In the meantime she was growing tired of repeating the continual ‘yes my lady’, ‘certainly my lady’, like those gaudy mimicking birds from the Indies. Now here they were at the Bread Street Compter, the last stop before the party made what she suspected was to be a very fateful return to her uncle’s apothecary, where Ned had faithfully promised Walter would be lodged by the evening. Now, while it’d be extremely gratifying to see that full of himself, prentice lawyer grovelling for forgiveness at losing ‘little lamb’ Walter, the ramifications mightn't be so pleasant. In the meantime, as the note had pleaded, the tour continued as slowly as she could manage. All the while Meg consoled herself with imagining the ‘talk’ she was going to have with Ned when this fiasco was over.
Finally, having dragged out the questioning of Warder Locksley for minutes longer than was polite, and probably giving everyone the firm impression she was a silly, light–headed, prattling lass, (that was going to be another count against Master Bedwell!) they began to inspect the cells of the prison. On one aspect she was firm. For this indignity, Ned Bedwell was going to suffer! Eventually they arrived at the set of dank cells that made up the Compter’s pitiful excuse for an infirmary. In her trade she was used to the fetid aromas of sick rooms, but this place was in a class of its own. The stench had a physical presence that rammed itself up the nose, almost clawing its way down the throat.
As Lady Dellingham stepped through the narrow doorway, she shoved the cloved orange pomander closer to her nose and stopped so abruptly that Councillor Cromwell almost ran into her. Lady Dellingham’s free hand thrust out and pointed imperiously at a trio of figures by the opposite wall. An old man, thin and scrawny, his beard grey and matted, was lying on a filthy straw pallet being spoon fed from a bowl of pottage. The ministering angel was a young man with bulging eyes and limp yellow hair, dressed in a dark gown that had recently been cleaner.
That perhaps wasn’t the scene that had Meg Black wide eyed in shock. Instead it was on the other side of the pallet. A familiar, tallish, young lad with reddish hair was kneeling in prayer and quietly reading from a small book. It was impossible, just impossible! She’d never seen Red Ned Bedwell pray for anything, except the providential fall of a dice! And…and Meg’s stare narrowed to the simple book cover. That, she was almost certain was one of a recent shipment from Antwerp. How ever did he get one of those?
“What is the meaning of this?” The thundering voice of Lady Dellingham echoed in the chamber and all the eyes that could, swung her way. It may have been dark, but Meg could have sworn the Ned Bedwell, the master of deceit, didn’t look as startled as he should have. “Walter, what are you doing?”
At this booming question, Walter dropped the spoon from his trembling fingers and stuttered a meek reply. “Oh, mo…mo…mother!”
Not waiting for an answer, the furious frown of Lady Dellingham immediately directed itself towards Meg. “Mistress Black, you didn’t tell me that my poor Walter was here!”
Before she could frame any kind of answer, that double–damned Ned Bedwell had walked over, the slim volume clutched piously in his hands, and favoured them with a decent courtly bow. “Pray forgive her, Lady Dellingham. Margaret knew naught of this venture.”
Meg clenched her fists and resisted the urge to sock that insincere smile, as Ned ‘lawyer’ Bedwell wove his story. “My lady, we’d taken in all the sights of the city and Walter and myself were passing here on the way to a…a meeting of ‘friends’. When we heard piteous cries from this place of duress, and in Christian charity for this season, Walter insisted that we do what we could for these poor wretches.”
To Meg that was an arrant lie from start to finish. She clenched her jaw to halt the urge for re editing. Lady Dellingham though, was struggling to fit her little lamb with these putrid surroundings. Finally in a voice raw with shock, she stammered out a question. “Is…is this so Walter? Have you been ministering to these poor wretches? Have you…felt a calling?”
The said lost lamb put down the bowl. Still on his knees he shuffled towards his mother, reverently took up the fringe of her kirtle and kissed it. “Yes…yes mother. It was at the meeting of Ned’s, ahh friends, that the spirit of our compassionate Lord spoke to me.”
For the first time since Meg had been shackled to their visitors from Shropshire, she witnessed Lady Dellingham display anything other and sneering disdain. She reached down, drew up Walter and clutched him to her like a lost child. “Hallelujah! Praise be to the Lord! Walter, your father and I always hoped that you’d find your avocation in the reformed religion, but we never thought it would be so soon, or in this foul pit.”
Having helped chase Walter through places that made this pesthole look like the luxuries of Richmond Palace, Meg doubted it as well. Ned however, was playing the scene. She watched him step next to Walter, place a fond hand on his shoulder and give Lady Dellingham the most simpering smile she’d ever seen. “Yes my lady. The few days we have had with Walter have been a profound revelation. His presence has made such a difference to our humble company. I ask, no I beg you to let us keep him with us until his vessel is ready to depart. With his lead and inspiration, we can do God’s work and restore this city as a New Jerusalem!”
Meg blinked in stunned shock. She hadn’t just heard that, had she? Ned damned be he Bedwell pleading to keep Walter, the bane of their life for the past two days, for a further two weeks? And…and as part of a reformist Christian commitment? Walter the satyr and dice man? No, the fetid air must be causing a delusion.
Then Councillor Cromwell’s dryly sardonic voice cut through the weeping babble and brought them back to reality. “That, Master Bedwell, is an extremely generous offer. I, myself, feel inspired enough to meet this company of saints. Would you pray escort us?”
Ned, still giving his simpering performance, suppressed a curse, and instead turned toward his patron with a modest bow. Damn cursed his daemon, the ploy had almost worked! Keeping a tight hold on ‘lamb’ Walter, he helped their erring reformer to stand up, then spread his hand in a humble demeanour, making sure the heretical book was prominently displayed and wound out his first piece of cozenage. “Of course, Councillor Cromwell, though I fear that while our piety may meet with our honest approval, our location in a tavern may offend polite company.”
Lady Dellingham, after the brief display of humanity, snapped back to form with a sneering comment, loud with echoes of condemnation. “Ahem, in a common tavern? I do not find the location in any way Christian. They are the Devil’s castles, fortresses of sin, where the demons of drunkenness and debauchery consort with lewd and vulgar women!”
Ned hadn’t heard that one before. While his better angel primly agreed, he speedily temporized. “My lady, while that is indeed true and much lamented, it is however an excellent cover for the pursuit of the Lord’s work. Sir Thomas More’s pursuivants would never think to look there.”
He received a very hard eyed inspection and another of those disturbing harrumphs. Cromwell however, maintained a very tight smile that gave nothing at all away, thought Ned may have discerned the smallest spark of amusement.
“After all, my lady, where better to assail the forces of evil, than in their own bastion?”
“Yes, Master Bedwell, where indeed?” This dry comment came from Cromwell who was turning his hard–eyed inspection from one to another of them.
Ned continued to hold on to Walter. “My companions would consider it an honour to welcome you as our guests.”
This sounded perfect, the right balance of respect and humility. Ned just prayed that it was true and that the concentrated glare from Mistress Black didn’t mean what his daemon had warned. She couldn’t still want revenge…could she?
***
Chapter Sixteen: A Proper Repentance
The distinct clink of iron roused Ned from his musings. He quietly slipped off the bed, picked up the hooded lantern from the stool beside him and tip toed to the slightly opened door. Cautiously he eased himself through in
to the chamber and stood in the deep shadows of a nearby painted canvas. A rhythmic, metallic, scraping sound squeaked into the silent void of the predawn morning. It almost matched the tone of the neighbouring snores which echoed from around the room. Ned cautiously slid his feet across the floorboards, carefully easing his weight first on one foot then another, checking that the timber didn’t groan as it jostled its neighbour. Finally, long minutes later, he’d made it the curtain shrouded bed. The soft squeaks hadn’t changed their stop/start pattern. Still sliding his stockinged feet along, he made it to the head of the bed and slowly wrapped his fingers around the curtain’s fringe, then on the latest muted squeak, he tugged the curtain back and thrust the unhooked lantern into the shadows.
As he expected, the sudden glow of illumination revealed a very interesting sight. The bed covers were mounded up over a hunched figure in a long shirt. A pair of bulging, watery blues eyes blinked up at him in the sudden flood of light. Exactly as you’d expect to find behind the curtain of a privy bed, except for the snaking line of a wrought chain that wound from the corner pillar to under the coverlet.
“Morning, Walter. Having trouble sleeping?”
“What! Oh Ned you startled me. I’m sorry, did I disturb you? Pray forgive me. I had to use the privy pot.”
Ned swung the lantern over the shrouded area of the bed. Opposite he could see a second pale figure stretched out. A spill of long, straw–blonde hair trailed over the pillow and drifted along the exposed spine, terminating at the swelling buttock curves. The white skin glowed alluringly.
Ned swallowed slightly at the vision and cleared his throat. “Ahh huh, certainly Walter. Yes, it must have been when you used the pot. However unless you’re pissing nails, I don’t think so.”
Ned put his hand out, palm open, and crooked his finger. “The rasp, Walter. Now if you please.”
Walter widened his eyes in well simulated alarm, and his face dropped into its familiar pattern of mopish regret “What rasp, Ned? I’m shocked to think you’d believe that I’d renege on our arrangement. I swore an oath upon the bible!”
Ned gave a sigh and sadly shook his head. He’d thought the two days exemplary behaviour had been too good to be true. “Walter, Walter, what am I going to do with you? You remember the terms of our agreement? I’m afraid, for this breach, that I’ll have to withdraw Rosemund as your ‘companion’.”
Up to this point Walter had kept up his skilled mask of a practiced dissembler, but at the threat, he immediately dissolved into a teary, grovelling wretch, clutching desperately at Ned’s gown. “No, no! Please Ned! I’ll behave. I promise I’ll make a new pledge upon my very salvation. No, don’t take Rosemund away!”
Ned maintained his stern demeanour and continued to hold out his hand. “The rasp, Walter. Come on.”
Eventually the sniffling subsided, and seeing that his play hadn’t made any difference, the penitent Walter reluctantly shuffled across and pushing his hand under the nearby pillow, slowly extracted a battered smith’s rasp and held it out.
Ned took it and shoved it into his belt and shook his head. “Walter, I am disappointed. You’ve been going so well these past few days. Meg Black was full of praise for your work at Newgate Goal yesterday. I fear this act merits another fine of four angels.”
Walter gave a sad droop of his head and muttered agreement.
“Well, get some sleep Walter. You’ve got a busy day coming up. Meg said you’re off to Poultry Compter by nine of the clock.” Ned dropped the curtain and quietly made his way back to his own bed. The minor ruckus hadn’t disturbed the rest of the snoring company. Pulling the rasp out of his belt, Ned placed it next to the lantern and lay down, pillowing his head in his hands.
Well it was going to be busy tomorrow. The revels were nearing their last few days and he’d planned a few surprises for his revellers, including a subtly of goose, stuffed with capons and pigeons. Thanks to Walter’s unforeseen generosity, the celebrations could exceed the original budget. Anyway Ned also owed them for fronting up the gilt at his urgent request, and for the instantly convened bible meeting.
By the time Ned had led Lady Dellingham and her newly regarded Walter back to the sign of the Spread Eagle, the scene of Roman Saturnalia had been miraculously transformed by Reedman and the rest into the most sober of gatherings. One snag had been the doorway still wreathed in holly, which had Lady Dellingham frowning in suspicion until Ned passed it off as righteous deception to protect the gathering. It had been true that he’d held his breath as the door had swung open, and none could fault him that minor sigh of relief at what was revealed inside. At the word of the approach of Cromwell, the company under Reedman had out done themselves. Gone were the decorations and painted canvases of ‘antique carousing’. Instead a simple wooden cross hung from the wall. As for the diaphanous–gowned musicians, their costumes now spoke of sober respectability rather than the prior revels and Reedman himself was at the head of the table, reading aloud from the latest translated New Testament, as the rest of the company listened in rapt attention.
For a moment Lady Dellingham stood in frowning review of the scene, then clapped her hands together and shouted Hallelujah, complimenting both Meg and Ned for bringing Walter ‘unto the bosom of the most Christian community she’d seen in London’. Luckily her ladyship had been too busy exulting to notice the grimace of almost incredulous dismay that crossed the face of Meg Black. Ned was glad the apothecary’s apprentice was restrained by the present company, since he was certain that her ‘views’ on the disguised revels would be forthright and immediately painful.
However it was neither the fearsome Meg nor the reproving Lady Dellingham that had caused him the greatest fear. Oh no that was Councillor Cromwell. His patron had watched all the play with a quiet, tight smile and noted the names of the company, returning to them pleasant replies of known associations and relatives of his acquaintance. That identification had sent chills up Ned’s spine.
Somehow his patron knew that all this held as much reality as a Twelfth Night player’s revel, though he said very little to Ned until Meg reminded Lady Dellingham of their next call at the Lord Mayor’s feast. Then Ned had escorted them out into the winter evening and left them with their pack of retainers. Finally Cromwell had turned to him, and still with that quietly knowing smile, commended Ned for his efforts and bade him a good night. After that Ned had breathed a great deal easier, since Cromwell had left him with a small purse containing a dozen shillings and a simple murmured reference to the bible, Romans 6:23.
It left him puzzled for all of five minutes until he’d consulted a much relieved Rob in private, while the company of revels recovered from the visit. Afterwards it had taken several cups of good sack to steady his trembling. The reference had been chillingly accurate. For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Our Lord Jesus Christ.
The thinly veiled hint had prompted him to seek out Meg Black that evening and sort out an immediate resolution of the ‘Walter’ problem. He’d discussed, in a slightly edited form, the continuing need for ‘strong’ precautions. For once the apprentice apothecary agreed with only a brief argument. That signal occurrence had his daemon momentarily suspicious, but Ned had shrugged it off. Even Mistress Black had to admit life in an imperfect world required unusual remedies. For instance his solution had been to find some comely ‘intelligent’ blonde lass, with an impeccable reputation for reform, from a modest background. Then introduce her to Lady Dellingham as a suitable helpmate for Walter. Despite some frowning disapproval and barbed comments on his bizarre interpretation of religious script, Meg Black had grudgingly gone along with his plan.
Even Walter had mostly complied, especially when he’d been told that fair Rosemund, his ‘intended’, now controlled the sums he’d lodged around the city. Well at least the rump of thirty nine pounds, eight shilling and four pence after expenses, still a hefty dowry for any girl. As far as Ned was concerned a lad of Walter’s peculiar dispositio
n and cunning, required an extra leash, apart from pretty eyes and a firm rounded pair of breasts. Memories of the smooth white skin he’d recently seen had him shift a suddenly tight and uncomfortable cod piece.
All in all, this frantic traipsing through the Liberties of London had turned out rather well. Walter had been ‘persuaded’ that to assuage his imperilled soul, a truly reformed Christian would cough up suitable recompense in coin, which Ned and Meg held in trust. And as a final precaution, Ned had requested that Walter supply the names of his dubious agents and informers. That last one had been a real tussle with demons. Walter had prevaricated and sniffled falsehoods until Ned unveiled his last trump card – an evening with the fair Rosemund. That temptation had outweighed all the others, and as Ned assured Rob, he wasn’t acting as a whoremaster or ruining the reputation of a modest girl. Instead it should be considered as a very legal and binding prenuptial contract, witnessed by thirty members of the Inns of Chancery. In the labyrinthine vagaries of marriage law, in which His Majesty the King was currently entangled, you couldn’t have more certainty unless the bedding was witnessed by three Lords and several Bishops.
The Lord of Misrule (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries) Page 13