The Christmas Wassail (9 page)

‘He had been taking his Christmas victuals with us, Sergeant. We have known one another for years. As for being out alone in the dark, apart from the fact that it is not late – the church bells have not yet rung for Vespers – he soldiered with me in France. Robert Trefusis was not afraid of danger or of darkness.'

The sergeant drew down the corners of his mouth. ‘Well, it seems he had cause to be this time. Whoever set upon him for whatever reason was intent on taking his life. I still think it was footpads, but I daresay you're right, Sir George. He's a man of some standing in the community. We'd best send for the sheriff. Not that he'll be pleased at being disturbed on Christmas Day, but there you are. It can't be helped. Did the alderman have any family that you know of? Can't say I've ever heard tell of anyone. But you seem to know him better than I do.'

‘He had a wife once,' the knight said shortly. Then added, ‘She left him many years ago.'

It was an hour or more before the sheriff arrived and I was able to make my deposition and go. I arrived back in Small Street to be met by a wrathful Adela.

‘The children were too tired to stay up any longer,' she said accusingly, ‘and you promised to play Snapdragon with them before they went to bed. Where have you been? You can't have been talking to Margaret all this time. If you've been drinking, Roger …'

But when I had made my explanation, her anger gave place to curiosity, intrigue and a certain amount of exasperation. When she had finished exclaiming over the murder and speculating aloud as to who could have done such a thing, and why, and trying to recall anyone she knew by the name of Dee, she demanded, ‘What were you doing on Redcliffe Wharf, anyway? It's not on your way home from Margaret's.'

‘Not directly, no. I just thought I'd walk that way round to the bridge and get a breath of river air.'

‘And ran straight into a murder.' She sighed. ‘What is it about you, Roger? You just seem to attract trouble and mayhem as a magnet attracts pins.' An alarming thought occurred to her. ‘They don't suspect you, do they?'

I was able to reassure her on that score, then suggested we retired to bed ourselves.

‘It's Saint Stephen's Day tomorrow,' I pointed out. ‘We must be up early to light the Yule log, and then it's the mummers' first performance in the afternoon. The children will be excited about that. So let's get some rest while we can.'

‘Oh, well, if it's rest you're talking about . . .' Adela answered and let the sentence go.

‘Not altogether,' I admitted as we started up the stairs.

I have to admit that of all the twelve days of Christmas, I like St Stephen's Day the least. Even as a boy – and I was as callous as most children are – I never liked the custom of going out and stoning wrens to death, then tying the poor, broken little bodies to poles and parading them around the streets. People were supposed to give you money in return for one of their feathers, a talisman that apparently averted shipwreck; but as there were very few, if any, sailors in inland Wells, the custom seemed pointless. In Bristol, of course, where sailors abounded, it was a different matter; but even so, I had always forbidden our children from joining the early morning forays into the surrounding countryside to kill the birds.

Similarly, I always hated the bleeding of horses that took place on that day. I know it was said to be good for the poor beasts in order to ensure their health and vitality throughout the coming year, but some owners rode their mounts almost to death before bleeding them, so that they would be too weak to resist. Burl Hodge, I knew, had always scorned this sensitivity in me and had once taunted me about being too ‘womanish' for my own good. Indeed, I deplored my own squeamishness, but could do nothing about it.

There were, however, some enjoyable customs on the Feast of Stephen. As I have said, the lighting of the Yule log, making sure it burned steadily until Twelfth Night, was one, and sword dancing in the streets as well as the start of the mummers' plays were others. All three older children were up and downstairs early to assist at the former ritual, and although none of them was allowed to put flame to the bed of straw and twigs, they nevertheless crowded close enough about the pair of us to make both Adela and myself apprehensive. But no one did anything foolish and eventually the Yule log itself caught alight, ready to be tended and cosseted for the next twelve days.

We heard Mass at St Stephen's Church so that the children could gaze upon the statue of the martyred saint in all his glory, but I was very much afraid that their minds were more upon the coming afternoon's entertainment than the service. As for the adult members of the congregation, there was little doubt where their interest lay. If I heard the whispered words ‘Alderman Trefusis' and ‘Robert Trefusis' once, I heard them a hundred times. At that point no word seemed to have got about concerning my connection to the crime, but by the afternoon, when we entered the outer ward of the castle for the mummers' opening performance, everyone appeared to know.

Jack Nym, who had obviously been lying in wait for me at the end of the drawbridge, seized my arm the moment I was fairly under the portcullis.

‘What's this story I hear about you finding Robert Trefusis's body last night?' he demanded. ‘Is it true?'

‘Yes,' I answered wearily. ‘But it was purely accidental, I do assure you. I know no more about his death than you do.'

‘This man Dee they're all talking about,' he whispered confidentially, while gripping my arm in a painful squeeze. ‘There's no one of that name in Redcliffe or anywhere else in the city that I know of. Mind you,' he added on a dissatisfied note, ‘at this season of the year there are always a lot of strangers around visiting friends and kinfolk.'

We were joined by Burl Hodge, his cherubic countenance alight with a mixture of eagerness and envy. ‘Roger, I've just been told it was you who found the alderman's body last night. Why is it,' he demanded, echoing Adela's words, ‘that this sort of thing always happens to you? You must be perpetually snooping.' I ignored the jibe, so, having failed to draw blood, he continued, ‘This rumour that the dying man mentioned a name – Dee, was it? – is apparently false. I have it on good authority that Sir George utterly denies it.'

Jack looked disappointed but unsurprised. ‘Pity,' he said gloomily. ‘But as I was just saying to Roger, there ain't no one called that what I know of in the city.'

As the word had spread coupling my name with that of the dead man, a little crowd had gathered around me and my friends and I was now being pelted with questions from every butcher, baker and candlestick-maker demanding his curiosity be satisfied. After all, it was not every day that a city alderman was done to death in circumstances of such gruesome barbarity. And my involvement was enough to convince some people that another treasonable plot against our new king had been uncovered. I was quick to disabuse their minds of this notion, but whether or not I managed to convince them was another matter.

Fortunately, at this moment there was a fanfare of trumpets – well, one trumpet blown slightly off-key – the gates to the inner ward of the castle were thrown open and the mummers' carts appeared. And a brave show they made, decked with coloured ribbons, holly and other evergreens, the banner of St George fluttering in the cold, wintry breeze.

There was a ragged cheer.

The first cart, the one which served as a stage, came to a halt in the middle of the crowd and there was a pause while the elderly couple, assisted by the man who I had guessed to be the brother of the pregnant woman, unfurled a canvas backdrop of badly painted meadows, trees and a distant castle. This they fixed between two poles at the back of the ‘stage', and then the youngest man, dressed as the saint, came forward to introduce the cast of characters.

‘Friends! Good people of Bristol!' Loud and prolonged cheering. ‘My name is Tobias Warrener and I take the part of Saint George. My wife, Dorcas' – the young girl was helped up on to the cart – ‘is the Fair Maiden I must rescue from the terrible, fierce Dragon, played by my wife's brother, Master Arthur Monkton.' The man who had helped with the scenery came forward and bowed to a chorus of good-natured booing. ‘My grandmother, Mistress Tabitha Warrener, will take the part of the Turkish Knight' – he indicated the elderly woman who wore a turban and flowing eastern robes – ‘while the Doctor' – screams of delighted laughter from the crowd – ‘is brought to life by our very good friend, Ned Chorley.'

The man with the missing fingers and scarred eye made his bow with a flourish, then stepped back into the semicircle formed by his fellow players and the performance finally started. I wondered if I was the only person who had noted how the old man's eyes had raked the crowd as though searching for someone in particular. Or had that just been my fancy?

The play proceeded. St George killed the Dragon, who died writhing in agony to ecstatic cheering, but was then challenged by the Turkish Knight, who killed him in his turn and ran off with the Fair Maiden. This, of course, was the cue for the entrance of the Doctor, whose appearance was greeted with gales of laughter in anticipation of his comic monologue and antics. Adam found the character so funny that, at one point, he was in danger of choking, but after a hearty backslapping from every member of his family – so hearty on the part of Nicholas and Elizabeth that he became belligerent and threatened to retaliate in kind – he recovered sufficiently to enjoy the rest of the performance. The Doctor produced his miracle cure, St George sprang back to life and rescued the Fair Maiden, slaying the wicked Turkish Knight in the process, and then everyone, ‘dead' and living alike, went into the final dance. This, despite its lack of musical accompaniment, was so successful, and so rapturously received, that a second and third reel was called for, while the undoubted comic talents of the maimed old man playing the Doctor were applauded to the echo. The crowd was loth to let them go even then, and it was not until the two younger men had performed a sword dance and a jig that people began looking anxiously at the sky, muttering reluctantly that it was time to be moving.

The performance, with all its encores, had taken longer than anyone had bargained for and, while we had been watching, the sky had darkened towards evening and there was a sudden hint of sleet in the air. It had been Margaret Walker's intention to return with us to Small Street for supper, but in view of the advanced hour, the deteriorating weather and the events of the previous evening – events which had taken place almost on her own doorstep – she announced her intention to return home at once. We couldn't blame her and so, when I had seen Adela and the children safely indoors, she and I set off, as we had done the night before, for Redcliffe.

Yet again I saw her into her cottage, repeated my instructions of yesterday and left to the sound of bolts being driven into their sockets. There was to be no detour tonight: I was determined to go straight back to Small Street and the comfort and safety of my own four walls. I took a firm grip on my cudgel and made for the bridge which gave the city its name. Bricgstowe, our Saxon forebears had called it, the Bridge Place, and so it had more or less remained. Some people still call it Bristowe today.

As I stepped between the houses, towering five stories high on either side of me, I was aware of a man leaving the chapel of the Virgin, which bisected the bridge, mounting his horse, which had been tethered outside, and riding towards me. It was the by now familiar figure of Sir George Marvell who had, presumably, been offering up prayers for the soul of his dead friend. I felt a sudden and unexpected stab of sympathy for him and, drawing to one side, was about to accord him the courtesy of a respectful bow when someone rushed past me, pushing me out of his way with such force that I lost my balance and fell heavily on my left side. By the time that, swearing and cursing, I had picked myself up, my assailant had reached his real target and was dragging George Marvell from his horse with obvious murderous intent. The knight had plainly been taken completely by surprise and, apart from the whinnying of his frightened animal, there was no sound except a great grunt as he fell awkwardly on to the cobbles.

I saw the flash of a knife blade as an arm was raised. Yelling at the top of my voice, I ran forward, swinging the weighted end of my cudgel in a lethal arc, and the would-be assassin turned a startled face in my direction just as a wall cresset flared into brightness above his head. It was apparent that he had been unaware of my presence, or of having barged into me until he heard me shout, so intent had he been on his fell purpose. As our eyes met his face was clearly visible in the light from the cresset, then, with a snarl of desperation, he turned to finish what he had started before I could reach and prevent him.

Unfortunately for him, the brief pause had enabled Sir George to recover his wits and strength and, with an enormous effort, he heaved himself free of his attacker just as I hit the man's right hand with the knob of my cudgel. The latter gave a screech of pain and dropped his knife, but his sense of self-preservation was sufficiently strong to get him up and running before I could make any attempt to lay him by the heels. He had flashed past me and reached the end of the bridge, turning right along the Backs, before I had time to realize what was happening.

‘Where is the bastard? Did you get him?' Sir George panted, struggling to his feet.

I held out a hand to assist him, but this was impatiently spurned. ‘I'm afraid not …' I was beginning, but a roar of frustration was let loose about my ears.

‘You stupid dolt! You dunderhead! Don't tell me you've let him escape!'

In spite of my anger, I had to admire the man. He was old, well past his three score years and ten, and he must be badly shaken. But there he was, as aggressive as ever, taking me to task for sins of omission instead of gratefully thanking me for saving his life.