The Christmas Wassail Read Free Page B

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
    A nything 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.
    â€˜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 wife’s. I won’t go so far as to say that he haunted the Small Street house, but he was far too frequent a visitor for my peace of mind. The three older children regarded him with long-suffering tolerance born of familiarity, while I was never quite sure what Adela’s feelings for him were. Only my half-nephew, eleven-month-old Luke, but recently fostered by us after the death of his mother, was as yet unconscious of Richard Manifold’s (to my mind) disruptive presence in our lives.
    Richard smirked at me, and I could have sworn that I caught the glimpse of a halo round his head.
    â€˜You knew that I was going to do it. That I enjoy doing it,’ I said aggressively, and not altogether truthfully, turning back to my wife. That third beaker of ale was beginning to talk. ‘Why did you ask him to do it?’
    â€˜You weren’t here,’ Adela pointed out, keeping her tone reasonable, ‘and you know it should be hung up before nightfall on the eve of Christmas Eve. Don’t you think it’s pretty? Bess and I worked practically all day on it. You have a very talented daughter, my love. She cut out those paper figures using only my working scissors.’
    â€˜Yes, I did,’ Elizabeth confirmed, ‘and you haven’t even said anything about them.’ Her lower lip trembled. ‘I think you’re horrid.’
    I took a menacing step towards her and she retreated in alarm. ‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that, my girl,’ I threatened, then totally undermined my own authority by adding, ‘at least, not in front of strangers.’
    Nicholas, flying as always to his stepsister’s defence, said truculently,