11 - The Lammas Feast (34 page)

To add insult to injury, John Overbecks kicked out at him, yelling at him to get out of the way. The dog didn’t hesitate, but sank his teeth into the well-muscled calf of the offending leg and held on. The baker let out a yell that was an immediate challenge to Adam, who began to scream at the top of his powerful lungs. Jack Gload seized the pele, stepped forward and swung it in a vicious arc, catching John Overbecks across the side of his head. Adela saw her opportunity and wrestled our furious son from Jane Overbecks’s grasp. Richard Manifold was roaring instructions to Peter Littleman, who, in his turn, was shouting at all and sundry, simply carried away by the excitement of the moment. I was trying to assist Adela and getting under everybody’s feet.

Jane Overbecks gave vent to an unearthly wail and fled through the open door, where she pushed aside a white-faced, frantic Margaret Walker, who had just arrived with Elizabeth and Nicholas in pursuit of the baby brother they had given away.

In short, everything descended into chaos and confusion, but with the happy conclusion that we had Adam back safely, while John Overbecks lay prostrate on the bakery floor, Jack Gload and Peter Littleman sitting triumphantly on top of him.

I was then the one who disgraced myself by fainting.

John Overbecks had been dragged off to the Bridewell, and I was home and propped up against the pillows in my own bed.

Margaret, who had accompanied us back to Lewin’s Mead, was sitting at the table drinking a restorative cup of Adela’s fermented blackberry cordial (a deceptively potent brew that could lift the top off your skull if you drank more than half a mazer); Adam was asleep, having been fed and his ruffled dignity soothed; Hercules was sulking in a corner because he was being ignored; and two very chastened children were standing by the mattress, looking down at me, waiting to hear their fate.

‘I ought to whip the pair of you,’ I said sternly. ‘You know, don’t you, that what you did was very wrong?’

‘But it was
you
who said why didn’t Master Overbecks give Mistress Overbecks a child!’ Nicholas protested sulkily. ‘So we thought we’d give her Adam. He makes too much noise.’

‘And he smells,’ Elizabeth added fastidiously, wrinkling her pert little nose.’

‘I only left them for . . . coupla minutes,’ Margaret excused herself, the blackberry cordial already beginning to have an effect on her speech. ‘Had to . . . go and draw water from the well. Must’ve been longer than I thought.’

‘No one’s blaming
you,
mother-in-law,’ I reassured her, although I suspected she had met a neighbour and stayed gossiping. But if you’re poor and can’t afford servants, there’s no way you can keep your eye on children, even the smallest, all the time. ‘It’s these two who are to blame.’

‘But you said––’ Nicholas was beginning again.

‘
Stop saying that
!’ I roared at him, then looked despairingly at Adela as he burst into tears.

‘You’re right. They both need a good whipping,’ she murmured uncertainly.

But whereas most parents wouldn’t have hesitated to take the birch to both of them, beating them until they couldn’t sit down for a week, neither Adela nor I could bring ourselves to do it. I said, as I always did, ‘I’ll leave your punishment to your mother.’ And Adela said, as
she
always did, ‘Your father will deal with you.’

So it was left to Margaret Walker, once the effects of the blackberry cordial had worn off, to try to instil in them some sense of the enormity of what they had done. Maybe she succeeded or maybe some innate sense of right and wrong prompted them, I don’t know; but certainly they were very subdued for the rest of the day and all the following day, speaking only when spoken to, and then very respectfully, and being helpful around the house. It was only when Saturday, the first of August, dawned, bright and hot, and their eyes began to sparkle in anticipation of the Lammas Day celebrations that I suspected another reason for their good behaviour; fear of being excluded from the Lammas Feast. On the other hand, young as they were, perhaps they knew instinctively that we would never do that. We were too anxious to be a part of it ourselves.

The streets of Bristol were packed to suffocation for the processions of the city’s guildsmen as they walked to their various churches in different quarters of the town. Everyone who could afford them wore his or her Sunday clothes, and even those who could not had managed to pin a flower or a ribbon somewhere about their persons. Carpets and tapestries hung from the windows of the rich, while the poor simply took the opportunity to air their torn and mended sheets. And if they didn’t possess sheets, they simply leaned out themselves, yelling until they were hoarse. But then, everyone was doing that, except for the time they were in church.

Adela, the children and I accompanied Margaret to the weavers’ church of Saint Thomas, in Redcliffe. Then we all joined in the general procession as the guildsmen, the mayor and aldermen proceeded around the city walls for the setting of the Watch. In spite of the midday sun, everybody carried burning torches and cressets, to the imminent danger of all the overhanging houses that hemmed us in. But somehow, fires were kept to a minimum and no one lost his home on this particular occasion – although it has been known to happen.

Dancing and games followed. Enough lamb’s wool – that delicious drink of spiced cider topped with a foaming baked apple – was drunk to ensure that there were sufficient numbers of thick heads and lost maidenhoods by the following morning, and for Lammas Day to have lived up to its reputation as one of the jolliest festivals of the year. Bear baiting, tilting and wrestling bouts had been laid on outside the city walls, where the citizens were joined by the overflow of revellers from the Saint James’s fair. Saint John’s conduit flowed with wine, courtesy of the mayor and corporation. But what everyone was waiting for, of course, was the evening and the Lammas Feast.

Long trestle tables and benches were set up in the streets and each guild offered its own special fare. Whole oxen, sheep and calves were roasted, carved and brought to table by the guildsmen themselves, acting as servers for the day. Syllabubs, sweetmeats and cakes followed, but the centrepiece of every table was – or should have been – the great bread and pastry subtleties that were at the very heart of the feast as thanks to God for a harvest safely brought in.

This year, however, there was a dearth of subtleties. Other bakers had worked throughout the night in an attempt to replace John Overbecks’s wrecked masterpieces, without too much success. But their lack was more than made up for by the superfluity of gossip that had had the city buzzing ever since Thursday. The gaoling of John Overbecks on two charges of murder and the flight of the Baldock sisters – one of them a nun and also indicted of murder – had provided more excitement than Bristolians had experienced since Queen Margaret and her Lancastrian troops had descended on the city seven years before.

‘I presume that Jane must have run straight from the bakery to her sister at the nunnery,’ Margaret said, through a mouthful of roast mutton. ‘Marion wouldn’t have hesitated once she’d been told what had happened.’

‘Will they ever be caught, do you think?’ someone asked, but Margaret shook her head.

‘I doubt it. That pair are used to running before the wind. They’ve evaded their pursuers before. They’ll do it again.’

I wished I didn’t feel so certain that she was right. I wanted the murderer of Cicely Ford brought to justice.

Burl Hodge raised his overflowing cup to me from the opposite side of the table.

‘We’ve you to thank, yet again, Chapman, or so I understand.’ His tone was grudging, as was the little ripple of applause that accompanied his words. But at least there seemed to be less resentment towards me than there had been earlier in the week. I had done something useful for my adopted community, and its members were willing to acknowledge the fact, albeit reluctantly. I could bide my time.

I glanced around, chewing contentedly. Elizabeth sat next to me, then Adela, a sleeping Adam cradled in her left arm, and on her right, Nicholas. My daughter sucked her fingers clean of meat juices before, with a sideways glance at me to make sure that I was watching, leaned over and kissed the top of her half-brother’s little head. Nicholas, not to be outdone, got hold of one of Adam’s feet and kissed his small, pink toes. Margaret looked across the table at me and winked.

So, there we sat, the picture of a happy and contented family. Although, if I were a cynic (which, of course, I’m not) I might have recognized the very faintest trace of a doubt in that last felicitous thought of mine.