Kate Sedley: The Christmas Wassail

After a few minutes watching them, it became apparent that ‘blue tunic’ was getting the worst of it. He had been knocked to the ground twice in the last few seconds and was obviously tiring. His opponent, on the other hand, still seemed fresh and ready to continue handing out punishment indefinitely. And perhaps he would have done had there not, at that moment, been an interruption.

Some of the spectators were suddenly and violently scattered by a horse and rider plunging between them. A whip flashed, catching ‘green tunic’ across the shoulders, and a stentorian voice shouted, ‘Stop this! Stop it at once!’

It was Sir George Marvell.

Sir George threw himself from his horse and seized ‘green tunic’ by the scruff of his neck, at the same time bellowing, ‘You great oaf! You young bully! Leave your uncle be!’ He then gave the lad a shove which sent the latter sprawling on the ground and turned to the other, who appeared to my eyes as the slightly younger man. But if he had expected sympathy, he was disappointed. ‘Get up, for Sweet Christ’s sake, Bart! What are you, a man or a jellyfish? If you can’t stand up to a lout like James, God help you! You should be ashamed of yourself!’

The man in the green tunic, referred to as James, got to his feet and gave a snort of laughter. ‘There’s one thing to be said about you, Grandfather: you don’t have favourites. We all get to feel the rough edge of your tongue.’ He stooped and proffered a hand to his opponent, still struggling to rise. ‘No hard feelings, Bartholomew. But you shouldn’t be insolent to your elders and betters, you know, even if I am your nephew.’

‘You’re not better than me. Father!’ The other youth, now on his feet, laid a hand on Sir George’s arm. ‘Tell him to stop teasing me. He’s always on at me and I don‘t like it,’ he whined.

The onlookers had fallen silent, delighted by the spectacle of an aristocratic family, oblivious of dignity and pride, tearing itself apart. But the charade was not yet played out. A female voice, shrill and full of venom, demanded, ‘What have you been doing to my son, you hulking brute?’

The knight spun round, his face as black as thunder. ‘Leave this to me, Patience! This has nothing to do with you. Just a lads’ quarrel, that’s all. Bart’s not hurt. Go home!’

Patience! This, then, was the present Lady Marvell, mother of ‘blue tunic’ and the woman Burl swore was last night’s visitor to the Green Lattis. I craned my neck in order to obtain a better view of her and was rewarded by seeing her clearly in profile as she turned her head to look at another woman who was pushing her way angrily through the crowd. I saw a thin face with a sharp, prominent nose and very black eyebrows, the latter finding an echo in her son’s slightly coarser features. Her slender frame was expensively dressed in a brown fur-trimmed velvet cloak and hood, which was definitely not the garment she had been wearing the previous evening — had it indeed been her whom Burl and I had seen.

The second woman who had joined the group was equally, if not quite as richly dressed in a cloak and hood of red wool with a trimming of marten fur framing her face. This I was unable to see because she was turned away from me, addressing Sir George, but her voice was as high-pitched as Lady Marvell’s and every bit as vituperative.

‘What is going on here?’ She stabbed a forefinger at Bartholomew Marvell. ‘What has that little bastard been doing to my son?’

The youth called James stepped forward hastily and, putting an arm about her shoulders, said something in a low voice, plainly remonstrating with her, but gently.

She put up a hand to caress his cheek, her response to his words carrying easily to where Nicholas and I were standing.

‘No, I will not be silent! If your own mother can’t be your champion, who can? You have been pushed to one side all your life for that idiot there, who she says’ — the woman rounded fiercely on Patience Marvell — ‘is your grandfather’s son but who might be anyone’s by-blow for anything we can tell. After all, he was an old man when he married her and quite probably impotent by then.’

You could have heard a pin drop. This was entertainment of a very high order; better than the mummers, who were arriving that afternoon, could offer. This would provide gossip in every home and tavern in the city for months ahead. But there was still more to come. With an ear-splitting shriek, Lady Marvell threw herself on her tormentor, clawing at her face and neck and giving voice to imprecations which no lady of breeding should even know, let alone utter.

Sir George seized his wife by the shoulders, spun her round and slapped her face with the full force of his arm behind it. At the same time he addressed a thickset, middle-aged man whom I had noticed standing quietly at the front of the crowd watching the unfolding of the little drama with, I thought, a certain cynical detachment. ‘Get your wife home this instant, Cyprian! I shall have something to say to you all once we’re there.’

With that, the knight, his face contorted with fury, mounted his horse and moved her about preparatory to riding off along Redcliffe Back to one of the tall, three-storied houses that lined the southern bank of the River Avon and which had so lately become the Marvell family home.

But he found his path blocked by the arrival of authority in the shape of Richard Manifold, followed by his two henchmen, Jack Gload and Peter Littleman.

‘What’s going on here?’ demanded Richard. ‘I’ve information that there’s a breach of the peace. A couple of ruffians brawling, I was told. Where are they? Let’s be having them.’

‘Get out of my way, you dolt!’ Sir George exclaimed furiously. ‘There’s no breach of the peace. Just my son and grandson having a disagreement, that’s all. I suppose honest citizens can have a bit of a turn-up without bringing the law down around their heads.’

Richard Manifold looked startled. He had not immediately perceived that the man on horseback was Sir George and for a moment or two was unsure how to proceed. But he was not easily intimidated and, although he had a natural deference for anyone with a title, he was not prepared to overlook any misdemeanour which contravened the laws laid down in Bristol’s Great Red Book.

‘I’m sorry, Sir George,’ he said respectfully, yet firmly, ‘but fighting in the city streets is not allowed. You can see for yourself what crowds it attracts. All these fools blocking the king’s highway.’ He indicated the rest of us with a dramatic sweep of his arm. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to take the culprits into custody, although I’m sure they’ll be released on the payment of a fine. Are these the two lads here?’

James Marvell grinned at the other man. ‘Looks like we’re due for a spell in the Bridewell cells, Uncle,’ he remarked good-naturedly.

‘I won’t! I won’t!’ The younger man seemed appalled at the thought of such an indignity. ‘Mother!’ He turned imploringly towards Lady Marvell. ‘Don’t let them arrest me.’

Patience Marvell caught at her husband’s bridle. ‘George, do something! You can’t allow your son to be taken into custody like a common criminal!’

The knight wheeled his horse about with such violence that she was almost thrown to the ground.

‘I wash my hands of the pack of you,’ he snarled. ‘If my son and grandson behave like common louts, then they must take the consequences.’ He addressed Richard Manifold. ‘Tell the sheriff that I’ll be along to bail them out later. Much later!’ And with that, he rode off along the wharf without a backward glance.

Richard Manifold, plainly relieved that Sir George had seen reason and bowed to the authority of the law, and with the assistance of Jack Gload and Peter Littleman, marched his two prisoners away, having first permitted them to gather up their hats and cloaks, swords and daggers from where they had left them. Lady Marvell, her stepson and the second woman, who was presumably the stepson’s wife, were left staring uncomfortably at one another, suddenly aware of the interested crowd around them. Cyprian Marvell cleared his throat awkwardly.