The Christmas Wassail

FIVE

After supper — another rich meal, but one which the children especially had been almost too tired to enjoy — I escorted Margaret home to Redcliffe.

Although it was growing dark and the curfew bell had sounded, there were plenty of revellers still abroad in the streets, quite a few wearing the animal and bird masks brought out of cupboards and attics at this season of the year, and not necessarily for festive purposes. Some of the more stupid or malicious youths thought it great fun to lurk in the shadows of overhanging houses and street corners in order to jump out on unsuspecting passers-by, giving them the fright of their lives. The previous Christmas, at least two little old ladies, returning home unattended from supping with their families, had been reduced to hysterics by such antics. This year, on the orders of the sheriff, the numbers of the Watch had been increased, but I was taking no chances. My former mother-in-law was a strong-minded woman and not easily frightened, but she accepted my company without demur and even seemed glad of it.

We encountered no trouble, in spite of seeing a number of masked figures, but then at thirty-one I was an even more impressive figure than I had been at eighteen. Then, it was true, I had had youth on my side, but if I was somewhat slower on my feet than I used to be, I now had weight as well as height — as my womenfolk were never tired of pointing out to me, my girth had increased — and I still swung a pretty cudgel. This was an impressive weapon, half as tall as I was and weighted with lead at one end.

I saw Margaret safely into her cottage by St Thomas’s Church, kissed her a dutiful goodnight and issued strict instructions that she must open the door to no one during the hours of darkness. Then I waited outside until I heard her shoot the top and bottom bolts into their wards. Satisfied that I had done my duty, I turned to retrace my steps before deciding on a sudden impulse to walk down St Thomas’s Street to Redcliffe Street and so, by way of one of the little alleys, out on to Redcliffe Wharf.

It was a cold night, frosty, and the stars rode clear and high in a cloudless sky. There was a three-quarter moon and the shadows from the houses were deep and black, lying like ink stains across the cobbles. I grasped my cudgel a little more tightly, aware of a sudden silence as the walls of the buildings of the alley cut off all sound …

But not quite all. A frenzied cry of ‘Help! Murder!’ sent me running on to the wharf as fast as my legs would carry me. I paused to look around.

Then I saw it, a dark shape huddled at the foot of one of the cranes. I reached it just as the door of a neighbouring house opened cautiously and lantern light spilled out across the cobbles. A voice quavered, ‘What is it? What’s happening? Is someone hurt?’

I knelt down and turned the dark shape over. ‘It’s a man,’ I said. ‘I think he’s been stabbed.’ I felt for his pulse. ‘He’s still alive, but only just. Quick! Come and help me. We must get him under cover, out of the cold. Is this your house?’ And I indicated the tall, three-storey building behind the man who was now proceeding with even more caution towards me.

‘No,’ was the reply. ‘It belongs to Sir George Marvell. I’m his steward.’

‘Then go quickly and tell Sir George what’s happened.’ The light from the lantern fell across the victim’s face as the steward stooped to take a closer look. ‘God’s toenails!’ I exclaimed, startled. ‘Hurry, man! Go! This is a friend of your master’s, Alderman Trefusis.’

By the time I had staggered into the house with my burden, laying him down in front of the fire in the great hall and then gone back for my cudgel — which I had, out of necessity, been forced to drop — not only the knight himself but also his wife and daughter-in-law, both sons and grandson had also come running from other parts of the house and were gathered about the dying man. For there was no doubt in my mind that he would not last many minutes. Indeed, the only surprise was that he had survived the attack at all, for a bloody gash marked his throat almost from ear to ear.

‘Robert!’ Sir George was kneeling with his friend’s head in his lap. ‘Who did this to you? Did you recognize whoever it was?’ He turned furiously on his wife, who was having a fit of hysterics. ‘Hold your noise, woman,’ he bawled, ‘or I’ll thrash you to within an inch of your life. Bart, see to your mother! Knock her unconscious if need be.’ He bent once more over his friend. ‘Robert!’ His tone was urgent. ‘Do you know who did this?’

His voice seemed momentarily to penetrate the other’s failing senses. The dying man struggled violently against the encroaching darkness.

‘Dee …’ he began. But that was as far as he got. The death rattle sounded in his throat, his eyes rolled up under his lids and the grizzled head fell back against the other’s chest. The alderman and occasional deputy sheriff was dead.

Sir George looked up at me. ‘Did you see anyone?’ His voice was harsh.

I shook my head. ‘No one. The wharf was deserted but for myself.’

The knight’s lips pinched together in a thin, straight line. His expression became even grimmer. ‘Well, there’s no help for it. I suppose we’ll have to send for that idiot, Richard Manifold.’

But it was not Richard who arrived some short time later; his fellow sergeant, Thomas Merryweather, came instead, attended by his two corporals. Merryweather I knew only by sight, having had almost nothing to do with him in the past, but he had always struck me as a plodder, thorough but slow. I had heard people refer to him as dim-witted, but I doubted this, or he would not have remained in his post. Nevertheless, he was not quick on the uptake.

‘Footpads, no doubt of it,’ he said ponderously, looking down at the dead man. ‘Christmas,’ he added, as though that explained everything.

Sir George made a choking sound deep in his throat. ‘Footpads!’ he snarled. ‘You cross-eyed, ale-swilling numbskull! Can’t you see he’s still wearing all his rings and a sapphire pin in his hat? And that his purse is still attached to his belt? What manner of footpads would leave such pickings, you dolt?’

Sergeant Merryweather appeared unperturbed by this mode of address. Indeed, if anything, he seemed used to it.

‘This gentleman’ — he indicated me — ‘disturbed the robbers before they had time to finish their work. They were baulked, that’s what they were. Baulked.’

‘Nonsense!’ Had there not been ladies present, I felt certain the knight would have used a much stronger word. He turned on me. ‘How long was it, Chapman’ — I was going to get no title from him — ‘before you reached the alderman after hearing his cry?’

‘Not long,’ I answered. ‘I was halfway along Bear Alley when I heard him shout. As you know, Bear Alley is one of the shorter turnings between Redcliffe Street and the wharf. Moreover, I ran. I would estimate thirty seconds or so, no more. But the quayside was deserted. There was no sign of any attacker.’

The sergeant nodded his sandy head. ‘That’s what I said. They were baulked.’

The knight let out a roar that sent Lady Marvell off into another bout of hysterics. Bartholomew patted her ineffectually on the shoulder.

Sir George ignored his wife and vented his spleen on Tom Merryweather. ‘You dunderhead! Footpads wouldn’t have run off like that, before they had cause to. They would still have been kneeling over the body, trying to rob it. But they weren’t. In the very short time it had taken the chapman here to run from Bear Alley on to the wharf, whoever did this heinous deed had disappeared. Now that would suggest to anybody but a fool like you that the murder was his — or their — main object, not robbery. This must be reported immediately to the sheriff. Christmas Day or no Christmas Day, I demand that he be brought here at once!’

I thought his argument a sound one. I had almost reached the same conclusion myself. Lady Marvell’s sobs had abated again, so I ventured to raise my voice.

‘There is also the fact, Sergeant, that when Sir George asked Alderman Trefusis if he had recognized his assailant, or assailants, he uttered what sounded like the name Dee.’

Sergeant Merryweather frowned heavily. ‘This is the first time such a circumstance has been mentioned. How am I to do my job if vital information is being withheld from me? Dee, you say? And known to the alderman? That puts an entirely different complexion on the matter. Not,’ he added slowly, ‘that I know of that name in the city, and I pride myself on being acquainted with most families within these walls.’

To my astonishment, Sir George, instead of corroborating my story, hastened to refute it.

‘The alderman mentioned no name,’ he snapped, glaring at me. ‘It was simply a noise he made as he lay dying. I doubt if he was even aware of my question. He was too far gone. A moment later, he was dead.’

I was about to appeal for support to the others who had been present, when I realized that the knight knew perfectly well what his friend had said, but that for some reason or another he did not want it repeated. Moreover, he was frightened. There was something in the rigidity of his stance, the way in which his hands were clenched by his sides, the fixed look on his face that spoke to me of fear. Why the name Dee should provoke this reaction, I had no idea, but I was positive it was so.

‘Maybe I was mistaken,’ I muttered.

The sergeant was pardonably incensed. ‘Well, which is it?’ he demanded irritably. ‘Did the deceased mention a name or no?’

‘No,’ Sir George said, and with an emphasis that brooked no argument. ‘He died without saying anything. But that doesn’t alter the fact that he was deliberately murdered in cold blood. I want no more talk of footpads. I want the sheriff fetched before another hour has passed. That’s an order. See that it’s obeyed.’

Suddenly it was easy to see that he had once been a soldier, in charge of other men. He had an indisputable air of authority and command. But if I was impressed, Sergeant Merryweather stolidly refused to be so.

He removed his hat and scratched his head vigorously before replacing it again. ‘What was the alderman doing, I wonder, out alone on the wharf, in the dark with no attendant?’

I thought for a moment that Sir George would explode with frustration. Instead, he spoke very slowly and carefully, as if dealing with a more than usually stupid child.

‘He had been taking his Christmas victuals with us, Sergeant. We have known one another for years. As for being out alone in the dark, apart from the fact that it is not late — the church bells have not yet rung for Vespers — he soldiered with me in France. Robert Trefusis was not afraid of danger or of darkness.’

The sergeant drew down the corners of his mouth. ‘Well, it seems he had cause to be this time. Whoever set upon him for whatever reason was intent on taking his life. I still think it was footpads, but I daresay you’re right, Sir George. He’s a man of some standing in the community. We’d best send for the sheriff. Not that he’ll be pleased at being disturbed on Christmas Day, but there you are. It can’t be helped. Did the alderman have any family that you know of? Can’t say I’ve ever heard tell of anyone. But you seem to know him better than I do.’

‘He had a wife once,’ the knight said shortly. Then added, ‘She left him many years ago.’

It was an hour or more before the sheriff arrived and I was able to make my deposition and go. I arrived back in Small Street to be met by a wrathful Adela.

‘The children were too tired to stay up any longer,’ she said accusingly, ‘and you promised to play Snapdragon with them before they went to bed. Where have you been? You can’t have been talking to Margaret all this time. If you’ve been drinking, Roger …’

But when I had made my explanation, her anger gave place to curiosity, intrigue and a certain amount of exasperation. When she had finished exclaiming over the murder and speculating aloud as to who could have done such a thing, and why, and trying to recall anyone she knew by the name of Dee, she demanded, ‘What were you doing on Redcliffe Wharf, anyway? It’s not on your way home from Margaret’s.’

‘Not directly, no. I just thought I’d walk that way round to the bridge and get a breath of river air.’

‘And ran straight into a murder.’ She sighed. ‘What is it about you, Roger? You just seem to attract trouble and mayhem as a magnet attracts pins.’ An alarming thought occurred to her. ‘They don’t suspect you, do they?’

I was able to reassure her on that score, then suggested we retired to bed ourselves.

‘It’s Saint Stephen’s Day tomorrow,’ I pointed out. ‘We must be up early to light the Yule log, and then it’s the mummers’ first performance in the afternoon. The children will be excited about that. So let’s get some rest while we can.’

‘Oh, well, if it’s rest you’re talking about. .’ Adela answered and let the sentence go.

‘Not altogether,’ I admitted as we started up the stairs.

I have to admit that of all the twelve days of Christmas, I like St Stephen’s Day the least. Even as a boy — and I was as callous as most children are — I never liked the custom of going out and stoning wrens to death, then tying the poor, broken little bodies to poles and parading them around the streets. People were supposed to give you money in return for one of their feathers, a talisman that apparently averted shipwreck; but as there were very few, if any, sailors in inland Wells, the custom seemed pointless. In Bristol, of course, where sailors abounded, it was a different matter; but even so, I had always forbidden our children from joining the early morning forays into the surrounding countryside to kill the birds.

Similarly, I always hated the bleeding of horses that took place on that day. I know it was said to be good for the poor beasts in order to ensure their health and vitality throughout the coming year, but some owners rode their mounts almost to death before bleeding them, so that they would be too weak to resist. Burl Hodge, I knew, had always scorned this sensitivity in me and had once taunted me about being too ‘womanish’ for my own good. Indeed, I deplored my own squeamishness, but could do nothing about it.

There were, however, some enjoyable customs on the Feast of Stephen. As I have said, the lighting of the Yule log, making sure it burned steadily until Twelfth Night, was one, and sword dancing in the streets as well as the start of the mummers’ plays were others. All three older children were up and downstairs early to assist at the former ritual, and although none of them was allowed to put flame to the bed of straw and twigs, they nevertheless crowded close enough about the pair of us to make both Adela and myself apprehensive. But no one did anything foolish and eventually the Yule log itself caught alight, ready to be tended and cosseted for the next twelve days.

We heard Mass at St Stephen’s Church so that the children could gaze upon the statue of the martyred saint in all his glory, but I was very much afraid that their minds were more upon the coming afternoon’s entertainment than the service. As for the adult members of the congregation, there was little doubt where their interest lay. If I heard the whispered words ‘Alderman Trefusis’ and ‘Robert Trefusis’ once, I heard them a hundred times. At that point no word seemed to have got about concerning my connection to the crime, but by the afternoon, when we entered the outer ward of the castle for the mummers’ opening performance, everyone appeared to know.

Jack Nym, who had obviously been lying in wait for me at the end of the drawbridge, seized my arm the moment I was fairly under the portcullis.

‘What’s this story I hear about you finding Robert Trefusis’s body last night?’ he demanded. ‘Is it true?’

‘Yes,’ I answered wearily. ‘But it was purely accidental, I do assure you. I know no more about his death than you do.’

‘This man Dee they’re all talking about,’ he whispered confidentially, while gripping my arm in a painful squeeze. ‘There’s no one of that name in Redcliffe or anywhere else in the city that I know of. Mind you,’ he added on a dissatisfied note, ‘at this season of the year there are always a lot of strangers around visiting friends and kinfolk.’

We were joined by Burl Hodge, his cherubic countenance alight with a mixture of eagerness and envy. ‘Roger, I’ve just been told it was you who found the alderman’s body last night. Why is it,’ he demanded, echoing Adela’s words, ‘that this sort of thing always happens to you? You must be perpetually snooping.’ I ignored the jibe, so, having failed to draw blood, he continued, ‘This rumour that the dying man mentioned a name — Dee, was it? — is apparently false. I have it on good authority that Sir George utterly denies it.’

Jack looked disappointed but unsurprised. ‘Pity,’ he said gloomily. ‘But as I was just saying to Roger, there ain’t no one called that what I know of in the city.’

As the word had spread coupling my name with that of the dead man, a little crowd had gathered around me and my friends and I was now being pelted with questions from every butcher, baker and candlestick-maker demanding his curiosity be satisfied. After all, it was not every day that a city alderman was done to death in circumstances of such gruesome barbarity. And my involvement was enough to convince some people that another treasonable plot against our new king had been uncovered. I was quick to disabuse their minds of this notion, but whether or not I managed to convince them was another matter.

Fortunately, at this moment there was a fanfare of trumpets — well, one trumpet blown slightly off-key — the gates to the inner ward of the castle were thrown open and the mummers’ carts appeared. And a brave show they made, decked with coloured ribbons, holly and other evergreens, the banner of St George fluttering in the cold, wintry breeze.

There was a ragged cheer.

The first cart, the one which served as a stage, came to a halt in the middle of the crowd and there was a pause while the elderly couple, assisted by the man who I had guessed to be the brother of the pregnant woman, unfurled a canvas backdrop of badly painted meadows, trees and a distant castle. This they fixed between two poles at the back of the ‘stage’, and then the youngest man, dressed as the saint, came forward to introduce the cast of characters.

‘Friends! Good people of Bristol!’ Loud and prolonged cheering. ‘My name is Tobias Warrener and I take the part of Saint George. My wife, Dorcas’ — the young girl was helped up on to the cart — ‘is the Fair Maiden I must rescue from the terrible, fierce Dragon, played by my wife’s brother, Master Arthur Monkton.’ The man who had helped with the scenery came forward and bowed to a chorus of good-natured booing. ‘My grandmother, Mistress Tabitha Warrener, will take the part of the Turkish Knight’ — he indicated the elderly woman who wore a turban and flowing eastern robes — ‘while the Doctor’ — screams of delighted laughter from the crowd — ‘is brought to life by our very good friend, Ned Chorley.’

The man with the missing fingers and scarred eye made his bow with a flourish, then stepped back into the semicircle formed by his fellow players and the performance finally started. I wondered if I was the only person who had noted how the old man’s eyes had raked the crowd as though searching for someone in particular. Or had that just been my fancy?

The play proceeded. St George killed the Dragon, who died writhing in agony to ecstatic cheering, but was then challenged by the Turkish Knight, who killed him in his turn and ran off with the Fair Maiden. This, of course, was the cue for the entrance of the Doctor, whose appearance was greeted with gales of laughter in anticipation of his comic monologue and antics. Adam found the character so funny that, at one point, he was in danger of choking, but after a hearty backslapping from every member of his family — so hearty on the part of Nicholas and Elizabeth that he became belligerent and threatened to retaliate in kind — he recovered sufficiently to enjoy the rest of the performance. The Doctor produced his miracle cure, St George sprang back to life and rescued the Fair Maiden, slaying the wicked Turkish Knight in the process, and then everyone, ‘dead’ and living alike, went into the final dance. This, despite its lack of musical accompaniment, was so successful, and so rapturously received, that a second and third reel was called for, while the undoubted comic talents of the maimed old man playing the Doctor were applauded to the echo. The crowd was loth to let them go even then, and it was not until the two younger men had performed a sword dance and a jig that people began looking anxiously at the sky, muttering reluctantly that it was time to be moving.

The performance, with all its encores, had taken longer than anyone had bargained for and, while we had been watching, the sky had darkened towards evening and there was a sudden hint of sleet in the air. It had been Margaret Walker’s intention to return with us to Small Street for supper, but in view of the advanced hour, the deteriorating weather and the events of the previous evening — events which had taken place almost on her own doorstep — she announced her intention to return home at once. We couldn’t blame her and so, when I had seen Adela and the children safely indoors, she and I set off, as we had done the night before, for Redcliffe.

Yet again I saw her into her cottage, repeated my instructions of yesterday and left to the sound of bolts being driven into their sockets. There was to be no detour tonight: I was determined to go straight back to Small Street and the comfort and safety of my own four walls. I took a firm grip on my cudgel and made for the bridge which gave the city its name. Bricgstowe, our Saxon forebears had called it, the Bridge Place, and so it had more or less remained. Some people still call it Bristowe today.

As I stepped between the houses, towering five stories high on either side of me, I was aware of a man leaving the chapel of the Virgin, which bisected the bridge, mounting his horse, which had been tethered outside, and riding towards me. It was the by now familiar figure of Sir George Marvell who had, presumably, been offering up prayers for the soul of his dead friend. I felt a sudden and unexpected stab of sympathy for him and, drawing to one side, was about to accord him the courtesy of a respectful bow when someone rushed past me, pushing me out of his way with such force that I lost my balance and fell heavily on my left side. By the time that, swearing and cursing, I had picked myself up, my assailant had reached his real target and was dragging George Marvell from his horse with obvious murderous intent. The knight had plainly been taken completely by surprise and, apart from the whinnying of his frightened animal, there was no sound except a great grunt as he fell awkwardly on to the cobbles.

I saw the flash of a knife blade as an arm was raised. Yelling at the top of my voice, I ran forward, swinging the weighted end of my cudgel in a lethal arc, and the would-be assassin turned a startled face in my direction just as a wall cresset flared into brightness above his head. It was apparent that he had been unaware of my presence, or of having barged into me until he heard me shout, so intent had he been on his fell purpose. As our eyes met his face was clearly visible in the light from the cresset, then, with a snarl of desperation, he turned to finish what he had started before I could reach and prevent him.

Unfortunately for him, the brief pause had enabled Sir George to recover his wits and strength and, with an enormous effort, he heaved himself free of his attacker just as I hit the man’s right hand with the knob of my cudgel. The latter gave a screech of pain and dropped his knife, but his sense of self-preservation was sufficiently strong to get him up and running before I could make any attempt to lay him by the heels. He had flashed past me and reached the end of the bridge, turning right along the Backs, before I had time to realize what was happening.

‘Where is the bastard? Did you get him?’ Sir George panted, struggling to his feet.

I held out a hand to assist him, but this was impatiently spurned. ‘I’m afraid not …’ I was beginning, but a roar of frustration was let loose about my ears.

‘You stupid dolt! You dunderhead! Don’t tell me you’ve let him escape!’

In spite of my anger, I had to admire the man. He was old, well past his three score years and ten, and he must be badly shaken. But there he was, as aggressive as ever, taking me to task for sins of omission instead of gratefully thanking me for saving his life.

I said coldly, ‘There is no need for me to run after him, Sir George. I not only know who your assailant is, but I also know where he can be found when he’s in Bristol.’

The knight glowered at me. ‘You do, do you? So who is the murdering rogue? Out with it! We don’t want to be standing here all night. Master sheriff and his sergeants have work to do. Who was it, eh?’

I waited for him to finish ranting, then answered quietly, ‘I don’t know what you’ve done to incur his enmity, Sir George, but the man who just tried to kill you is an Irish slave trader by the name of Briant of Dungarvon.’