Kate Sedley - The Christmas Wassail

The townsfolk had turned out in force to see the mummers’ final presentation of St George and the Dragon. We got to the castle early and consequently managed to find places beside the waggon, which served as the stage. We had barely taken our places when we were joined by Jenny Hodge and her boys, Jack and Dick trying not to look too eager now that they were grown-up men of the world, but failing dismally. The latter was wearing my old grey cloak and looking very smart. I felt a pang of envy and wished I had never agreed to part with it.

‘Burl not coming?’ I enquired.

Jenny shook her head, her lips tightly compressed, and I saw the two lads glance at one another.

‘Trouble?’ I asked.

She nodded. ‘He found out about the cloak.’ She drew an angry breath. ‘Oh, I could shake our Dick, I really could. I’d dinned it into his silly noddle not to tell his father where it came from. Say it’s from one of the neighbours, I said. And he promised faithfully to do so.’

I smiled. ‘But being Dick …’ I left it there.

‘But being Dick,’ Jenny finished for me, ‘with a head full of dreams and cobwebs and about as long a memory as a newborn gosling, he lets the cat straight out of the bag. “It’s Master Chapman’s old one,” he says. “He has a new one and doesn’t need it any more, so Mam asked him if I could have it and he agreed.” Well, you know how Burl feels about you, Roger, and no one’s sorrier for it than I am. You could have heard him shouting three streets away.’

I grimaced. ‘But Dick’s wearing it, for all that.’

Jenny’s eyes lit with laughter. ‘It’s one thing that can be said for Dick. He may be a bit slow-witted but he can be obstinate. He’s a will to match Burl’s own when it comes to it. He wasn’t going to part with that cloak, not if Burl ranted and sulked until Doomsday. Burl threatened to whip him, but Dick’s bigger than he is now. He just took the whip out of his father’s hands and threw it out of the door. After that, Burl realized there was nothing he could do. And Jack took Dick’s side, of course. He always does. So, here Dick is, wearing your old cloak.’

Jenny looked round for her younger son as she spoke, but Dick had drawn back into the crowd behind him. He never relished being an object of attention.

‘Well, I’m glad he stuck up for himself,’ Adela chimed in from Jenny’s other side. ‘He’s grown into a fine young man, Jenny, and you should be proud of him.’

Jenny’s reply was lost in the sudden braying of the mummers’ trumpets as they made their appearance from the inner ward of the castle. Ned Chorley was dressed as the Doctor, and Adam began to jump up and down with excitement in anticipation of the comic scenes to come. But first, of course, there was the more serious business of St George slaying the Dragon, rescuing the Fair Maid and then being slain himself by the wicked Saracen Knight.

But, finally, Good triumphed over Evil, St George was restored to life by the Doctor, the wicked Saracen Knight was slain and it was time for the mummers to make their final bow. They did so, to much cheering and loud applause, and Toby Warrener made a speech thanking the citizens for their warm welcome and hospitality throughout their stay.

‘We shall remember you kindly,’ he finished, ‘and we shall be joining you in the wassailing tonight. Thank you and God keep you all.’

The two carts were then driven back into the castle’s inner ward, the gates closing behind them, while the rest of us began to disperse.

‘Will we be seeing you tonight?’ Adela asked Jenny just before we parted. ‘Will you come to share the remainder of our Twelfth Night cake before we join the crowds in the streets?’

Jenny sighed. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure, my dear, though in Burl’s present state of mind I doubt it. But we may meet by chance.’

And on this hopeful note we parted, Jenny, escorted by her protective sons, one on either side, to make her way home to Redcliffe, Adela, the children and I walking the shorter distance back to Small Street. Here we found Margaret waiting for us, carrying a basket containing her night shift — for she was to stay the night — as well as some Christmas fairings.

‘These will be the last,’ she warned as eager hands reached for the proffered treats. ‘I wonder you haven’t all been struck down with the bellyache.’

The streets were crowded. Torches flared everywhere, held high above the excited mob as we pushed and shoved and shouted our way towards the castle, where all the gates stood open to allow us through into the inner ward and the castle orchard beyond. Without the town walls, on the hills above the city, we could see the bonfires flaming against the winter sky. Those people who lived in the outer suburbs would now be converging on the orchard of Gaunts’ Hospital with their barrels of cider, just as we, who lived within the walls, were converging on the castle. And further out again, in the countryside, farmers and smallholders everywhere would be joining forces to wassail the apple trees, pouring their libations to the old gods and tying their ribbons and corn dollies to the branches in order to ensure that the coming harvest was a good one, even better than that of the preceding year.

We jostled our way across the barbican and in through the castle gates to find the civic dignitaries already there before us with two great barrels of cider, standing on a platform in the inner ward from which we could fill our flagons and jugs. And, to everyone’s delight, the mummers had prepared one last surprise for us as the hobby-horse, with a loud neighing and tinkling of bells, came galloping into the orchard just as the mayor was about to pour the first libation. Toby Warrener was ‘riding’ him, propelling the great wicker body forward and making the head rear up and down. The other mummers, too, appeared in wassail garb, with laces tied around their knees and knots of ribbon on their shoulders. The crescendo of noise rose to fever pitch, all of us shouting and clapping and cheering. Adam, held tightly in my arms, was very nearly sick with excitement.

When some sort of order had been restored, the procession began, the mayor and aldermen leading, around the orchard, in and out of the trees, watering them with the cider in our pots and hanging up lumps of toasted bread among our other offerings. Someone started to chant the age-old song ‘Hail to thee old apple tree’ and soon we were all singing at the tops of our voices. The air was thick with the smoke from the torches and the bonfires, and I knew a moment of panic when I suddenly lost sight of Adela and the two older children. Then the smoke cleared and there they were again at my side, singing and laughing, safe and sound.

But, at last, even the most exuberant had had enough and we began to think longingly of our beds. Adam had fallen asleep in my arms, his head resting on my shoulder, and Adela had a supporting arm around Elizabeth. Even Nicholas, valiantly endeavouring to play a man’s role, was unsteady on his feet. The singing had died away to a mumble, except for a few pot-valiant youngsters in the crowd, determined to prove they could outstay their elders. The mayor and sheriff, together with their ladies, led the way out of the orchard and the rest of us followed wearily. But it had been a good night — one of the best — and the apple crop secured for next autumn.

We reached home to find a bleary-eyed Margaret waiting up for us to report that, in spite of all the hubbub in the streets — ‘enough to waken the dead,’ she complained — Luke hadn’t stirred all night.

‘Then you’ve been luckier than I am,’ Adela retorted acidly. ‘Usually, by this time of night when I’m into my first sleep, he’s awake and ready to play.’ She smiled fondly, belying her tone of voice, and I marvelled once again at how easily she had accepted my nephew — my half-nephew, to be accurate — into her life and heart. I saw Margaret Walker grimace to herself and, knowing my former mother-in-law as I did, expected her to pass some remark. Fortunately, the other three children were beginning to grizzle with fatigue and both women went upstairs with them to assist with their undressing, hear them say their prayers and tuck them up in bed. By the time they returned to the kitchen, where I was helping myself from what little remained of the Christmas food, washed down with yet more cider, Margaret had forgotten whatever she had intended to say. Besides, she found a diversion in me.