Kate Sedley: The Christmas Wassail

The last two years had been busy ones for me. ‘Busy’ was not perhaps the right word to describe twenty-four months of action and almost constant danger. If you, whoever you are — and God bless you for it — have read these chronicles of mine this far, you will know that the previous year I had travelled with the army to Scotland, when the Duke of Gloucester, as he then was, had won back Berwick for the English. I had barely returned to London and was looking forward to going home to my wife and children when the duke despatched me on a secret mission to France and another life-threatening situation.

This year had been just as bad, if not worse. In April, King Edward had died suddenly, leaving his twelve-year-old son to inherit the throne. The sudden and unexpected — although not altogether by me — claim of Richard of Gloucester to the crown, on account of the illegitimacy of the late king’s marriage to Elizabeth Woodville had, yet again, and through no fault of my own, embroiled me in the duke’s affairs. Once more, I had found myself in danger. And as recently as the past month, Fate had shown her contempt for me by jeopardizing not just my life but also that of a member of my family.

So, sitting there in the comfort of the ale-house, the noise of happy, anticipatory voices all around me, old friends raising a beaker to me as they caught my eye across the room, I felt that I had earned a quiet, peaceful holiday in celebration of Our Lord’s birth. Perhaps, after all, I would treat myself to another drink. I grabbed a passing pot boy.

Burl’s voice continued to rumble on, still demanding answers to his insistent questions. ‘Why would he worry about her now, after all these years? Like I say, old Drusilla Marvell’s been in that house with no one but her household servants to look after her for as long as I can remember. Became a sort of recluse, she did, after some fellow jilted her almost at the altar steps donkey’s years ago. She was quite a young woman at the time, or so I’ve heard.’

‘Well, Bess Simnel and Maria Watkins reckon she’s all of eighty-five by now. They say she’s at least twelve years older than her brother.’

‘Eighty-five?’ breathed Burl incredulously. ‘Oh, well! Perhaps that‘s different. That’s some age! They must be measuring her up for her coffin. Her brains, if she has any left, must be addled.’

‘She’s probably growing feeble,’ I conceded as my third beaker of ale arrived at the table. I took a sip and sighed contentedly. ‘Which is why Sir George thought it wise to move into the neighbouring house when it suddenly became empty back in the autumn. And luckily it’s big enough to accommodate all the members of his family as well, plus his servants.’

‘How many are there?’ Burl asked, eyeing my beaker jealously. ‘Family, I mean, not servants.’

I took pity on him, suspecting that it was lack of means rather than fear of Jenny that had made him refuse a third cup of ale, and ordered him another.

‘My treat,’ I said, continuing before he could demur. ‘According to Margaret Walker and her friends, besides the knight himself there’s Lady Marvell, his second wife and a good few years younger than he is; Cyprian Marvell, his son from his first marriage; Cyprian’s wife and son; and finally Sir George’s lad by the present Lady Marvell. His younger son and his grandson are almost of an age. I think there’s only something like a year between them.’

‘Oh, is that who they are!’ Burl sneered. ‘I’ve seen ’em, swaggering about the town. Couple of conceited young coxcombs! I thought they were brothers. There’s a likeness that marks them out as kinfolk. What happened to the first Lady Marvell, then? Sir George do away with her, did he, in order to marry a younger woman?’

‘For sweet Jesu’s sake, man,’ I protested, ‘keep a watch on your tongue! Unfounded slanders and calumnies such as that will land you in the stocks.’

Just then a pot boy arrived with my companion’s third beaker of ale and, from the resentful glance he gave me, I thought for a moment that Burl was going to refuse it. Either that or throw it in my face. We had once been excellent friends, but when, five years earlier, Cicely Ford had died and left me her house in Small Street, Burl had been unable to conceal his resentment at my great good fortune. He had not been the only one by any means. Quite a number of worthy citizens had considered it an imposition to have a pedlar and his family living in the same street as Alderman Foster, former mayor and high sheriff of Bristol, but Burl Hodge’s opinion had been the only loss that I had truly grieved over. Jenny and his two sons, Jack and Dick, had continued as friendly as ever, but it was only recently that he had shown signs of wanting to get back on the old footing. Yet even now, all was not as it had been in the past. He was still all too ready to take offence if he considered he was being patronized, and remained reluctant to invite me to his cottage close by Temple Church, in Redcliffe. Moreover, he steadfastly refused to set foot in the Small Street house and, on occasions, was not above making snide remarks about my past relationship with Cicely Ford; remarks he must have known were without foundation if only because of the character of the lady concerned. For Mistress Ford had been renowned throughout the city for her general saintliness of character.

Now, my admonition about his language and the fact that I had paid for his ale made me once again the enemy; the man who — undeservedly in his opinion — had more than his fair share of worldly goods, and certainly more than his fair share of luck. He was still a tenter, working out of doors in the tenting fields in every sort of weather, sweltering in the summer, freezing — to which his rough and reddened hands bore testimony — in the winter, stretching ells of soaking wet cloth, fresh from the fullers, on the tenting frames.

He caught my eye and gave a sort of shame-faced grin, showing that he knew what was going through my mind, then raised the beaker to his lips.

‘Waes Hael!’ he said, giving the ancient Saxon salutation.

‘Drink Hael!’ I replied in the same tongue, raising my own cup.

He nodded as though we had reached some fresh understanding, and I gratefully seized the opportunity to give the conversation a new direction.

‘How are Jack and Dick doing?’ I asked. ‘Jack must nearly have finished his apprenticeship with Master Adelard.’

Burl nodded, beaming with pride. ‘Master Adelard says he’ll be as fine a weaver as any in Redcliffe. He’s been a journeyman for more than a twelvemonth now, and he’s just completed his Master Piece. If the Weavers’ Guild pass it as sound — of good width and texture — he can set up for himself whenever he’s able. Provided, of course, he joins the guild and attends its meetings regular. Can you imagine that, eh? Our Jack, with his own workshop and perhaps employing other people to work for him?’

‘He was always a bright lad.’ I smiled warmly. ‘I remember how Dick used to echo everything he said. And how is Dick? I was afraid he might have been put off the baking trade after all that trouble five years back.’

‘Not him! It takes more than a bit of murder and mayhem to upset that boy. He’s working for Baker Cleghorn in Saint Leonard’s Lane. Your Adela would know that. Dick says she buys sweet dough there now and again.’

‘I believe she has mentioned seeing him,’ I admitted. ‘But you know how it is, Burl. You don’t always listen to everything women say.’

Burl grunted in agreement, but couldn’t resist adding, ‘Well, I don’t suppose you do. You’re not at home often enough.’

‘True.’ I nodded equably. ‘Peddling’s a job that takes you far and wide.’