The Christmas Wassail

By Kate Sedley

Christmas, 1483: Roger the Chapman is looking forward to twelve days of peace and celebration with his wife and children in Bristol. The family is particularly excited by the arrival of a troupe of mummers, who will perform their plays in the outer ward of the castle throughout the festival. But the gruesome murders of two of the town’s most prominent and venerable citizens, both veterans of the French wars, scupper Roger’s hopes as he is gradually drawn into the hunt for the killer.
Once again, Roger finds himself in grave danger, but it is someone else who pays the price of his inability to keep his nose out of matters that do not concern him . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Severn House
• Release date: Jul 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781780104201

Kate Sedley

Kate Sedley was born in Bristol, England and educated at the Red Maids’ School in Westbury-on-Trym. She is married and has a son, a daughter and three grandchildren.

Book preview

ONE

‘It’s all very well him being called Marvell,’ Burl Hodge grumbled, ‘so long as the silly old sod doesn’t think he is one.’

We were sitting in a favourite corner of our favourite ale-house – the Green Lattis close by All Saints’ Church – about to start on a second beaker apiece of our favourite ale. These tasted all the sweeter because both our wives had strictly forbidden us to stay for more than one. Christmas was nearly upon us and our services were required at home.

The Feast of St Nicholas had already come and gone. All over the country the boy bishops had been chosen from among the youths of the choir and were now installed for the next week or two in Episcopal state, making up for all the cuffs, scoldings and general abuse they had suffered throughout the past year. In our household, it had, as usual, fallen to my lot to tell the saint’s stories to our children.

Needless to say, Adam and Nicholas, my son and stepson, clamoured for the tale of the two young boys on their way to Athens who stopped in Myra for the night and were murdered by the wicked innkeeper. They particularly relished the part where this evil man chopped the two bodies into bits and pickled them in a barrel of brine, intending to sell them as salted pork and so gain even further from his crime. But, the next day – much, I believe to Adam’s and his half-brother’s disappointment – Bishop Nicholas arrived at the inn, having had a vision of the two boys during the night, and restored them to life. The murderer then fell on his knees in floods of tears, confessed his sin and expressed his repentance, promising to lead an unblemished life in future. The saint immediately forgave him.

‘Pooh,’ had said Adam, my five-year-old cynic, ‘I don’t suppose the innkeeper meant it.’ And he had pulled his little knife from his belt, making slashing movements in the air. I didn’t feel that he had quite grasped the moral of the story.

My daughter, Elizabeth, naturally preferred the tale of the three young girls whose father had fallen on hard times and who was unable to provide the necessary dowries for them when they wished to be married. St Nicholas, learning of their plight, had tossed three solid gold balls – or three purses full of gold, whichever you preferred – through their bedchamber windows, thus enabling them to wed the men of their choice.

‘Do you think Saint Nicholas might do that for me?’ Bess had asked wistfully.

‘I hardly think so, sweetheart,’ was my reply. ‘He’s been dead for centuries.’

‘I’ll have to depend on you, then,’ she had sighed, grimacing as though her expectations were not very high.

She was probably quite right to be pessimistic, but as she was only just nine, I was none too worried as yet.

Within the city itself, the mayor and aldermen had already carried out their inspection of the wharves and warehouses to ensure that sufficient stocks of wood had been imported to keep both rich and poor, young and old warm for the Christmas season; also that extra supplies of food had been laid in so that not only the citizens could be certain of enough to eat, but any strangers who happened to be visiting Bristol as well. The city fathers had received their annual allowance of furs and wine and fine red local cloth, while the rest of us had worked ourselves up to such a pitch of goodwill that we no longer resented these self-awarded gifts.

Well, most of us didn’t. Burl Hodge, an inveterate grumbler, had already had his say on the subject. Now he had found another source of grievance.

I took a deep, satisfying mouthful of ale and swirled it around my tongue before swallowing. Blissful! I smiled at him. ‘Our newest citizen been annoying you, Burl?’

The snort he gave would have done credit to pigs at a trough.

‘If you call it an annoyance for the stupid old fart to nearly ride over me on that showy bay mare of his and force me into the central drain in Redcliffe Street, then yes! He has annoyed me, as you put it. Who does he think he is? That’s what I’d like to know!’

I took another swig of ale and replied peaceably, ‘He’s Sir George Marvell, knighted for his bravery on some French battlefield long years ago. He’s also extremely wealthy. Inherited wealth from his father, or so I’ve been told.’

My companion gave another snort and swallowed half his beaker of ale, without pausing to savour it, in a way that made me wince.

‘You’ve been told bloody right,’ he snarled. ‘And what was his father? A damn brewer who made his fortune by watering his ale.’

‘Do you know that for a fact?’

‘Well … no, not for certain. But I’ll wager any money he did.’

‘You’d best lower your voice, then. Or, better still, don’t repeat it. You never know who might overhear you in a place like this.’

‘Even if someone did, he wouldn’t tell on me. In here, we’re amongst friends. Besides, nobody likes the man. Sir George Marvell’ – he uttered the name as though it were an imprecation – ‘has made himself more enemies in the ten or so weeks he’s been in the city than anyone else I know.’

I had to admit that this was true. The knight was rude, truculent, set up in his own conceit, disliked even by his own family. The list of his failings was endless. At the same time he was a person of some importance whose company, while not exactly courted, was certainly not repulsed by the great and the good of Bristol, and whose father, the brewer, was remembered as a man who had spent his money doing many charitable works in the town.

All this had happened long before I married my first wife, Lillis Walker, and settled in the city, but I knew that the only surviving son of Brewer Marvell had been sent to London back in the late twenties under the patronage of some high-ranking official at the court of King Henry VI, fought in France with the renowned Talbot of Shrewsbury, and eventually been knighted after an act of bravery in one of the many engagements which marked the long, and eventually unsuccessful, campaign to retain our French territories. So much was common gossip. And if you had Margaret Walker as your former mother-in-law, as I did, then you knew every scrap of Bristol history from the Creation to the present day, in this year of Our Lord, 1483 …

Burl was still talking, thumping the table with his by now empty beaker. ‘What I want to know is why did the old bastard have to move down into the town, eh? Tell me that! He’s been quite happy – not that he’d be happy anywhere, the miserable sod, but you know what I mean – up in Clifton Manor in that great house of his, with all his family under the same roof, making their bloody lives a misery, just as he does ours now. So why move down here, acting unpleasant and annoying – your word, not mine – the rest of us? What does Mistress Walker and her two cronies reckon to that? Those three usually have an answer to everything. Especially that toothless old crone, Maria Watkins.’

I couldn’t help laughing, but begged him to moderate his language. ‘Oh, her theory,’ I said, ‘and I think it’s probably the correct one, is that Sir George has grown worried about his sister, old Drusilla Marvell.’

‘Why?’ Burl demanded aggressively, as though it were somehow my fault. ‘She’s lived by herself in that house in Redcliffe Back for as long as anyone can remember. He’s never worried about her before.’

I finished my ale and peered sadly into the depths of the beaker, hoping to find a few dregs that I had missed. Discovering none, I wondered if I might order myself a third pot, and if I could persuade Burl to join me. Reluctantly, I decided against the notion, but I wasn’t ready to move just yet. Outside, the short December day was drawing towards dusk and it was cold. Earlier, I thought there had been a hint of snow in the air. Inside the Green Lattis all was warm and snug with the warmth of bodies pressed close to one another, a log fire burning on the hearth and a general atmosphere of goodwill in anticipation of the coming season and holiday. The twelve days of Christmas stretched before us like a golden path of peace and plenty and I, for one, was looking forward to it with the greatest of pleasure.

The last two years had been busy ones for me. ‘Busy’ was not perhaps the right word to describe twenty-four months of action and almost constant danger. If you, whoever you are – and God bless you for it – have read these chronicles of mine this far, you will know that the previous year I had travelled with the army to Scotland, when the Duke of Gloucester, as he then was, had won back Berwick for the English. I had barely returned to London and was looking forward to going home to my wife and children when the duke despatched me on a secret mission to France and another life-threatening situation.

This year had been just as bad, if not worse. In April, King Edward had died suddenly, leaving his twelve-year-old son to inherit the throne. The sudden and unexpected – although not altogether by me – claim of Richard of Gloucester to the crown, on account of the illegitimacy of the late king’s marriage to Elizabeth Woodville had, yet again, and through no fault of my own, embroiled me in the duke’s affairs. Once more, I had found myself in danger. And as recently as the past month, Fate had shown her contempt for me by jeopardizing not just my life but also that of a member of my family.

So, sitting there in the comfort of the ale-house, the noise of happy, anticipatory voices all around me, old friends raising a beaker to me as they caught my eye across the room, I felt that I had earned a quiet, peaceful holiday in celebration of Our Lord’s birth. Perhaps, after all, I would treat myself to another drink. I grabbed a passing pot boy.

Burl’s voice continued to rumble on, still demanding answers to his insistent questions. ‘Why would he worry about her now, after all these years? Like I say, old Drusilla Marvell’s been in that house with no one but her household servants to look after her for as long as I can remember. Became a sort of recluse, she did, after some fellow jilted her almost at the altar steps donkey’s years ago. She was quite a young woman at the time, or so I’ve heard.’

‘Well, Bess Simnel and Maria Watkins reckon she’s all of eighty-five by now. They say she’s at least twelve years older than her brother.’

‘Eighty-five?’ breathed Burl incredulously. ‘Oh, well! Perhaps that‘s different. That’s some age! They must be measuring her up for her coffin. Her brains, if she has any left, must be addled.’

‘She’s probably growing feeble,’ I conceded as my third beaker of ale arrived at the table. I took a sip and sighed contentedly. ‘Which is why Sir George thought it wise to move into the neighbouring house when it suddenly became empty back in the autumn. And luckily it’s big enough to accommodate all the members of his family as well, plus his servants.’

‘How many are there?’ Burl asked, eyeing my beaker jealously. ‘Family, I mean, not servants.’

I took pity on him, suspecting that it was lack of means rather than fear of Jenny that had made him refuse a third cup of ale, and ordered him another.

‘My treat,’ I said, continuing before he could demur. ‘According to Margaret Walker and her friends, besides the knight himself there’s Lady Marvell, his second wife and a good few years younger than he is; Cyprian Marvell, his son from his first marriage; Cyprian’s wife and son; and finally Sir George’s lad by the present Lady Marvell. His younger son and his grandson are almost of an age. I think there’s only something like a year between them.’

‘Oh, is that who they are!’ Burl sneered. ‘I’ve seen ’em, swaggering about the town. Couple of conceited young coxcombs! I thought they were brothers. There’s a likeness that marks them out as kinfolk. What happened to the first Lady Marvell, then? Sir George do away with her, did he, in order to marry a younger woman?’

‘For sweet Jesu’s sake, man,’ I protested, ‘keep a watch on your tongue! Unfounded slanders and calumnies such as that will land you in the stocks.’

Just then a pot boy arrived with my companion’s third beaker of ale and, from the resentful glance he gave me, I thought for a moment that Burl was going to refuse it. Either that or throw it in my face. We had once been excellent friends, but when, five years earlier, Cicely Ford had died and left me her house in Small Street, Burl had been unable to conceal his resentment at my great good fortune. He had not been the only one by any means. Quite a number of worthy citizens had considered it an imposition to have a pedlar and his family living in the same street as Alderman Foster, former mayor and high sheriff of Bristol, but Burl Hodge’s opinion had been the only loss that I had truly grieved over. Jenny and his two sons, Jack and Dick, had continued as friendly as ever, but it was only recently that he had shown signs of wanting to get back on the old footing. Yet even now, all was not as it had been in the past. He was still all too ready to take offence if he considered he was being patronized, and remained reluctant to invite me to his cottage close by Temple Church, in Redcliffe. Moreover, he steadfastly refused to set foot in the Small Street house and, on occasions, was not above making snide remarks about my past relationship with Cicely Ford; remarks he must have known were without foundation if only because of the character of the lady concerned. For Mistress Ford had been renowned throughout the city for her general saintliness of character.

Now, my admonition about his language and the fact that I had paid for his ale made me once again the enemy; the man who – undeservedly in his opinion – had more than his fair share of worldly goods, and certainly more than his fair share of luck. He was still a tenter, working out of doors in the tenting fields in every sort of weather, sweltering in the summer, freezing – to which his rough and reddened hands bore testimony – in the winter, stretching ells of soaking wet cloth, fresh from the fullers, on the tenting frames.

He caught my eye and gave a sort of shame-faced grin, showing that he knew what was going through my mind, then raised the beaker to his lips.

‘Waes Hael!’ he said, giving the ancient Saxon salutation.

‘Drink Hael!’ I replied in the same tongue, raising my own cup.

He nodded as though we had reached some fresh understanding, and I gratefully seized the opportunity to give the conversation a new direction.

‘How are Jack and Dick doing?’ I asked. ‘Jack must nearly have finished his apprenticeship with Master Adelard.’

Burl nodded, beaming with pride. ‘Master Adelard says he’ll be as fine a weaver as any in Redcliffe. He’s been a journeyman for more than a twelvemonth now, and he’s just completed his Master Piece. If the Weavers’ Guild pass it as sound – of good width and texture – he can set up for himself whenever he’s able. Provided, of course, he joins the guild and attends its meetings regular. Can you imagine that, eh? Our Jack, with his own workshop and perhaps employing other people to work for him?’

‘He was always a bright lad.’ I smiled warmly. ‘I remember how Dick used to echo everything he said. And how is Dick? I was afraid he might have been put off the baking trade after all that trouble five years back.’

‘Not him! It takes more than a bit of murder and mayhem to upset that boy. He’s working for Baker Cleghorn in Saint Leonard’s Lane. Your Adela would know that. Dick says she buys sweet dough there now and again.’

‘I believe she has mentioned seeing him,’ I admitted. ‘But you know how it is, Burl. You don’t always listen to everything women say.’

Burl grunted in agreement, but couldn’t resist adding, ‘Well, I don’t suppose you do. You’re not at home often enough.’

‘True.’ I nodded equably. ‘Peddling’s a job that takes you far and wide.’

My companion laughed. ‘Oh, I wasn’t thinking of peddling. I’m not deaf. I hear the rumours and the talk about you, like any other citizen of this fair town.’

I took a deep breath. ‘And what exactly do you hear, Burl?’

‘That these days you’re working mainly for … I was going to say the duke, but I’m forgetting. He’s the king now, ain’t he?’

I ignored – with some difficulty – the provocation in my companion’s tone, and leant forward with my elbows on the table. ‘I don’t know where you and others get your information from,’ I said as evenly as I could, ‘but it’s wrong. I have done several … shall we say favours? … for King Richard in the past, but that is all. I do not work for him. I am not his spy. I am my own man, as I have always been. I earn my own living. And I rely on you, as my friend, to refute these stories whenever you can.’

Burl shrugged. ‘All right, if that’s what you wish. But nobody’ll believe me. Folk regard you as someone to be reckoned with nowadays, you know. I’ve even heard it said that the duke – I mean, the king – had summat to do with you getting that house in Small Street. Though no one thought so at the time, mind.’

Words of denial sprang hotly to my lips, but then I gave up. I wasn’t going to convince anyone of the truth, let alone my erstwhile friend, whose envy still coloured his perception of me, however hard he tried to do me justice. I propped my chin in my hands and surveyed the ale-room.

It was packed, and I had no doubt that every other inn in the city was likewise full. On this day before the Eve of Christmas, everyone was relaxed and happy, anxious to share that goodwill with friends and strangers alike. Although no one had as yet reached the shouting or singing stage of drunkenness, the noise was none the less deafening, with people calling to one another from table to table, roaring with laughter at friends’ jokes and slapping each other on the back as they yelled for more ale. The fire on the central hearth, lit to keep at bay the December cold, had started to smoke badly, one of the logs with which it had just been fed being green and oozing damp. It was becoming difficult to distinguish faces on the opposite side of the room and people were beginning to cough and splutter into their ale. But even their annoyance was good-natured, and there was much ribbing of the landlord for such carelessness in choosing poor fuel.

The door of the Green Lattis opened and closed briefly to allow another thirsty customer to squeeze his way inside and, for a moment, the sudden draught cleared away the smoke on the far side of the room. I happened to be looking that way and, for a few seconds, a face swam in and out of my vision.

‘Who’s that?’ I demanded sharply of Burl.

‘Who? Where?’ He strained his eyes in the direction of my pointing finger, but the smoke from the fire was again providing an effective screen. ‘Who are you talking about?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘You can’t see him now. It was just a man I thought I recognized for a moment, but I can’t put a name to the face. Probably my imagination, anyway, and I’m certainly not fighting my way through this press to find out.’ I stood up. ‘I should be going. I promised to be home an hour ago. Adela will be furious with me, and not without cause. Are you coming?’

Burl nodded and also got a little unsteadily to his feet. We shouted our goodnights to the landlord and other friends before supporting each other out into the street. The bells of nearby All Saints’ Church were tolling for Vespers. It was later than I thought.

As we rounded a corner of the ale-house, Burl almost bumped into somebody coming from the opposite direction.

He gave a loud belch and mumbled his apologies. The woman, cloaked and hooded, with the hood drawn well forward to cover her face, shrank back in alarm, but whether from a desire not to be recognized or from the stink of Burl’s ale-laden breath I shouldn’t have liked to hazard a guess. But a lantern, hanging high in the porch of the church, showed her clothes to be of an excellent quality. She was plainly a woman of fashion and some wealth; not the sort to be walking abroad after dusk – although the hour was still early – without a maid in attendance.

I thought at first that she must be going into the church for the service, but she hurried past. Turning to say my farewells to Burl, I was astounded to see her push open the door of the Green Lattis and make her hesitant way inside. There were quite a few women in there, among the rowdy crowd of men, but not of her sort. They were the hucksters, who sold bread around the Bristol streets, washerwomen, who swabbed the floors of the local breweries, spinners and several who belonged to an even older profession, but not one who had any pretensions to being a lady. I was mystified and more than a little intrigued.

‘See who that was?’ Burl breathed excitedly.

I shook my head. ‘Her hood was covering her face.’

‘Well, I caught a glimpse of it just as she turned her head away’ – he squeezed my arm, his strong fingers biting painfully into my flesh – ‘and I’d swear it was Lady Marvell, Sir George’s wife. Talk of the Devil!’

‘I thought you knew nothing about the family. At least, you were talking as though you didn’t just now.’

‘Didn’t think I did, but I’d forgotten. A few weeks back, Jenny pointed out a woman to me that she said was the knight’s wife. And I’d swear that woman we’ve just seen was her.’

‘And what would Lady Marvell be doing going into a place like the Lattis?’ I asked scornfully. ‘Alone, after dark!’

‘You can scoff all you like,’ Burl retorted sulkily, aggrieved that his revelation had fallen flat. ‘But I’m telling you, it was her.’ He hunched his shoulders as a cold wind suddenly blew up from the Backs, and pulled his thin cloak more firmly around him. ‘I must be off. You’re right! The women ain’t going to be pleased.’

We separated, he to walk down High Street and across the bridge into Redcliffe, and I to make my way across the road to Small Street, my steps lagging a little as I steeled myself for Adela’s wrath.

I thought I felt a hint of snow in the air. It had certainly grown colder since earlier in the afternoon when I had entered the Green Lattis on my way home from a satisfactory day’s peddling of my wares around the town and its immediate environs. The approach of Christmas was always a good time for selling, a time when most folk were prepared to spend an extra few groats for things they really didn’t want, and my purse was full. That, at least, should please Adela and soften her very righteous anger. I knew that she and Elizabeth had planned to spend the afternoon making the kissing bush from the branches of holly and mistletoe, bay and alder that my stepson and I had been out into the countryside to pick the day before, and they would be waiting for me to tie it to the hook in the parlour ceiling.

Candlelight gleamed from the windows of houses, stars shone overhead and I suddenly felt happier than I had done for a long time, at peace with all the world. It was the time of Our Saviour’s birth, I was at home with my family, King Richard was safely on his throne, the rebellions of the past few months were over and done with at the expense of very few lives, and tomorrow was the Eve of Christmas.

What could possibly go wrong?

TWO

Anything and everything, of course!

Adela and Elizabeth had, between them, made a magnificent kissing bush. The bay and alder branches, the holly and mistletoe had been most skilfully woven in and out of the basket-shaped willow frame which was carefully preserved from year to year, to be brought out every Christmas. In amongst the greenery, red ribbons had been knotted – I had noticed only that morning that my supply of red ribbon was inexplicably low – together with some small bags of nuts and sugared rose petals. Little apples from Adela’s winter hoard were spiked on the end of twigs, and tiny figures, cut from stiffened cloth and rag paper, had been threaded on strings and looped around the whole. Some of the latter were even recognizable; a star, what was possibly a manger and certainly a sheep. The only trouble was that the kissing bush had already been hoisted into place, not in the parlour as I had planned, but dangling from a hook driven into the central beam of our small entrance hall.

‘Oh, here you are at last, Roger,’ my wife remarked on seeing me. ‘Supper’s ready, and has been this half hour and more. As you see, you’re too late to hang the kissing bush. Richard has done it for me.’

I swung round, almost fell over, and steadied myself by grasping at the nearest support. This turned out to be the stocky, red-haired bulk of Richard Manifold, Sheriff’s Officer, sometime suitor of Adela before she wed her first husband, Owen Juett, and a permanent thorn in my side. He was still unmarried and consequently always in need of company, particularly, it seemed, my

Reviews for The Christmas Wassail

[thornton37814 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A missing persons case becomes a homicide investigation when the body is found somewhat mutilated at the abandoned castle. Roger the Chapman who was one of the two who discovered the body becomes involved in the investigation since he loves sleuthing. The investigation takes place during the twelve days of Christmas. The setting for this is medieval, but at times, the book felt more modern than that, possibly because the vocabulary was too modern. I downloaded it from the library because it was a medieval Christmas mystery, but I had not read the previous twenty-one installments in the series. I suspect my enjoyment was also marred by this. However, I was very disappointed in the ending which made me lower the score another half-point.

[druidgirl_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This was a cozy mystery set in 1483 and 1484, in Bristol England. This mystery and its characters and events are in the culture and atmosphere of Plantagenet England in a small village starting to celebrate a few weeks of holiday merry making. Good storyline and characters.***I received this book in exchange for an honest review***