The Lord of Misrule (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries)

by Gregory House

  Walter’s introduction to the Christmas Company had gone down well, especially when Ned had mentioned that the lad’s family were acquainted with Councillor Cromwell. You could accuse the juniors at the Inns of many failings, but their take up on court associations was phenomenal, even after hours of carousing. After an initial response of eye bulging amazement, four generous tankards of sack helped Walter the cony to fit right in. Thus, after the travails of the day, Ned had a chance to relax and enjoy the celebrations. He leant back against the panelled wall and took a deep draught from his pewter cup. As promised, the sack was indeed a good drop- sweet, strong and brimming with flavour. That had been a damn fine piece of work hitting Ralph Sadler for the name of a reputable merchant in the wine trade. Councillor Cromwell’s secretary certainly had his ear to the ground, though as Ned had discovered, any man working for the newest Privy Councillor had best ensure that their master was well supplied with only the finest. Cromwell had worked in both law and trade before Cardinal Wolsey had snapped him up as a secretary, so the man knew all the ins and outs of the merchant’s game.

  Ned also had no doubt that Councillor Cromwell also brought this same degree of thoroughness to his Royal service. He, himself, had been tasked with several assignments already. Nothing extensive or risky just simple checking up on a number of past members of Parliament regarding their properties, business dealings and marriage relations, more or less the common tasks of the menial apprentice lawyer or clerk in any matter that came before the courts. As to why, well Ned wasn’t stupid enough to ask. He was already vulnerable without playing the nosy pursuivant.

  He nibbled on a sugared plum and surveyed the room. As requested they had two large rooms with an adjoining door. The larger main room had a large table flanked by benches where the company sat for the feasting. The north end held a pair of smaller tables each with a spray of stools. On one of these, Reedman had set up his chess board and was challenging all comers at a shilling bet a game. The other, at present, had a two fellows competing over a game of backgammon. It was a casual game so the stakes were usually only a penny. To avoid problems Ned had imposed a set of rules on all games. Firstly he supplied the cards and dice to avoid the possibility of any fullans; dice with lead weighting or gourds which were slightly irregular and tended to come up with the same number when rolled by a skilled cony catcher. On the whole, Ned was trusted as honest, mainly because he was known around the Inns as the most knowledgeable when it came to the cony tricks of crossbiters and diceman in Southwark. Perhaps a left handed compliment, but you took praise were you could. The other proviso was that all disputes had to be brought to Rob Black and his ruling was final. Any further complaints and Tam Bourke would step in. The company had seen Tam throw out a few interlopers already and so they held that promise in high regard.

  Then of course they came to the nobility of indoor games – cards. The current favourites around the Inns were Bone Ace and Ruff and Honour. With some humility, Ned considered himself a master of the play. He’d already gained five shillings in a few low bidding games yesterday and was seeking to improve his purse, though that would be later in the night. For now, as the evening dark drew in, Ned considered it a perfect time to teach their honoured guest the pleasantly diverting game of Hazard.

  Walter, as he’d seen so far, was fitting right in. He’d taken to venison pies with a passion and had amused himself with a short game of chess with Reedman, which he’d good naturedly lost very quickly. Right now he was taking his ease at the long table, listening gape mouthed to the other clerks as they swapped complicated tales of serial adultery and pre nuptial contracts from recent court cases. Between the judicious application of strong sack, the food and their trio of diaphanously clad musicians, the lad was mellowing out nicely. In fact Walter was getting a real education in the ways of London. Ned had noticed that his charge’s eyes constantly drifted over to the blonde haired lass playing the harp. Anthea had been a blonde as well. Hmm, his daemon slyly suggested a few little scenarios that may prove useful later. In the meanwhile it was time to inculcate Walter into a more convenient sin.

  Rising up from his perch by the fire, Ned sauntered over to the long table, and clapped his charge on the shoulder. “Walter, care to join us in a simple game of chance?” Ned put down a horn cup containing two carved dice and gave it the slightest rattle.

  Walter looked up at him with those bulging eyes of his and blinked nervously. “Ahh how…how do you play it Ned? Is it complicated?”

  “There’s nothing to it Walter. If you can count then you’ve got it.” Ned’s angel chastised him for the lie.

  Hazard was not a game for those of poor memory, so the usual ploy for crossbiters and cony–catchers was to ply their marks with brandy wine or distract them with low bloused punks. As it was, Ned quickly outlined the game. You could only have two players, a caster and a fader, though the audience could place side bets on each plays outcome. First, the players of Hazard placed side bets amongst themselves, ‘laying’ and ‘taking’ the odds as to whether the "caster's" or "fader's" point would be thrown first, since the odds against a six being thrown first before a five, were different from those of a five being thrown before a seven or a nine before a ten, and so on.

  As Walter still appeared puzzled, Ned played a demonstration game with Brett Harrison, one of his fellows from Gray’s Inn and a passable expert of the game. “Watch this Walter. I place my bet, in this case tuppence, within this circle we’ve drawn in chalk. Now I tap the cup with the pair of dice over at Harrison’s circle and we’ll assume he agrees to the wager. Then I cast the dice.”

  Ned did so and the pair of bone dice rolled in the open space on the table. A dozen of the company bent over to read the play. Some clapped while a few groaned at their loss.

  “See Walter, I rolled a seven so it’s the fader’s point. Now I have to play for my own point.” It was a reasonable chance that Harrison would get the first point. He won on any number from five to nine. Ned replaced the dice in the horn cup and rattled them again. He shook out the dice and smiled as they came to a stop. “You see that I scored a nine. Well that gives a point to me as would any roll from four to ten. Simple isn’t it.”

  Walter gave an interested but hesitant smile and nodded. Ned could see that the meek little cony was hooked and quickly took him through a few of the other more complicated practices of the game. Like if the ‘caster’ trying to throw a point for himself and scored a two or three, he’d lose his stake. That also happened if he rolled an eleven or twelve, if the ‘faders’ point was five to nine. However, if the ‘caster’ scored the ‘faders’ named point, or a twelve if the fader’s point was six or eight, and an eleven when the point was seven, the caster won the pot in the ‘faders’ circle with what was called a ‘nick’. It was a very fast paced game and only those with a steady head and good concentration won out.

  Ned smiled pleasantly at Walter at the conclusion of his display. “See it’s not so hard is it? Care for a few rounds?”

  Walter pinched his lip for a minute or so, then responding to the surrounding encouragement, he tentatively pulled out five shillings from his purse and put them down on the table. To a round of cheering and shoulder thumping, Walter bent forward, an eager grin on his face. “All right Ned. Count…count me in!”

  Ned gave a half bow and slipped one penny into his circle. No need to get greedy his daemon reminded him. He had all night.

  ***

  Chapter Five: A Sudden Summons

  “Arghhh…Getoff! Ned swatted vainly at the hand tugging at his shoulder.

  It continued to shake him and a loud voice echoed painfully in his skull. “Ned…Ned! You’ve got to wake up, Ned! Come on Ned!”

  Reluctantly he rolled over and put up a hand over his eyes to block out the blinding light of day. Groaning he blearily rubbed his face, and looked up into the out of focus features of Rob Black. His friend had that deeply concerned look on his face again that spoke of more problems. “Rob, is
the tavern on fire?”

  “Ahh… no?”

  “Are the French sailing up the Thames?”

  “What? No, of course not!”

  “Has the queen miraculously given birth to a son?”

  “I…I don’t think so.”

  “It’s not that damn sister of yours, again is it?”

  “What? Certainly not. I mean I didn’t…”

  “Good, then I’m going back to sleep.” With that Ned turned away from the unfriendly winter sunlight and nuzzled into the warm blankets. Moments later a pair of large hands tugged the covers off him and before he could complain, a deluge of ice cold water drenched his face. Ned instinctively shot up, eyes wide open at the shock. The light hurt like daggers driven into his eyeballs and his head returned its own measure of painful distress, pounding away like a tambour.

  “Christ…Christ! What was tha…that?”

  Before him was a very apologetic Rob Black with an empty pitcher in his hand. “I’m sorry Ned. I had to do it. We’ve got another messenger from Cromwell!”

  Ned shook his head. Not again! Some people obliviously got to enjoy Christmas but it looked like Ned Bedwell wasn’t going to be one of them. He swung his legs off the bed. The other two inhabitants continued to snore away, unconcerned with the sudden arrival of morning. Ned cast them a regretful glance and struggled into his doublet. Then the matter of his duty struck him and he blurted out a desperate question. “Oh Christ, where’s Walter?”

  Rob Black waved his hand in the direction of the end of the revels common room. “He’s still playing, Ned.”

  “What, still?”

  “All night. Only stopped to grab a firkin of ale, a few pies and manchet loaf.”

  Ned wearily rubbed his hand over a bristly face. Well, well. Young Walter the lamb had certainly taken to the life of London. Ned pulled on his doublet, buckled on his sword and shrugged his heavy mantle over his shoulders. If all this to–ing and fro–ing continued he’d be better off camping in Westminster. Grabbing his hat on the way out the door, Ned abruptly skidded to a halt and lent back, hand on doorjamb. “Rob, can you keep and eye on our friend, Walter. See that he isn’t fleeced too badly.”

  His friend gave an encouraging shrug that Ned took for ascent and, waving a hand in farewell, hopped off down the hallway tugging on the pair of borrowed riding boots. A few months in the service of Councillor Cromwell had taught him that the former secretary to Cardinal Wolsey didn’t tolerate tardiness.

  By the time he’d made it to the top of the stairs, Ned had finally managed to pull on his last boot, and now came to a cursing, skidding halt. The damned messenger! He’d almost tripped over several steps and a sleeping dog in his haste and what did he find? Once more, at the bottom of stairs, was that thrice damned Gruesome Roger Hawkins.

  “About time Bedwell. Cromwell’d be finished several masses afore y’re finished using the pot, given it a loving shake an tied y’r cods.”

  This sneering welcome to the day wasn’t what Ned needed as he stomped down the stairs. His morning mood was already made fragile by a lack of revelling, a midnight summons from Meg damned be her name Black, too little sleep, no damned breakfast and being drenched in ice water. “Damn you, Hawkins. Go and hump your St Paul’s punk till your wizened maggot of a cock rots of the canker. I don’t care if you’re the Pope’s blessed uncle come to give me a Cardinal’s cap. Summon me like this again and even Meg Black’s skirt won’t save you!”

  Ned put his hand on sword hilt and stepped forward into the half crouch he’d learnt from a master of defence. If here was the time to settle this sneering affront from a cursed, measly, fly blown servant, then damn Cromwell and his summons!

  Gruesome Roger’s eyes narrowed and his hand clenched tight around his cudgel. For a moment Ned thought he was going to go for it. Then the Black retainer abruptly turned and strode stiff legged towards the tavern door. “I’ve not the time to waste fo’ y’r foolery Bedwell. Cromwell’s waiting.”

  Ned blinked in surprise. That was a challenge, wasn’t it? A man of honour didn’t refuse a challenge, did he? Even a lowly servant. Ned pondered on the question for a moment then, as if not trailing after like a humble lackey, nonchalantly followed the Black’s retainer.

  All the way to Westminster, over the Fleete and past Temple Bar, through the mounded drifts of snow Ned tried to work out whether he’d just faced down Gruesome Roger and thus ‘won’ or in fact been even more grossly insulted. His mood wasn’t improved by the fact that due to the very large chunks of ice in the river, a comfortable wherry trip was out of the question. Thus his resort to borrowed boots again, which created their own problems. While they kept his feet relatively dry, boots such as these were properly meant for riding, so striding through the slush–hidden ruts and cobbles of London streets risked a twisted ankle at every step.

  And then there was the vexing problem of Gruesome Roger. The Black’s retainer had consistently refused any further comment or reply to his many questions or imputations during the journey. Now Ned wasn’t so puffed up with pride to think that Gruesome Roger was afraid of him. The liveryman took all and every occasion to express his sneering disdain of his mistress’s ‘acquaintance’. So Ned had to ask why was today any different? This was something that too frequently occupied his thoughts instead of, as his better angel reminded him, working out what Cromwell wanted.

  Ned’s better angel primly added that getting more sleep last night might have helped his present situation. His daemon countered with the suggestion of another good round of dicing or cards. Surely roistering would have improved his mood. But, by all the devils, imps and demons of the nine circles of Hell, what he really hadn’t needed last night was another of those cursed summons by Meg Black! He’d just settled down to a nice long dicing session with Walter and a few other lads and it was all going so well. Then, as he was in the middle of a winning streak, another messenger had called for him. For once it wasn’t Gruesome Roger, though it did concern Meg Black.

  A young boy had been waiting nervously at the foot of the stairs. Ned had seen him around at the apothecaries, one of several who did the fetching and carrying amongst other household duties. The poor lamb was all afrightened with news that the Lord Chancellor’s men were going to raid one of the ‘night schools’ and Meg begged his aid.

  Now that had been a real quandary. Ned would like nothing better than to inconvenience Meg Black, especially after she dragged him into Walter minding and this strangely devised pageant of hers. And of course her disturbance of his Christmas Revels begged for revenge. However, and he cursed as he considered it, the ‘night schools’ or ‘nests of heresy’ as Sir Thomas More called them, were secret gatherings of Lollards and evangelicals where they studied heretical texts and the Bible translated into English. The Bishop of London, with the assistance of the new Lord Chancellor, hunted them mercilessly, to root out the growing protests against the Church. Anyone captured could expect to spend some time in the Lollard tower of St Paul’s before being hauled before Foxford, the London Vicar General. Now there was a cleric without a drop of Christian compassion. You either confessed and were burnt or died in prison of the ‘sweats’. It was all the same to him. His better angel pricked his conscience. Was he really going to stand aside and let this happen? Actually no. While Red Ned Bedwell wasn’t strictly one of their number, during the Cardinal’s Angels affair, Lady Anne had spread her cloak of patronage over them at Grafton Regis. Thus he was now considered a client of the Boleyn faction and as a consequence, served Councillor Cromwell. So when the call for help went out…

  In the end it had been a very long night. Ned had led a small band of ‘night schoolers’ away from the meeting at Cheapside via the twisting lanes and crooked alleys until they’d reached a safe house at Petty Wales down by the river. He’d even tucked one of the smaller heretical books into his doublet to stop it falling into More’s hands. It had been damned freezing with more snow, and the night was darker than a trip through Satan
’s bum hole. Three hours it had taken by the time Ned had looped back, checking for any strays and then finally, wet, tired and chilled, he’d staggered back to the Sign of the Spread Eagle and, ignoring the carousing, he’d taken a blanket and collapsed on the corner bed.

  That probably explained why Ned was having a problem flogging his weary sleep deprived brain into action. Why had he been summoned? Fortunately Ned found he had some hour or so in which to figure it out, though the impulse to snore away on a bench was sore tempting. The courts at Westminster may be closed and most clerks overwhelmingly concerned with their own Christmas revels. However that didn’t mean the function of government had closed down. No, there were still petitioners, reports and allocations to arrange. So Westminster, though leaner than the Law terms, was still bustling with activity.

  Finally Reynolds, his patron’s liveryman, waved him into one of the hall’s privy chambers. Thomas Cromwell was standing with his back to a roaring fire, examining a letter. Ned immediately gave his most practiced bow, his cap brushing the floor. His master returned only the slightest flicker of an eyebrow to register the arrival of his latest retainer. Instead all of his attention remained on the letter. From his humbled position, Ned tried his best to read what he could of Cromwell’s demeanour. The newest of the King’s privy officials had a solid build. It was said around the Inns of Court that when younger, Cromwell had served as a mercenary in the Italian Wars. From all the signs Ned had seen, that could well be true. Cromwell moved amongst the men of power and violence with an ease that spoke of a long familiarity of court and command.