Christmastide passed, and before we knew it, Twelfth Night was upon us. Back home we celebrated with wassailing, which involved pouring cider around the apple trees to bless the harvest. The preparations at Berrow Hall were on another scale entirely. Hams were boiled, whole sheep roasted, pastry rolled and cut into shapes. Sweetmeats, marchpane, dates, quails’ eggs – everything was arranged on huge blue and white platters. The kitchen was as busy as a bees’ hive. Throughout the rest of the house we beat carpets, scrubbed flagstones, decorated mantelpieces and beams with holly from the garden. And suddenly I was everyone’s servant, not just Ellis’s, with a chorus of ‘take this’, ‘carry that’ ringing in my ears.
When the evening of the Twelfth Night party came, I was as excited as anyone. In the Great Hall’s fireplace, the yule log blazed merrily, bringing with it all the good luck we could wish for this coming year. Lute music drifted down from the minstrels’ gallery. Surveying it all, I could almost believe the master of this beautiful house was a decent man, who didn’t bully his children or attend witch trials. He was a man sad for his dead wife, and tonight would mark a new beginning.
Meanwhile, in the adjoining room a group of brightly dressed actors were putting the finishing touches to their costumes: once supper was served there was to be a mummers’ play. Ellis couldn’t wait. All day he’d been pacing the Great Hall, moving furniture, asking for more candles, then insisting they be taken away again. Everything had to be just right for the performers, though Susannah and I were the only ones who knew why it meant so much to him.
The guests started arriving at sundown. Eager to see who was coming, I stole a moment with Ellis and Bea, who were watching from a window seat at the front of the house. Since I’d been at Berrow Hall the only person to come calling was Dr Blood, who, sure enough, was amongst the first to arrive.
‘Might’ve known he’d be here,’ Ellis muttered irritably.
‘I suppose your father invited him,’ I reminded him.
‘But he’s not a friend.’
‘Business partner, then.’
The driveway was thick with traffic. Horses, carriages, a sedan chair all inched towards the house in a parade of lanterns and extravagant party costumes. Bea was fascinated. Hands pressed against the glass, she insisted on standing unsteadily in her brother’s lap. It was all she ever wanted to do these days – stand up, wriggle about, chat away. And if anyone ignored her, she’d squeal a high-pitched ‘Eeeeeeeeeh!’ so usually it was worth letting her have her way, just to save your ears.
‘You know my father and Blood are loyal to the king, don’t you?’ Ellis said, still on the same subject.
I did: Mistress Bagwell had said as much.
‘My father is trying to find a shipper to take a special cargo across the Atlantic Ocean.’ Ellis’s jaw tensed, just like his father’s. ‘And he’s after the king’s assistance – his navy, to be precise.’
‘What, ships with guns on board?’
Ellis nodded. He didn’t often speak about sugar trading, so it must have been bothering him. ‘His usual shipper won’t work with him – and you can’t just hire anyone. They’ve got to be trustworthy.’
‘Because of thieves?’
‘Or pirates. Or Spaniards. Or even the shippers and traders themselves.’
It hadn’t occurred to me that the seafaring life would be as full of rogues as a Bridgwater back street.
‘I won’t have any part of that world,’ he said firmly, and a bit desperately. ‘If Father keeps trying to force my hand I’ll run away. I mean it. I’m sick of how he treats me.’
I’d never heard him speak like this before, and I confess I was worried.
‘Just don’t do anything hasty,’ I replied.
I was still mulling over what he’d said when Mistress Bagwell came to find me.
‘Quickly now, lad,’ she said, bustling me to my feet. ‘There’s work to do.’
*
Once the guests had all arrived, the feasting began in earnest. Bowls of punch, spiced biscuits, capons, hams, white bread, custards and possets, a vast dish of fruit filled the table, the centrepiece of which was a cone-shaped, brownish lump. Though it didn’t look appetising, that lump was a sugar loaf. Mistress Bagwell cut me a sliver when no one was looking, and the taste was like gold dust on my tongue.
It was no big surprise that Mr Spicer was a charming host. As he moved amongst his guests crowing about his daughter’s needlework talents and his son’s head for business, both Susannah and Ellis played their parts beautifully.
‘Isn’t there another daughter?’ asked a woman wearing huge ruby earrings.
There was, though she was being cared for in the kitchen, and Mistress Bagwell was under strict instructions to keep her there.
When the Twelfth cake was cut open, it was Ellis and Susannah who found the beans hidden inside. The discovery made them King and Queen of Misrule, and was met with whoops and cheers because, for the rest of the night, they were in charge. Not the adults, not the men. Whatever these two children said, we had to do: it was exactly the type of rule-breaking I approved of.
For the first time all evening, Ellis was smiling. Immediately, he ordered that Bea be brought from the kitchen, and she was soon in his arms, her face smeared with cake.
‘Ladies, gentlemen, I declare Susannah the King of Misrule!’ Ellis cried. ‘She’ll be a far superior leader to me. I’m very happy to be her queen!’
It was meant in high spirits, and was taken so. People laughed. Glasses were raised. The mood was joyous – deafeningly so. Mr Spicer was easy to spot, being the only person looking decidedly stony-faced.
Susannah, embarrassed by the attention thrust on her, asked for quiet.
‘My one request this evening is that you all have fun. Enjoy each other’s company, accept each other. Tonight, we don’t care for rules.’
A huge cheer went up.
‘If you find my misrule isn’t to your taste, then I suggest you take yourself off to the garden where it cannot offend you.’ Though she didn’t look at her father, the message was needle-sharp.
Next, it was the turn of the mummers. Their performance, about a dragon and a knight, was a bit lost on me because I kept having to fill people’s glasses. But I could see Ellis at the front of the crowd, Bea on his hip, both totally spellbound. Mr Spicer, meanwhile, was nowhere to be seen.
*
As the night went on, the celebrations grew rowdier. The Great Hall, with its fire blazing, was stiflingly hot and full of sweating, belching bodies. Someone shouted that we should open the windows and doors, and doing so, the party spilled out into the gardens. The cold night air was no longer just for the disapprovers.
In amongst the mayhem, I was still serving drinks. And it was as I walked a loop of the garden, refilling glasses and listening to the waves on the beach below, that I heard two men talking. It was their voices that alerted me – low and tense – and that one of the speakers was Mr Spicer himself.
‘It’s a sure-fire way to win the king’s favour,’ he said eagerly. ‘You saw what happened at Ilchester, how easily people are stirred up by the merest hint of witchcraft.’
I slowed my step. He was talking about Old Margaret’s trial.
‘Don’t dismiss your daughter’s talents, either.’ The other voice was Dr Blood’s. ‘Word has it crewel work is very popular at the royal court. A little gift to His Majesty might not go amiss.’
Mr Spicer went quiet.
‘I mean it, man. The shipment should’ve been here by now, and the other cargo should be on its way to America.’ Dr Blood sounded impatient. ‘And now everything is delayed. That’s what happens when you hire a weak-minded ship’s captain.’
‘Not weak-minded,’ Mr Spicer cut in. ‘Far from it. Too opinionated, that was the problem.’
‘The point is, the cargo is late,’ Dr Blood snapped. ‘This is not how I do business.’
The shift between them was notable. It was Dr Blood who seemed to have the upper hand.
‘I believe the witchcraft route is our best chance.’ Mr Spicer was circling his argument. ‘Find one witch, and hundreds will follow. Somerset is rife with those practising the black arts.’
‘So you’ve said, many times. Though that soldier you hired found no evidence, did he?’
A chill passed over me. Were they talking about the same soldier who’d stopped us on the moors, under orders to seek out nests of witches? It seemed a coincidence, but I was more thankful than ever that Mother had got away.
‘Then we must have a better plan,’ Dr Blood pressed. ‘One that will yield impressive results.’
‘We could hire a proper witchfinder,’ Mr Spicer suggested. ‘I hear there’s a very effective man operating in Essex, and with his expertise we could make a huge success of this.’
Dr Blood chewed his fingertip. ‘That Hopkins fellow? Yes, send word to him. We’ll get started with our own men while we wait. That son of yours might be useful too.’
‘People seem to like him. They listen to him. He could interview our suspects.’
The shock made me almost drop the wine jug. Ellis? He’d not willingly hunt a rabbit, let alone an innocent woman.
‘Hmmmm, we could try him. It’s about time my son proved his mettle,’ Mr Spicer mused. ‘I’d hoped hiring a rough sort as a servant might help—’
‘That scrap of a lad with the girl’s name?’ Dr Blood cut in. ‘We could put him to use too, taking messages and so forth.’
I must’ve gasped a bit too loud, for they both looked round and saw me. It took all my courage to step forward with the wine.
‘More drink, sirs?’ I said, a bit too brightly.
Mr Spicer held out his glass for me to fill: Dr Blood covered his with his hand.
‘None for me,’ he said. ‘I like to keep a clear head when talking business.’
I’d rather he’d been in his cups, frankly, then at least I could’ve blamed what I’d just heard on the wine.