp on his tongue like that?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said slowly. ‘But I have a feeling that all of a sudden he recognized you. I may be mistaken and I can’t think of anything you said that would have made him suspicious. As I say, it’s just a feeling.’

James hunched his shoulders angrily. ‘Oh, well! It can’t be helped, but if you’re right, he has to know of the connection between Miles Deakin and my family. What was your impression, Master Chapman? Do you think Baker Cleghorn believes he saw our man or is now convinced that he was wrong?’

I shivered and drew my cloak more tightly around me. It was getting even colder and I had no desire to stand talking in the street. Nevertheless, I gave his question my due consideration.

After a few moments reflection, I said, ‘I think I do believe Master Cleghorn saw a man he thought to be Miles Deakin. But for some reason of his own is now unwilling to tell us where.’

‘For what reason?’

‘I don’t know.’

On this unsatisfactory note we parted, he to return to Redcliffe and I to walk the short distance back to Small Street. I was growing frustrated with a situation that yielded so few answers and which had marred a Christmas I had looked forward to with some eagerness as a time to spend quietly with my family and do little else except enjoy the festivities. The last two years, as I have already said, had been both gruelling and dangerous, dominated by King Richard’s seizure of the throne. It occurred to me that my use of the word ‘seizure’ was more revealing than I knew. He would say that he had claimed his birthright, but was that how I really saw it? In spite of that secret mission I had undertaken for him to France the preceding year, and in spite of what I had learned there, I nevertheless found in myself a growing dismay at what he had done and an ever-increasing foreboding for the future. ‘Stirring up a hornet’s nest’ was a phrase that, for no apparent reason, flashed into my head, and I told myself not to be so foolish. All the same, I arrived at my own front door in no very happy frame of mind.

Here, however, a pleasant surprise awaited me.

Elizabeth answered my knock and as soon as she saw me went scurrying back into the parlour. I heard her whisper loudly, ‘He’s here!’

Adam gave vent to one of his shrill giggles.

I pushed open the parlour door with some apprehension, wondering what the three children were up to; an apprehension which, I’m ashamed to admit, turned to annoyance when I became aware of Margaret Walker’s presence. Luckily, before I had time to make some caustic remark, Adela came forward, smiling all over her face.

‘Roger,’ she beamed, ‘come and see what Cousin Margaret’s brought you. Just look at this!’

‘This’, spread out over one of the chairs, was a splendid dark blue woollen cloak, held together at the throat by a smart brown leather tie.

‘Grandmother made it for you,’ my daughter announced, taking my hand. ‘Isn’t she clever?’

I stared blankly for a moment, then asked stupidly, ‘For me? You made it for me, Mother-in-law?’

‘Oh, for Our Sweet Lady’s sake!’ she exclaimed impatiently. ‘You’d think I’d never given you anything in your life before.’ To be honest, I couldn’t think of many presents I’d had from her, but I refrained from saying so. ‘I spun the yarn myself and paid Master Adelard to have it woven and dyed. The cutting and sewing I had done by a tailor who has rooms in Tucker Street. And a very good job he’s made of it, too. Here! Try it on instead of just standing there, staring at it.’

She and Adela divested me of my old cloak and draped the new one around me. It had that faintly sour smell of newly treated wool and its folds were wonderfully warm and soft.

‘B-But why?’ I stuttered ungraciously.

‘Oh, for Jesu’s sake, does there have to be a reason?’ Margaret demanded irritably, adding with a half-laugh, ‘I’m fond of you, Roger. Always was in spite of the fact that you’re like most men, utterly selfish and boorish. Moreover, I’m tired of seeing you in that old grey cloak of yours. The hem is rubbed and the wool is wearing thin in places. It might have been all very well when you were in a duke’s employ, but now that Richard is king …’

‘Margaret,’ I began, but then stopped. What was the use of saying yet again what I had said so many times in the past? I had never been in the duke’s employ, nor was I now that he was king. I had done favours for him from time to time, but had rarely been paid, preferring to keep my independence. (Although it’s true to say that favours for royalty are tantamount to commands.) My former mother-in-law liked to believe differently: it was then a connection that gave her added importance in the eyes of her friends.

I took a deep breath. ‘Margaret,’ I said again, ‘it’s beautiful and I thank you with all my heart. I shall be the grandest man in church today and every Sunday.’

‘Oh, no!’ she answered firmly. ‘That cloak is not just for Sundays and holy days, to be put away in a chest the rest of the time. It’s for everyday use, to smarten you up a little. Adela, you must see to it. Give that old grey thing away so that he won’t be tempted to wear it. I know what men are, Roger especially. He’s never happy unless he looks like a — a — ’

‘Pedlar?’ I suggested ironically. ‘Mother-in-law, I can’t go tramping round the countryside in this. It will be stolen in a trice.’

Margaret sniffed. ‘No, it won’t. Not the way you treat clothes. You’ll have it looking like something Hercules has made his bed on before many days have passed, just you wait and see.’

It was no use to argue with her. I thanked her again with genuine warmth — indeed, I was deeply touched by this unlooked-for gesture — and at the same time made up my mind to keep my old grey cloak for common use, wearing the magnificent new blue one for those occasions when I thought it appropriate.

But for me to make a decision is simply throwing down the gauntlet to Fate.

We all went to St Giles’s in the afternoon — I wearing my new cloak, needless to say — then I escorted Margaret home to Redcliffe, Adela having been unsuccessful in her attempt to persuade her cousin to stay for supper. It was after I had seen Margaret safely into her cottage that I had the notion, as I was so close, to call on young Dick Hodge. It crossed my mind that perhaps Baker Cleghorn might, just possibly, have said something to his assistant concerning his sighting of Miles Deakin. I considered it unlikely, but it was worth the effort of visiting Burl’s cottage near the Rope Walk to find out.

Jenny answered my knock and was pleased to see me, as always. ‘Burl’s not here, Roger,’ she said. ‘He and Jack have stepped out for an hour, but if you care to come inside and wait …’

I thanked her, adding, ‘It’s not Burl I’ve come to see. Is Dick at home?’

She looked surprised, but held the door open at once. ‘Yes, he’s here,’ she said, calling over her shoulder, ‘Dick! It’s Master Chapman. He wants a word with you.’

The inside of the cottage, cramped and dark and overcrowded, reminded me forcibly of the one Adela and I had once shared in Lewin’s Mead, and I realized with a shock that, with four children as well as ourselves, this is how we would be living, had Cicely Ford not willed her house in Small Street to me. I realized also something of the reason for Burl’s jealousy and resentment at my undeserved good fortune over the past few years.

Dick was seated at the table, trying to learn his catechism, one forefinger laboriously tracing the words, his lips silently forming them as he made out each one. Jenny looked on proudly. Neither she nor Burl could read or write, but she had insisted — much against Burl’s wishes as he thought it a waste of time and money — that the two boys be taught their letters.

Dick looked up as I sat down on the stool facing him, obviously glad to have an excuse to leave his reading. ‘What can I do for you, Master Chapman?’

Jenny put a stoup of her homemade ale in front of me and went off to stir the pot over the fire which contained their supper. (It smelled good, whatever it was.)

‘Dick,’ I began, but then hesitated, not quite sure how to proceed. He regarded me stolidly and waited. Life had no urgency for the younger of Burl’s two sons. ‘Dick,’ I said again after a pause, ‘has Baker Cleghorn recently mentioned to you that he’d seen, or might have seen, an old acquaintance who — er — who perhaps had returned to the city after several years’ absence?’

Dick slowly shook his head. ‘No,’ he said.

I saw Jenny throw me a curious glance, but it would never occur to Dick to ask me why I wanted to know. He was not interested enough to pry into other people’s affairs. He had never had an enquiring mind.

‘You’re quite certain?’

He smiled his sweet, unworldly smile. ‘Certain, Master Chapman. He’s a good master, but he doesn’t have much to say.’

Jenny laughed. ‘It’s you who doesn’t have much to say to Master Cleghorn, more like,’ she chided him. I saw her eyeing my cloak. ‘That new, Roger?’

I explained about Margaret’s gift and she grimaced.

‘Master Adelard must be giving her plenty of weaving to do. Mind you,’ she added generously, ‘Margaret was always clever with her fingers. She’s one o’the best spinners in Redcliffe.’

I finished my ale and stood up. ‘I must be going, Jenny. It’s getting dark. Thank you for the ale. Mind you lock up after me and don’t answer the door to anyone until Burl and Jack get back.’

‘No, I won’t. No one’s been taken for these dreadful murders yet, I suppose?’ I shook my head, but as I moved towards the door, she left stirring the pot and came to see me out. ‘Roger,’ she said diffidently, ‘what … what are you doing with your old cloak?’

I hesitated. ‘If you want it for Burl, Jenny, you know he wouldn’t take it. Not from me. Anyone else, perhaps, but not me.’

She flushed painfully. ‘No, I know that, Roger. We’ve had words about it many times these past few years. He knows envy’s a sin, but somehow or other he can’t seem to rid himself of it. But I wasn’t asking for Burl. It’s Dick.’ She glanced sideways at her son, but he had returned to his catechism and wasn’t listening. ‘His winter cloak’s as good as worn out. I wouldn’t ask, but …’ Her voice tailed away and she looked as if she might burst into tears.

I stooped and kissed her cheek. ‘Jenny,’ I said, ‘it’s Dick’s. And I shall be jealous every time I see him wearing it. You know how I hate new clothes.’ She smiled mistily at me. ‘Adela will be at the market in the morning. I’ll give it to her to bring to you there. Now, lock the door behind me. There’s evil abroad in the streets this Christmas. I’ll see you tomorrow at the wassailing.’