Richard smiled back and drank deeply. ‘To your good health, your grace. And long may you reign in peace.’
The winds had increased considerably overnight. A sleet-bearing gale had toppled chimneys and whistled down every flue, flung open locked doors, broken windows and created draughts where there had been none before. It sent thatches whirling, uprooted fences and snapped whole branches from leafless trees. The river was a raging grey sludge, hurling its waves against the docks and piers and slopping over into the streets. Even the gutters were swept clean by the wind, and along London Bridge the two crammed rows of houses swung and creaked, groaning louder than the chapel choir.
A little downriver, outside London’s great eastern wall and past the long shadows of The Tower, Cobham Hall in the Portsoken Ward was as cosy as a nest in spring. Andrew was also raising his cup. ‘To the Lord of Misrule,’ he called. ‘Mister Lyttle, your jester’s hat is askew. Are you in charge of this celebration, or not? My cup has been empty this half hour.’
Davey swept off the offending hat, bowing low. ‘My lord, this is surely a hanging offence. I shall have all the servants whipped and cast off.’ He turned to his neighbour. ‘Mister Wallop, where is the master’s wine? Keep him waiting any longer, and he’ll turn sober on us.’
Casper snorted and set off for the kitchens, an empty jug in each hand. Ralph thumped the table as he left. ‘No jugglers, no mumming, and now no wine? The gittern player is pissed and can’t keep his hat on, the whistler is in a sulk for having been sat at the opposite end of the table from the children, and the children are all about to be sick from eating more food than they’ve ever seen in their lives. I say,’ he thumped the table again, ‘we get up a game of blind-hoodman’s buff, and it’s Nat we should blind first off.’
Tyballis, the glow of the firelight illuminating her glow of contentment, sighed, nodded, and drank her wine. ‘You should enjoy chasing others, Nat,’ she smiled, ‘instead of being chased yourself for once.’
Nat sniffed. ‘Not me. Not being that steady on my feet just at the moment. Set up Casper Wallop. He’s half-blind already.’
‘Blind one of the women,’ grinned Davey. ‘With a hood over their heads, they’ll be ripe for a grope.’ He pointed up at the mistletoe bough above their heads. ‘Or we’ll play a different game and I’m first in the queue to stand under that.’
‘Then get in the queue quick,’ advised Elizabeth Ingwood with a toss of her curls, ‘and pucker up your lips, my love. Then surely widower Switt will give you a kiss, sweet as you like.’
‘Who’s got a cape with a hood?’ yelled Ralph. ‘I got one upstairs. Do I go get it?’
Luke had been sitting quietly, but now said, ‘I have a suitable cape, I believe. It is long and deep-hooded. I left it over the banister rail this morning.’ He got up, and in a few moments returned with a long cloak of coarse red dyed buckram, oiled but unlined. He handed it to Ralph, who immediately threw it over his brother’s head.
Andrew was drinking deep. ‘So – entertain us.’ He raised his cup again as Nat stumbled up. ‘You cannot catch me, since I’ve not the slightest intention of climbing to my feet. But catch as catch can – and since everyone here has escaped a hue and cry at some time in their lives, we’re all practised runners. Hopefully no one will fall into the fire.’
Nat stretched out both arms, turning his head from side to side. He wore the cape backwards, and the hood entirely covered his face. His voice was muffled, speaking through buckram. ‘Felicia must watch the children or I shall stand on them.’
‘Everybody up, my beloveds,’ yelled Davey.
‘Except Drew – and Jon,’ chortled Ralph. ‘Mister Spiers has once again fallen asleep. His head’s in the codlings.’
‘How did that man ever find the energy to produce children?’ Davey demanded. ‘Yet Gyles is only one year old, and looks sufficiently like him.’
‘Enough of that,’ sniffed Felicia. ‘You’re a loathsome creature, Davey Lyttle, and Jon is worth a baker’s dozen of you. It’s true he hasn’t found employment recently, but at least he doesn’t steal.’
Davey continued to grin. ‘Sadly, nor do I, my dear,’ he said. ‘Not recently, anyway. I try – certainly I try, but opportunity is increasingly hard to come by. But this is Christmas, and with gracious thanks to our sainted Mister Cobham, it seems we eat whether we work or not.’
‘Is anyone playing?’ objected Nat. ‘Or just going to stand arguing?’ He turned, arms out, reaching for unseen contact.
‘Here,’ called Elizabeth.
‘Here,’ shouted Ralph, dancing out of his brother’s reach.
‘No, here,’ Davey sprang forwards, touching, hopping back and hissing suddenly into Nat’s ear. The group skipped around as Nat stumbled from side to side. Felicia darted in to tickle the back of his neck. He heard the swish of her skirts and grabbed, found something and hung on, encircling the small figure with both arms. Delighted, he began to guess the name of his prisoner. ‘George Switt,’ he decided. ‘No, too small even for him. Too skinny for Casper. It’s a woman. Elizabeth, I reckon. What luck. Ripe for kissing under the mistletoe.’
Tyballis found herself hugged so tightly she gasped for breath, her complaints smothered. Nat groped her body, rummaging happily across her breasts and discovering the scoop of her neckline. His fingers, greasy with chicken fat and honeyed codlings, were tempted deeper. Tyballis struggled away but was held too tightly, and felt her feet leave the ground. One large hand pushed into her cleavage. She squeaked, but was not heeded. ‘Come on, Elizabeth, never known you to be shy,’ Nat chuckled. ‘Give us a kiss and a squeeze.’
Andrew Cobham rose lazily to his feet. ‘I believe,’ he said softly, ‘I must stop you, my friend. It seems the game has run its course. It is now over.’
Chapter Twenty-One
He stood afterwards, tall and still in front of the fire, his hands behind his back. His shadow flared across the floorboards before him and at his back the Yule log blazed and crackled. The wind howled outside, barely muffled by the shutters as twigs and debris were flung against the glass. Gusts blew down the chimney and the flames leapt. It was very late. The party had finished in the small hours. Luke, somewhat glazed, left first, and then the Spiers staggered off just before midnight, their sleeping children tucked beneath their arms; Jon had revived sufficiently in time for bed. The others had stayed, rollicking and joyous, until they could no longer stand.
Fallen holly berries lay half-submerged in pie filling, the pastry case shattered in pieces to either side, and a trickle of spilled wine reflected the fire’s waning sparks. The platters had been stacked, spoons heaped, and all of it left for a more industrious morning. Tyballis sat on the little cushioned tuffet, her arms tightly encircling her knees, feet tucked together beneath her skirts, head raised and eyes wide, silently watching Andrew Cobham. She was waiting for him to speak, for he had asked her to stay behind when the others left.
He spoke quite suddenly into the quiet. ‘I leave at first light. I will be gone for some time. I thought you should know.’
She swallowed back the disappointment. She had hoped he intended to say something quite different. ‘Why should I know? Why are you leaving?’ She wished to sound confident but her voice came out in a whisper.
His own voice was so soft that it merged with the rhythmic murmur of the burning logs. ‘I should have left before,’ he said. ‘I stayed only to celebrate – with you. Because I knew it was what you wanted.’
She looked up at him for some time before deciding on her words. ‘It is reasonable, of course,’ she said at last, ‘to want to enjoy a pleasant Christmas with your friends. But if you should have left before, I suppose you are now in a hurry. I ought not to be keeping you from your bed.’