Kate Sedley: The Midsummer Crown

He picked himself up, cursing, but before I could commiserate with him, a voice from overhead enquired, ‘Are you all right, Harry?’

‘Of course I’m all right,’ Harry said irritably. ‘Don’ ask stupid questions.’

Another boy of roughly the same age as the first, swung from a lower bough and dropped to the grass. Together, the pair began to gather up the birch branches which I now noticed were far too young and green to serve as firewood.

‘They won’t burn,’ I remarked. ‘Your mothers won’t be pleased.’

The second lad regarded me scornfully. ‘They bain’t fer burning, master.’ His tone was derisive.

‘Naa,’ added the boy called Harry. ‘They’m fer makin’ midsummer crowns. We’m goin’ t’ sell ’em in Bristol market.’

Of course! I had forgotten the old pagan custom of making wreaths of tender young birch twigs and crowning some local child king or queen of Midsummer Eve. It was a country practice and not much adhered to in cities and towns where the watchful eye of the Church was constantly upon one.

‘Better not let too many people catch you at it, then,’ I advised. ‘You know how many churches and parish priests there are in Bristol.’

‘We’m not fools, you know,’ the second boy snorted, his contempt for me increasing. He waved a branch in my face. ‘Pretty leaves t’ decorate your home, sir? Take some home t’ your goody. Look lovely in a pot, they will.’

I laughed. ‘The priests aren’t fools, either,’ I warned, ‘so be careful. You don’t want to find yourselves in the stocks.’

‘My da’s a carrier,’ Harry said, ‘and he says in Lunnon they don’t care. The priests turn a blind eye. Do you want a sprig? It don’t have t’ be a crown.’

I thanked him but refused. Hercules was growing restless, anxious now to be home, an anxiety that communicated itself to me. I said goodbye to the two lads, striding out and soon leaving them trailing in our wake until, glancing over my shoulder, I could see them no longer.

Half an hour later, I was at the Frome Gate and, having exchanged a few words with the gatekeeper, was about to pass under the arch when I saw Elizabeth waiting for me, on the opposite side. My heart lurched. Something was wrong.

‘What is it?’ I asked, gripping her shoulder and hushing the dog who was barking ecstatically in welcome.

Elizabeth lifted her face to mine.

‘That man’s here again,’ she announced accusingly.

My heart gave a great lurch and sank into my boots. I had no need to ask whom she meant by ‘that man’, but nevertheless I stalled for time, staving off the actual moment of acknowledgement.

‘What man?’

My daughter made no answer, simply staring at me with the large blue eyes that were so like my own. Indeed, she bore such a strong resemblance to me, fair-haired and big-boned with the promise of height to come, that I could see nothing in her of her small, dark Celtic-looking mother. I had often noticed my former mother-in-law, Margaret Walker, searching for some likeness of feature between Elizabeth and Lillis but failing to find one; and I often reflected that it must be a source of great disappointment to her that her one true grandchild had not a single feature to remind her of her long-dead daughter.

We were joined by my stepson, Nicholas, who arrived from the direction of Small Street closely shadowed by his little half-brother, Adela’s and my son, Adam. The latter would be five years old at the end of the month and was now of an age to want his siblings’ company, a fact which they resented. From the moment Adela and I had married, six years previously, Elizabeth and Nick had been inseparable and had needed no other companions than each other. Now, a persistent little serpent was invading their Eden.

‘That man’s here,’ Nicholas said, unconsciously echoing his stepsister.

‘Man,’ Adam repeated, his expression hostile. He added, ‘You going ’way again, isn’t you?’

‘No,’ I told him firmly. I turned back to Elizabeth. ‘I suppose you mean Master Plummer?’

She nodded, her lips set in a thin, inimical line.

‘He says you must go back to London with him,’ Nicholas said. ‘I heard him telling Mother.’

‘Well, this time I’m not going.’ I took a deep breath and braced my shoulders for the coming tussle of wills. ‘I promise you.’

My daughter looked sceptical. ‘You always say that, but you always do. Go, I mean.’

‘You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep,’ my stepson reproved me. He had known me long enough, and had so little recollection of his real father, to accept me as his true parent and to treat me with the easy, affectionate lack of respect that my own children showed towards me. It was my fault, of course, being a sad disciplinarian and leaving correction and punishment to Adela. It was inevitable, I suppose, as half the time I wasn’t at home, sometimes for months at a time. The only advantage was that when, on occasions, I did lose my temper, I frightened them all to death.

‘Where is Master Plummer?’ I asked grimly, and was informed in chorus that he was at Small Street, lounging at ease in our parlour. ‘I’ll soon put a stop to that,’ I announced through gritted teeth.

We proceeded in procession to the house left to me five years previously by Cicely Ford, and the cause of a great deal of resentment and envy on the part of some of my former friends who considered me undeserving of such good fortune. The disapproval of the neighbours was of a different sort as they found it demeaning to have a common pedlar and his family living amongst them. We didn’t let it worry us, although at times it could prove uncomfortable.

Adela was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, making dumplings to add to the pot of sweet-smelling rabbit stew that was bubbling away over the fire. Without looking up, she began, ‘He’s-’

‘In the parlour,’ I finished for her. ‘Yes, I know. The children told me.’

She did glance up then, recognizing my tone of voice, and gave a rueful smile. ‘You can protest all you like, but he isn’t going to take “no” for an answer, Roger,’ she warned me. ‘I’ve already pleaded your cause and told him you’ve promised to stay at home for a while.’

‘And what did he say?’

She began transferring the dumplings to the stewpot. ‘Nothing. He didn’t bother arguing. He just produced a warrant signed by the lord Protector and waved it under my nose.’

‘Signed by who?’ I was so angry, my wits had gone wool-gathering.

‘The Protector.’ Then, as I still gaped at her, she added impatiently, ‘My lord of Gloucester.’

I dumped my nearly empty pack on the kitchen floor and up-ended the plentiful contents of my purse on to the table. ‘I’ll go and have a word with Timothy,’ I said darkly.

‘It won’t do any good.’ My wife came across and gave me a floury kiss on one cheek. Her tone was resigned. ‘I know the signs only too well. You won’t prevail. Besides,’ she added with a laugh, ‘half of you doesn’t want to.’

‘Nonsense!’ I declared stoutly.

She laughed again, but said nothing more.

The children, who had crowded after me into the kitchen, now preceded me into the parlour and faced Timothy Plummer before I had time to prevent them.

‘He’s not coming with you!’ Elizabeth exclaimed shrilly.

‘No, he’s not,’ Nicholas corroborated.

‘So go away!’ roared Adam. Even as a baby he had possessed a fearsome pair of lungs, and although he had grown quieter with age, he still liked to exercise them on occasions.

The Spymaster General looked dazed, which was unsurprising. In the world which he inhabited, children were respectful and deferential to their elders, answering only when spoken to. He was unprepared for this unprovoked, verbal assault.