The Christmas Wassail by Kate Sedley Read Free Book Online Page A

fighting his cousin Matilda for the English throne, had been its prisoner for some little time after his capture at the Battle of Lincoln. And, later, the future Henry II, Matilda’s son and half-nephew of Robert of Gloucester, had spent much of his boyhood, from the ages of about nine to thirteen, there; carefree, happy years which he acknowledged in later life by the granting of Bristol’s first Great Charter, exempting its citizens from certain taxes and tolls. He had married the wealthy heiress and former Queen of France, Eleanor of Aquitaine, who had given him what she had been unable to give Louis VII: four healthy sons. But Henry quarrelled with them all, just as he quarrelled with Thomas Becket, his Archbishop of Canterbury. He was, nevertheless, one of England’s greatest kings, the Law Giver, and I liked to think that, as he lay dying at Chinon, surrounded by his enemies, he perhaps took comfort from memories of happy, childhood days in Bristol, fishing in the Rivers Frome and Avon and riding his pony through its cobbled streets or out into the surrounding countryside as far as Clifton and the gorge …
    Adela nudged me painfully in the ribs. (She has a very sharp elbow when she likes.) ‘Wake up, Roger! You’re daydreaming again. What’s more, if I hadn’t managed to catch him in time, you would have dropped Luke. And I think the mummers must be coming. I can hear people cheering out in the streets.’
    â€˜Sorry,’ I muttered, uncomfortably aware of my failings as a father and husband. I ruffled Luke’s curls by way of an apology and was rewarded with a beaming smile and the flash of a new tooth. I did not deserve it.
    The shouting and cheering was growing louder as the mummers approached the castle, but I thought the tone of their reception was rather muted. And when, finally, they rattled across the barbican bridge and into the outer ward, I realized why.
    This was no King’s Troupe which had been hired for our Christmas entertainment. Typically – and indeed what one should have expected knowing the city fathers’ obsession with saving money and doing everything on the cheap – it was a company of only five, two of them more than a little advanced in years. But they had made as brave a showing as they could with what they had, coloured ribbons and evergreens decking the first cart, which obviously also served as their stage. The second, smaller cart which rumbled behind was piled with chests of clothes, from which the occasional stray sleeve or leg of hose had escaped, and with rolls of painted canvas – the backdrops to their plays.
    In spite of our general disappointment, we all raised a cheer as the carts came to a standstill in our midst. The young man driving the first one clambered from the box seat on to the ‘stage’ and raised his arms for silence. He was a tall, slim youth of about nineteen, with a ruddy face, ready smile and a generally pleasing appearance. I guessed that the young woman seated beside him, obviously pregnant, was his wife.
    â€˜Friends!’ he shouted. ‘We are not a big company, as you can see.’ We all laughed and there were some disparaging remarks from the back of the crowd, but he took no notice and continued, ‘But what we lack in numbers we make up for in quality. We are, in short, the best.’ There were more cries of derision, but all good-natured and accompanied by laughter. ‘We shall give our first performance the day after tomorrow, on Saint Stephen’s Day, and it will be the enactment of Saint George and his epic struggle with the dragon. No character will be omitted. As well as the saint and his terrible opponent, you will also see depicted the Turkish Knight, the Saracen, Old Man Winter, the Doctor’ – there were roars of approval at this mention of the Doctor – ‘and Beelzebub Himself! Friends, you are all cordially invited to as many performances as