Kate Sedley - The Christmas Wassail

Of these latter events, most of my customers wanted to know of the happenings in London during June and July, of the new king and, most of all, if the rumours that he had had the deposed young king and his brother murdered in the Tower were true. These rumours now seemed rife throughout the country — the West Country, at least: I couldn’t answer for other parts — and I did my best to reassure anyone to whom I spoke that the stories were false. The trouble was that I had no proof to offer as to the young princes’ actual fate and found myself resenting the fact. It was high time, I felt, that the king made the whereabouts of his nephews known.

The worst part of the journey was crossing the great plain near Salisbury. I passed the brooding Giants’ Dance, the Stone Henge as our Saxon forebears had named it, raised who knew how many hundreds of years before they had set foot in this island. I had encountered a particularly violent, but fortunately brief, snowstorm that afternoon and, for a while, had been forced to shelter among the stones themselves. I can recall even now, after all this lapse of years, how uneasy they made me feel, as if some magic possessed them. I remember how relieved I was when the snow abated and I was finally able to press on.

It was two days later, with a fragile sun riding high in the noonday sky that, thanks to a passing woodsman who knew the surrounding countryside like the back of his own hand, I arrived at Sweetwater Manor. This, as I have already said, was a moated house and the main gate was approached across a wooden bridge, wide enough and strong enough to admit a substantial cart. There was a bell on a rope hanging beside the gate, which I pulled as hard as I could. The sound of its clapper jangled away into the distance and then the silence came creeping back, more profound than before.

The place might have been deserted: there was no sound or sign of any life anywhere. I could see the byres, the pigsties, the sheep pens, but animals were keeping themselves close and not venturing forth in such freezing weather. The outhouses also appeared devoid of life, and I was just beginning to wonder if the whole compound was indeed untenanted when a spiral of smoke went up through a hole in one of the outhouse roofs, followed within a few seconds by the emergence of a young housemaid from a side door of the main building. She skidded across the frozen courtyard in her wooden pattens and disappeared inside the hen coop, presumably to collect the morning’s eggs.

I clanged the bell again, louder and more imperatively than before. And again.

At this third summons, the main door of the manor opened and the steward stepped out, a cloak held firmly around him and using his staff of office as a prop to help him walk across the slippery ground. He opened the gate, obviously in a furious temper.

‘Where’s that fool of a porter?’ he demanded.

Not being able to say, I simply shrugged and stepped inside.

‘Pedlars round to the kitchen entrance,’ the man snapped, having now taken a good look at me.

‘I wish to see Master Tuffnel,’ I said. ‘Master Cyprian Tuffnel.’

For a moment, he was palpably taken aback by my knowledge of his master’s name, but he quickly recovered and pointed with his staff to the right-hand side of the building.

‘Kitchen,’ he said briefly.

I repeated my request, but only succeeded in goading him to a frenzy.

‘Kitchen,’ he roared again.

‘I’m not here to sell anything,’ I answered quietly. ‘I wish to speak to Master Tuffnel about the mummers to whom he gives shelter every winter.’

‘Oh, them!’ The steward spoke scornfully. ‘Bunch of rogues! I don’t know why the master puts up with them.’ He flushed slightly, aware of having spoken out of turn, and to an inferior. He drew a deep breath preparatory to ordering me once more round to the kitchens.

He was forestalled by a shout of, ‘Oswald!’ An elderly gentleman in a furred cloak, and leaning heavily on an ivory-headed cane, was making his precarious way towards us. The steward started forward.

‘Master, you shouldn’t be out of doors in this weather. You might slip and break a leg. I can deal with this impudent fellow.’

The newcomer paid him no attention, instead looking steadily at me. ‘If you’re Roger the Chapman,’ he said, ‘as I presume you are by your pack, I’ve been expecting you. Give me your arm and we’ll go inside. Oswald,’ he addressed the steward once again, ‘have wine and biscuits sent to the little solar and then see to it that I’m not interrupted.’

So it was that, some ten or so minutes later, I had shed my pack and cloak and was gradually thawing out my grateful body in front of a roaring fire, while my host busied himself with piling yet more logs on the blaze.

‘Warmer now?’ he asked me. ‘You must have had a cold journey.’

I nodded, holding my hands to the flames, but I was not inclined to waste any time on small talk. ‘How do you know my name and why have you been expecting me?’ I demanded. ‘Where are Tabitha Warrener and Ned Chorley? I need to speak to them.’

Master Tuffnel seated himself in a chair opposite mine, on the other side of the hearth. I could see now that, as I had expected, he was an old man, probably in his seventies like Sir George Marvell and Alderman Trefusis.

‘One thing at a time, young man,’ he said with his pleasant smile. ‘I know your name because Tabitha told me about you. She also said that she would be very surprised if you failed to come after her and Ned. And, finally, you cannot speak to them because she, Ned and the others have gone.’

‘Gone?’ I jerked forward in my chair. ‘Where?’

‘To France.’

‘France?’ I stared at him stupidly.

‘To France,’ he repeated with emphasis.

‘When?’

‘Over a week ago. In fact, shortly after they arrived here. They set off for Southampton two days later and, as I’ve heard no more of them, I can only presume that they found a ship’s captain willing and able to take them and their gear. There are always a few willing to brave the winter storms in the Channel if, of course, they are offered sufficient money. And I understand that Ned and Tabitha did very well in Bristol.’

‘When … When will they be back?’ I wanted to know.

Master Tuffnel shook his head. ‘I fear they won’t be coming back. They intend to make their home in France. Both Ned and Tabitha spent so many years in that country that they can speak the language after a fashion. Well enough, at any rate, to make themselves understood. Tobias, Dorcas and her brother, Arthur, will learn it gradually. You need not be afraid for them.’

‘Afraid for them!’ I was on my feet, shaking with rage. ‘Afraid for those murdering ruffians! Do you know that they have brutally killed three men, one of them an entirely innocent young lad, as well as trying three times to murder me? Do you know this? Have they told you?’

At this moment, a serving-man appeared with a tray on which reposed a jug of wine and various plates of small cakes and biscuits. He looked aghast at me towering over his master, my features undoubtedly contorted with the anger I was feeling. I must have looked a menacing figure.

‘Are — are you all right, master?’ he stammered, setting down the tray. ‘Shall I call the other servants?’

Cyprian Tuffnel waved him away with an airy gesture of one hand. ‘No, my dear fellow, no! I’m sure I’m perfectly safe with Master Chapman.’

The man went with lagging steps, casting anxious glances over his shoulder. I sat down again in order to reassure him, but once the door had closed, I returned to the attack.

‘These people are murderers, sir,’ I said, slapping the arms of my chair and breathing hard. ‘They deserve no man’s goodwill, and certainly not mine.’