The Christmas Wassail (27 page)

‘Who is it? I'll not be kept in the dark.'

The irony of the remark seemed to strike neither of them. Agnes removed his hat with an impatient gesture and pushed him down into the chair.

‘It's only a nice young fellow asking about Miles. There's nothing to be afraid of. He's going now.'

I was at last able to get a good look at Alfred Littlewood, an old, bent man with wispy grey hair and a weather-beaten skin. Round his head, covering his eyes, was a dirty bandage which sank into his eye sockets as if there was nothing behind it. And with a shock of distaste, I knew suddenly that the sockets were empty: the eyes had been torn out. At the same moment, I remembered yet again something I kept thrusting to the back of my mind; the removal of Sir George Marvell's eyes from his dead body. The bile rose in my throat.

I saw Agnes look at me sharply and with contempt. She had noticed my expression of revulsion, although she was wrong in thinking her father was its cause. But before I had time to say anything in my own defence, the old man lost his grip on his stick and it dropped with a clatter. I stooped quickly to pick it up while he groped around ineffectually with both hands. And it was then I suffered a second shock. The first two fingers of his right hand were missing.

Without thinking about what I was doing, I grabbed his right wrist.

He let out a yell that demonstrated his lungs, at least, were in good working order.

‘What's he doing? What's he doing? I warned you, Agnes, about letting strangers into the house. He's going to murder the pair of us.'

‘Don't be foolish, Father,' was the acid retort. ‘All the same,' she added, addressing me, ‘I'd like an explanation of your conduct. And come to think of it, you haven't yet told me your name.'

‘I beg your pardon,' I said, releasing the old man's wrist and restoring his stick to him. ‘My name's Roger Chapman. Master Littlewood,' I went on, ‘this Christmas we've had a troupe of mummers to entertain us in the castle yard at Bristol. One of the men, the older one, a man of maybe your age, has injuries just like yours except that he's not blind. But one of his eyes has terrible scarring around it and the first two fingers of his right hand are missing.'

Alfred Littlewood at once became very excited. ‘What's his name? What's his name, young fellow? Do you know it?'

‘Ned Chorley.'

Alfred's face fell and he shook his head. ‘Thought I might've known him, but I don't. However, I'll tell you this. Your mummer was once an archer in the French wars, like me. We were the cream of the army, we were. We were the English Goddams them French bastards feared the most. And if they caught us, do you know what they did to us? First, they hacked off our bowstring fingers, because without the first two fingers of your right hand, you ain't never going to be able to pull a longbow again. Then them devils gouged out our eyes and cut off our balls. Finally, if you were lucky, they finished you off with a dagger thrust or strangled you with a rope.'

‘And if you were unlucky?'

‘They turned you loose to wander about until you died.'

‘That happened to you?'

He nodded. ‘But I was found by two of our scouts who'd got into the French camp in search of information. They guided me back to our own lines.'

‘And this Ned Chorley?'

The old man sucked on one of his few remaining teeth. ‘He must've been rescued before they really pushed out his eyes. He were more fortunate than me, then. But his days as an archer would've been finished.'

I stared ahead of me blankly, getting my thoughts in order. So Ned Chorley had been a soldier, an archer. The idea had never occurred to me, and yet I realized that it should have done. I remembered suddenly his talking about King Richard and what a good strategist he was, his glowing admiration for his military skills in the way only an old soldier would appreciate. And the missing fingers, the scarred eye, were now explained. At some time in his life he had been taken prisoner by the French, but rescued before they could really wreak their vengeance on him.

I brought my attention back to Alfred Littlewood. ‘You're quite sure you never met him, master?'

The old man shook his head impatiently. He was beginning to lose interest in the subject. ‘Where's my dinner?' he whined.

‘It's not dinnertime for a while yet,' Agnes snapped. ‘You've only just had your breakfast, you greedy old villain. Sit there and warm yourself at the fire while I see Master Chapman out.' She opened the cottage door again with a gesture it was hard to ignore. As I huddled my cloak around me and stepped out into the still lightly falling snow, she asked, ‘Will you go on to North Nibley?'

‘No. I must be home in time for Twelfth Night Eve,' I said. ‘I've promised my wife and children to be there. Besides, I doubt if your brother-in-law could give me any more information than he's given you. If this John Cleghorn lives in Bristol or in Clifton Manor, I'd do better trying to find him myself. Though from what you say I don't suppose he'll have anything of interest to tell me.'

I moved away and heard the door shut behind me before I had gone more than half a dozen steps.

I saw no reason to linger in Nibley. The journey had not been entirely fruitless, but I doubted I was going to learn anything more. Also, the snow might increase and I had no wish to be stranded. If I left now before conditions worsened I could be much more than halfway to Bristol by nightfall, which meant that, although I never liked travelling on a Sunday if I could help it, I might very well be home by dinnertime the following day. So I said farewell to my hostess, who seemed genuinely sorry at my decision to leave, fetched my reluctant horse from his cosy stable and set off southwards, comforted by the thought that I had something, at least, to report to James Marvell and that the journey had not been a complete waste of my time and his money. There was now at least the possibility that Miles Deakin might be somewhere in Bristol. If we could find a baker called John Cleghorn, maybe he would be able to tell us more.

I
t was not until I was riding across the Frome Bridge the following morning, all the church bells of Bristol ringing in my ears, that I realized with a jolt that of course I knew Baker Cleghorn. Or, at least, if I didn't know him personally, I knew of him. Burl Hodge's son, Dick, was his apprentice and Adela bought her sweet dough at his shop. I must be getting old that I had not immediately made the connection. My mind was working more slowly nowadays. It was very worrying.

I remembered also that the baker had his shop in St Leonard's Lane. I would visit him as soon as I could and find out what he had to say concerning his possible sighting of Miles Deakin three months earlier. But for now, my one thought was to get home out of this biting cold, for Sunday had come in with a bitter wind blowing and the last phase of my journey had been uncomfortable in the extreme. I had made good progress all day yesterday, or what remained of it after I had taken leave of my hostess at Nibley Green, my sturdy cob making a steady pace southwards, some instinct telling him he was returning home and urging him on. The result was that I had been able to break my journey and stop for the night only a few miles north of the city when the darkness and freezing conditions made it certain that I could not continue. That morning, in spite of the weather, I was up betimes, barely pausing long enough to eat my breakfast, with the result that I was within the city gates just as the bells began to ring for Tierce.

I didn't stop to bandy words with the Frome Gate porter, although he did his best to start a conversation, inquisitive to know where I had been at such an early hour. I heard him muttering indignantly to himself as I rode away, and at any other time I might have obliged him, knowing him to be chilled and bored with his own company. But Small Street was only a street or two away. First, however, I had to return the cob to the stables in Bell Lane.

They had not yet closed for the hour or so necessary for the head stable man and his assistants to go to Sunday Mass, and I rode in through the gateway just as Ned Chorley arrived to carry out the mummers' daily inspection of their horses. I slid thankfully from the saddle and hailed him.

He smiled briefly and said, ‘Good-day to you, Master Chapman,' before turning to speak to the lad who had come forward on seeing him.

I clapped him on the shoulder.

‘You've been hiding your light under a bushel, sir. You didn't tell us you had been a soldier. And not just a soldier, but an archer. Nor that you had been captured and tortured by the French.'

The stable lad was regarding him goggle-eyed, but Ned himself was looking red and uncomfortable.

‘There was no call to tell you, Master Chapman,' he muttered, adding, ‘it was all a long time ago. Who told you?'

‘A man I met yesterday had the same injuries as yourself except that he was blind. His eyes had been gouged out. He said that he had been an archer – a longbowman – who had been taken prisoner by the French and explained what they did to bowmen taken alive.'

Ned Chorley was interested in spite of himself. ‘Then how is it he's still here to tell the tale?'

‘After his captors had castrated him as well' – I saw the stable lad wince – ‘they turned him loose to wander about until he died. As I understood it, two of our scouts who had penetrated the French camp found him and led him to safety.'

Ned Chorley nodded. ‘It happened sometimes,' he grunted.

I waited a few moments, but as he seemed disinclined to say more, I asked him outright, ‘And is that also what happened to you?'

Again he nodded, then vouchsafed, ‘I was rescued, yes. But I was luckier than your informant. Those French devils had only just started to get to work on me.' He shivered suddenly, but whether from the cold or disturbed by his memories it was hard to tell. He turned away abruptly, seizing the stable lad by the elbow. ‘Let's take a look at the horses, then I can tell Master Monkton that they're safe and well.' He gave a snort of laughter. ‘That man's a worrier.'

As I watched the cob being led off to his stall by another of the stable lads, I asked, ‘How's Master Monkton's hand? I understood from Mistress Tabitha that he'd injured it.'

Ned looked annoyed at this further interruption, but answered civilly enough, ‘It's on the mend but still a bit red and swollen. Dog bites are nasty things and can be dangerous. The animal might have been rabid. However, it seems he was lucky and the wound's mending cleanly.'

‘I'm glad of that,' I said. ‘Shall we see you tomorrow night at the wassailing?'

‘In the castle orchard? Yes, indeed. We give our last performance in the afternoon. Will you and your family be coming? It's Saint George and the Dragon. Young Adam's favourite.'

‘I daresay,' I said with a laugh. ‘Your performance as the Doctor is what he really comes for. He'll miss you when you go.'

The old man nodded but showed no particular sign of pleasure. He seemed less friendly than he had been and I found myself wondering if we had offended him in some way. He disappeared in the direction of the stalls and, a moment later, I heard him talking in dulcet tones to his horses.

I took myself off to Small Street, where my arrival was greeted with greater delight than was usually accorded my return. Adela threw her arms about my neck, saying, ‘Roger! This is a pleasant surprise. We didn't expect you until tomorrow!' Hercules danced around me, barking like a fiend and nipping my ankles, while even the children came downstairs to welcome me without the customary demand to know what I had brought them. They were obviously stuffed full of Christmas sweetmeats, which was just as well, as for once I had nothing for them.

‘You're just in time to see to the Yule log,' my wife informed me with relief. ‘It's almost out.'

It was indeed looking black with only wisps of smoke curling up from the bed of straw on which it was lying, but a session with the kitchen bellows gradually coaxed it back to life and induced a few small flames to make a reluctant appearance. I reflected with relief that there were only two more days to go before it could be left to smoulder into ashes.

‘Is there any news on the murders?' I asked Adela as she stood watching my efforts with the log.

She shook her head. ‘I think the sheriff and his men are baffled. Did you learn anything useful on this trip to Nibley Green? Was the journey worth it?'

‘One or two things,' I admitted, getting to my feet and regarding the struggling flames with satisfaction. ‘I must see James Marvell.'

‘Not today,' my wife said firmly. ‘It's Sunday. Dinner is almost ready and this afternoon you can help me put the final touches to my Twelfth Night cake.'

‘I thought you'd finished it,' I grumbled.

‘No. I didn't, after all, put the pea and the bean in when I made it. I thought you and Elizabeth could have the honour of doing that. You can push them in through the sides of the cake so we'll be certain of getting them in separate halves. You can very well postpone seeing Master Marvell until tomorrow.'

So much for Adela's plans. We had barely finished our meal when a knock at the street door heralded the arrival of James himself, come to discover if I had gleaned anything of importance during my trip.

‘You made good time,' he said as I followed him into the parlour and waved him to a chair. ‘I didn't expect to see you until tomorrow. But someone at church told me he'd seen you riding through the Frome Gate earlier this morning, so I came round as soon as I could. There have been no developments here during the two days you've been away.'

Adela came in with a couple of beakers and a jug of ale on a tray, which she placed on the hearth where a small, very desultory fire was burning. Her annoyance at James's intrusion was palpable, but he didn't seem to notice. He was too intent on getting an answer to his question.