Read Online The Christmas Wassail by Kate Sedley - Free Book Online

renege inexplicably on the deal at the last moment. But why, I could not begin to guess and, judging by the lady’s expression when she re-entered the church a few minutes later, neither could she. She was looking angry, confused and more than a little frightened and, touching her maid on the arm, left the church again almost at once, as the Shepherds’ Mass was drawing to its close.
    I was still pondering the riddle when we arrived home just as the early morning sun burst forth in all its Christmas splendour over Small Street. There was now no hint of snow, the air being crisp and cold and the roofs of the houses sparkling with frost. By this time, Luke was asleep in Adela’s arms and Adam in mine, while the two older children could barely put one foot in front of the other. Indeed, all four were far too tired to eat any breakfast and my wife immediately took them all off to bed so that they could get some much-needed rest before the third and final Mass of the day – the Mass of the Divine Word – for which we had arranged to walk over to Redcliffe and join Margaret Walker at her parish church of St Thomas.
    But when, two hours later, we met my former mother-in-law (and Adela’s cousin) outside her cottage door, it was my suggestion that, instead of St Thomas’s, we go only a little further on, to the church of St Mary Redcliffe.
    â€˜Why?’ Margaret demanded bluntly. ‘The children look exhausted, and anyway I’ve arranged to see Bess Simnel and Maria Watkins at Saint Thomas.’
    I raised my eyebrows. ‘You mean you haven’t already seen them twice this morning? I know you, Mother-in-law. You’re not one to shirk your Christmas worship.’ She looked pleased and flattered, so I pressed home my advantage. ‘I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the Marvell family to make sure that they were all present, because Lady Marvell and her maid favoured us at All Saints for the Shepherds’ Mass earlier this morning.’
    This was as much news to Adela as it was to her cousin as, in her usual devout way, she had been concentrating too hard on the service to notice what had been going on around her. I mentioned no more of what had happened and what I had witnessed in Corn Street, but I had said enough to intrigue both women and to win their approval of my suggestion. So, in spite of some grumbling from the three older children, we arrived at St Mary’s in good time for the impressive entrance of the entire Marvell family.
    Sir George, resplendent in a fur-lined russet velvet cloak over a knee-length tunic of yellow brocade and boots of the very finest Cordovan leather, embroidered gloves clasped in one hand, led the way to places reserved for them at the front of the congregation. The two women were also dressed in their best attire. As befitted their estate, jewels glowed on their fingers, flashed on their wrists and winked among the gauze of their headdresses. Furs and silks gleamed in the candlelight and, from where I was standing, I was able to get a good look at Joanna, Cyprian’s wife. My first impression of a thin-faced woman of about forty, with dark eyes and eyebrows was confirmed, and I could see now the thin-lipped mouth set in a discontented, almost straight line.
    Cyprian Marvell was plainly dressed with no ostentation of any kind, but the two younger men more than made up for this lack on his part. Both wore tight, particoloured hose, shoes with pikes so long that they had to be chained around the knees, and tunics so indecently short that the elaborately decorated codpieces were well displayed. I saw a number of elderly ladies hurriedly and modestly avert their eyes as James and Bartholomew passed them by, their velvet cloaks flung well back over their shoulders.
    â€˜Disgusting,’ Margaret Walker hissed to Adela as she forcibly turned Elizabeth’s head away from the interesting spectacle.
    But there was still more to come. The Marvell