Kate Sedley - The Christmas Wassail

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.’

There was a long silence; long enough at least for me to be conscious of rats scrabbling in the central drain, scavenging for food. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, and nearer at hand an owl hooted.

After my revelation, I had expected Sir George to demand immediate action; to send me at once for the sheriff or command that I lead him without delay to Marsh Street and indicate the ale-houses where the Irish slave trader lodged. Instead, he said nothing for several seconds, but stood staring at me while he soothed his frightened horse, which was still trembling in every limb.

Finally, he spoke. ‘A slave trader, eh? Probably mistook me for someone else. One of his “marks”. Must have realized his mistake when the torchlight showed him how old I am.’ He gave an uncertain laugh, not at all like his customary confident bellow. (Not that I had heard him laugh much, I had to admit.) ‘Nothing to be done about it, then. The lord sheriff won’t thank me for turning his men out to raid “Little Ireland”, especially not after dark. Somebody’s sure to get hurt. Those rogues will resist any form of authority. So it will be just as well for you to keep your mouth shut about this, Master Chapman.’ His new-found politeness slipped a little as he added menacingly, ‘I don’t want to hear this story being bandied around the town. If I do, I shall deny it completely and imply that you are only wishful of drawing attention to yourself. There are no witnesses.’

He was right. Even my yells had provoked no response. No one had opened a door or a casement or called out to know what the matter was. Such incidents were all too frequent in the Bristol streets after dark, and last night’s murder had made everyone doubly wary of getting involved. A killer was abroad; and if an alderman, with his short sword and dagger at his belt, was not safe, then why should a common man with nothing more than his meat knife and stick to protect him, fare any better? It was wiser to stay indoors and shut one’s ears.