The Christmas Wassail Read Free

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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Who’s that?’ I demanded sharply of Burl.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘You can’t see him