Kate Sedley: The Christmas Wassail

Adela stared at me for a moment or two, her breast heaving, then she quite suddenly burst into tears. ‘I hate you!’ she sobbed and rushed from the room.

Adam and I stared at one another in consternation.

Of course, she didn’t really hate me.

I put Adam to bed in the little room he shared with Nicholas, then went in search of Adela in our own bedchamber, where she always took refuge when upset. It took all my well-known tact and charm to win her round — plus a solemn promise never again to tell the children ‘pagan legends’ as she called them — and in the end we decided to go to bed ourselves and make up in the usual way. It was pitch dark outside and a fine snow was still falling. As my wife pointed out, it would save candles and more logs for the parlour fire; but as I couldn’t help reflecting, rather sadly, there had been a time, not that far distant, when such a mundane consideration would not even have entered our heads.

I woke after some hours with a raging thirst, the result of three beakers of ale and two bowlfuls of rabbit stew, and went downstairs to the water barrel in the kitchen to slake it. The snow had stopped now, as a peep out of the back door into our little yard confirmed. In the distance, I could hear the rattle of the night-soilers’ carts as they went about their filthy, stinking business, cleaning out the public latrines and cesspits as well as the private privies of anyone who was willing to pay for their services. Occasionally, I did so myself and decided that if I continued to earn good money at my peddling, I might do so permanently. It was a happy thought and I smiled. Then I went back inside, shutting and bolting the door after me.

I was still thirsty, so I fetched another cup of water and perched on the edge of the kitchen table, swinging one leg. It had not been the best possible start to Christmas, but that had been largely my own fault. I shouldn’t have stayed in the Green Lattis, drinking, and I shouldn’t have lost my temper when I discovered that Richard Manifold had usurped my right to tie the kissing bush to the ceiling hook. Or should I? I wasn’t quite sure.

Thinking about the Green Lattis brought back the memory of the face I had seen across the ale-room. I was still unable to put a name to it, but I was possessed of the strong conviction that it had been in the wrong place. It hadn’t been in its familiar surroundings. Had it been, I felt certain I should have known who the man was.

‘You’ll recollect, given time,’ I told myself. ‘Let it alone and it’ll come to you. It always does.’

But I couldn’t stop worrying at the problem, like probing an aching tooth with one’s tongue, so I deliberately diverted my thoughts to a different worry, and one that I could do nothing about. It was a month or so now since rumours began circulating that King Richard — a man I loved and deeply admired and who had, on several occasions, claimed me as a friend — had had his two nephews murdered. These stories had started during the late rebellion, and I thought I knew who was their author: one of the king’s most implacable enemies, John Morton, Bishop of Ely. But once the rebellion had been put down, skilfully and with very little loss of life or retribution, I had confidently expected the king to deny the calumny publicly and to produce the two boys, alive and well, for all the world to see. It hadn’t happened, and although I kept telling myself that my belief in King Richard’s humanity and probity was as strong as ever, now and again I felt that belief to be a little shaken …

It was useless to think like that. I stood up abruptly, swallowed the remaining water, replaced the cup on the shelf and went back to bed. In spite of my cluttered mind, within five minutes I was asleep and snoring. Or, at least, so Adela informed me in the morning.

It was at breakfast that Adela, looking a little heavy-eyed as though she had slept badly, informed Nicholas and myself that our first task on this Eve of Christmas would be to go down to Redcliffe Wharf where, so she had been informed, the Yule logs were being distributed.

‘Now you know what to look for, Roger,’ she instructed me. ‘A log that’s not too wet, so that it won’t burn at all, but not too dry, either. A bit green and damp so that it will burn throughout the whole twelve days until Twelfth Night. If it stops burning, that’s bad luck for the coming year.’

‘I wanted to go and watch the mummers arrive,’ my stepson protested indignantly, but his mother was adamant.

‘That’s not until this afternoon,’ she said. ‘There will be plenty of time for that afterwards.’

‘How do you know it’s this afternoon?’ Nick, though normally a quiet and amenable child, could be awkward when he chose.

‘Sergeant Manifold said so.’

‘I didn’t hear him.’

‘That’ll do, Nicholas!’ Adela so rarely called her son by his full name that he looked startled. ‘You’ll do as I tell you.’

Not another Christmas disagreement, please Lord, I prayed silently. Out loud I said, ‘I should appreciate your company, Nick. Then, if I choose the wrong log, I’ll have someone to share the blame with.’

That made him grin and restored his good humour. ‘Can we take Hercules?’

‘Yes, if you like. Although I warn you, he’s bound to be more of a hindrance than a help.’

So as soon as breakfast was finished, I set out with the two of them for Redcliffe Wharf. Before leaving, I gave Adela a smacking kiss and the purseful of money I had made the preceding day. Pleasurably surprised by the amount, she not only returned my embrace with interest, but actually conceded that perhaps, after all, I had earned those extra two beakers of ale in the Green Lattis.

Early as it was, the streets were already crowded as people began their last-minute preparations for the holy day on the morrow. As we made our way across the bridge and along Redcliffe Street the crowds grew thicker, and several times Hercules was obliged to growl menacingly at strangers who jostled us too closely. Like ourselves, many of those on foot were making their way towards the quayside where the Yule logs were being handed out. My hopes of getting one exactly suited to my wife’s requirements faded.

We had just turned into one of the narrow alleyways which run between Redcliffe Street and the Backs, when a great shout went up from some of the people ahead of us. ‘A mill! A mill!’

Every man loves a good fight, and immediately all those behind us began surging forward. I hauled Hercules up into my arms, told Nicholas to hang on to my cloak and on no account to let go, then used my height and bulk and strength to heave aside my neighbours and push us clear of the alley.

A circle of spectators, about eight deep, had already formed about the two contestants, but I edged my stepson to where a pile of Yule logs, a little apart from the rest and so far unnoticed by others, formed a platform from which the fight could easily be viewed in comfort.

To my astonishment, this was no bout of fisticuffs between a couple of crane workers or dock-hands — which was not an unusual sight along the Backs — but a set-to between two young men who, judging by their clothes, were of some wealth and standing. The savagery of the blows which they were inflicting on one another argued an enmity deeply felt and of long duration, but they had, at least, chosen to fight with their fists rather than their daggers or swords which, together with their cloaks and hats, were piled at the feet of an onlooker.

It was not easy to distinguish between them. They were of a similar age — somewhere, I guessed, around nineteen or twenty. Both were of slender build and both had brown curly hair. Indeed, except for the fact that one wore a blue tunic and the other a green it would have been almost impossible to tell them apart.