Rob appeared to accept this or at least he shrugged in resignation.
“Look, as John explained, some punk and her apple squire have played a right piece on young Richard. The simple country cousin must have let out he was to be married soon and they seized him up for a pre–contract cozen. They’ll have a friar on hand and some petty lawyer to draft the instant marriage contract and as witness. If we don’t spring the idiot he’ll have to pay three pounds to escape the false bond.”
Rob mulled that part over. Three pounds was a hefty amount of gilt. A family could live well for months on such a sum. Ned didn’t have much idea regarding the wealth of Reedman or his brother’s prospective bride, but if these rogues thought they could lever more coin, not much could be done. Any decent citizen of standing would instantly cry loudly and summon the Liberties Watch. Oh by the saints, wouldn’t that solve all the problems! Ned knew the Liberties Common Watch, almost as well as their cousins in villainy, the Southwark Watch. As any sensible citizen should expect, they were a similar set of scoundrels and sheep fondlers, excelling at the skill of not arriving at an affray until too late or the rogues were long gone. So that only left petitioning some Royal official or lord for assistance, it’d be cheaper and faster to pay the ransom.
Having quelled that minor rebellion Ned tugged his doublet and cloak into a clumsy attempt at rakish style and strode towards the tavern. Rob, playing his servant, doused the link light at the tavern entrance and pushed open the door.
Chapter Five. Flaunty Phil’s Friendship
Ned strode in with a jaunty step and stopped hand on hips, legs spread wide in a poorly executed attempt to copy a lord’s manner. As expected the company of the common room gave him a thorough review from head to toe. This was fine since in between knocking the snow off his borrowed cloak and vainly trying to reset the splay of crow feathers in his cap, he was doing the same. Having given the audience a chance to weigh up their visitor Ned strode over to the taverner’s bench and thumped a groat on the scarred timber. “A flagon o’ yer best wine.”
The taverner, a small wizened man overwhelmed by a black beard reaching down to his waist, picked up the coin and scowled at it before turning away without a reply.
Appearing nonplussed Ned looked bemusedly around the common room searching for a clear table. One tallish fellow, possessed of a short trimmed beard and a fine long nose, got up from the table and sauntered over. In the fashionable London how one dressed proclaimed the status and position of the wearer. It was a fact of life which is why Ned had chosen the selection of homespun and older fashioned apparel befitting a country yeoman.
He'd heard one poetic comparison—like the vivid hues of a spring flower drew a bee to taste its nectar—as if. Ned thought this an insipid simile and not at all fitting the present moment, far more like a wasp on its way to pillage the bee skep. A fitting label since this ‘Fleecer’ was dressed in the puffed and slashed gaudy colours favoured by German soldiers serving Emperor Charles. They were called Landsknechts, and held the reputation as being ready for a fight or wanton pillage, whichever came first. Their fame had peaked with the capture of the King of France at Pavia back in ‘twenty five’ but a brace of years ago. It had plummeted again when the Imperial army sacked Rome and held the Pope captive. Ned had seen this fashion displayed at Court by the younger outré members of the court. It was frowned upon by the Master of Apprentices at the Inns as too prideful, lacking the gravitas and dignity of black. Where he could Ned skirted the statues like many of his other apprentice lawyers.
This fellow though was as colourful as any peacock and twice as bold as he walked over and leant beside the bench giving a friendly, welcoming smile and slapping down his own coin. “Dickon, yea lazy measle! A jug of brandy wine for our newcomers on this frosty night.”
Ned returned the smile and gave a jerky nod in the direction of his newly acquired companion. “Why thank ye master, that’s indeed generous for mere strangers.”
Their colourful host waved the thanks away with an open handed gesture and his puffed and slashed sleeve rippled black and vivid yellow. “Think naught of it friend. Tis the time of our saviour’s birth when all good Christians should show each other kindness and good will. Anyway Master, you look worn down by this foul weather’s chill. Care to share my table by the fire?”
As if momentarily stunned by such generosity Ned paused, but a smile and a gentle tug on his sleeve drew him easily along. Rob of course trailed dejectedly after, and not offered a seat squatted by the wall, the very picture of a dejected and none too bright servant waiting for the next shouted command to stir him into laggardly action. Ned though was treated with uncommon courtesy and took the honoured seat by the fire readily accepting a fully charged horn cup of brandy wine. To those uninitiated in the ways of the Liberties it all looked so cheery and friendly, smiles and a Wassail cup. What more could a weary traveller fresh from the country ask for?
“Welcome to the merry company at the Wool’s Fleece. I’m Phil Flydman, a fellow of some note hereabouts.”
Ned gulped the proffered drink and didn’t have to simulate the eye watering cough. Damn but this stuff was fiery and coarse! It felt like his throat was being stripped by liquid dragon’s fire. As for his newly introduced host, Ned already knew his name and dress by reputation and as his daemon reminded him also by ‘that’ prior meeting. The fellow was Flaunty Phil, a known rogue moderately skilled at the substitution of the false fullans and gourds in dice play, though Ned hadn’t heard if Phil now moved into other areas of roguery and cozenage. Thus it was prudent to play the easy country fool, the veriest coney of the coney catcher’s game.
Ned coughed and choked, thumping his chest before wheezing out a stifled reply. “By…by Christ’s bones, that’s…that’s a powerful drink Master Flydman. My thanks for your generosity. I’m Will Paston fro’ Branfield.”
His host nodded with keen interest and bid Ned take another sip. “Really. Where be that Master Paston?”
“Half a day’s ride north of Chelmsford on the road to Thyckfield. Tis a grand place, the largest village for a day’s ride. We’ve fifty houses and two mills.”
Flaunty Phil leant back his hand striking flat on the table his eyes wide with astonishment. “Why I’s never! Such luck! It can only be by the Good Lord’s will. Mine own uncle, Thomas Smyth, is from near Chelmsford around those parts!”
Ned pretended to be startled. “Well, well who’d chance a kinsman of mine own countryman, here in this big city.”
Flaunty Phil for his part gave Ned’s shoulder a good natured buffet and called out. “Ho taverner, a jug of your best for His Majesty’s worthy and loyal subject, this good Essex man, Will Paston!”
As if on cue the rest of the tavern commons gave a hearty cheer. Ned pretended embarrassment at the praise as a third jug rapidly arrived at the table, and then of course another toast, this time to the stout lads and buxom lasses of Essex. Ned playing cautious endeavoured to spill a fair bit before it reached his lips.
On the third round of toasts, this time to His Sovereign Majesty, his new best friend Phil leant closer. “Tell me countryman, what brings you to London?”
Ned clumsily rubbing his face bent forward and dropped his voice. “Why Master Phil, I’m here to sort out a few legal matters afore my marriage.”
“Really? So this does call for celebration. Another drink!”
Once more the cups rose up in a hearty toast and once more Ned took less than a mouthful then conspiratorially bent his head a lot closer to his host and attempted a soft voice. He made an effort to slur words as if he really had just downed four beakers of eye wateringly strong brandy wine. “No, no not so loud Master Phil. I’m to be married next week but in the meantime I’ve to see a lawyer about the transfer of the lands from the dowry.”
“Ho, ho, a lass of property! You lucky fellow Will!”
Another not so discrete round of toasts to celebrate his ‘good fortune’, then a fifth after Ned gave the value as
three farms worth and an oast house. After which Ned shook his head at the sixth round of pledges. “Nay friend Flid…Flydman. Any more of this fiery drink an’ I fears I’ll be over borne. I’m here on a most’s important duty.”
Ned slipped little on the table and blinked his eyes a few times as if the scene was blurring, made a clumsy effort to tap his nose in a knowing fashion and tried to look around in a sly wary manner then whispered. “The law clerk at Gray’s said here was a fine house where a gentleman could have some personal ahh instruction in the art o’ spurring. Cause, cause…”
Ned trailed off lamely though Flaunty Phil’s previous smile expanded to display a number of broken teeth. The fellow may have thought it friendly but for Ned it was the sly grin of a fox to a foolish duck. “Why Will, I’d have thought you the very cockerel of Branfield.”
Ned puffed up his chest and endeavoured to look like he was the most popular and skilled of swains. “Ahh, ahh y’see the village milk maids calls me the Bull o’ Branfield,” said Ned with all the sincerity of a lad hoping a wild boast would soon match reality.
Flaunty Phil took it all in his stride giving his own conspiratorial tap of the nose and a practiced wink. “I’m sure you’re the greatest Codsman and pizzle jouster of punks o’ Branfield, but I can sees that a countryman the likes of you wants a woman who has all the skill to bring a fellow to the mastery o’ ‘es talents.”
Ned blushed at the suggestion, not that hard an accomplishment considering the potency of the brandywine.
His host nodded slowly with what only could be called lewdly sly leer. “So Will my friend, all’s I can say is that yea came to the right place. I know’s just the lady that’ll do yea a treat, a woman of skill and renown in these parts o’ London.”
Flaunty Phil nudged one of the non-descript loungers on a nearby bench who slouched off, heading for the stairs leading to the upper storey. In the meantime Flaunty Phil hunched over in a conspiratorial manner and put a hand on Ned’s shoulder. “Delphina, friend Will, is a pearl amongst the punks of the city, a rare beauty whom even engaged the interest of that known courtly lecher, Sir Francis Bryan. In fact that most famous ‘codsman’ trained Delphina in all the lewdest arts from Paris and Rome that can please a man for hours.”
Ned nodded, not so much salivating in anticipation, but at least trying to look as if he were. “Really, by Christ’s bones um, um that’s the kind of fire I’s want ta quench!”
Then as if his own keenness was suddenly damped Ned hesitated and looked guiltily around clutching at his purse. “Is, is, is she pricy?” Ned managed to squeak out this question nervously. It was a slight problem that by this point his daemon had lost track of the ‘plot’ and was giving him an imagined review of the delights of fair Delphina.
Flaunty Phil’s smile twitched at the impulsive movement and his eyes noted the apparently bulging purse with solicitous interest. “Nay lad. Since it is the days of Christmas, and for mine own countryman, I’ll arrange for her to see yea as a favour to me, an it’ll not even cost yea a bent groat.”
“Why Phil, yer a boon, a boon friend!” Ned slurred that slightly and made a clumsy grasp at Phil’s arm.
The cozener’s smile flickered into a flashing grin of predatory triumph, and as if on cue Phil raised his arm and pointed to the stairs. “Ere she is, beauty enthroned!”
Thus Ned’s head was jerked around by the ringing summons to behold the entrance of Delphina. A chorus of sighs and whimpers accompanied her stately steps down the stairs, and the vision in a long red dress and matching fiery hair drifted over to their bench. Her sweet tones tickled every fibre in his body sending a jolt to his previously ignored cods. “Master Flydman, ye called me fo’ to see to this fine gentleman?”
Ned didn’t have to simulate a befuddled gulp, nor did his daemon. Now just as his better angel warned, this part of the plan was going to need some very careful footwork.
Chapter Six. The Delights of Delphina
On his last visit to The Wool’s Fleece Ned hadn’t made it up the stairs, having been easily stripped of assets in the common room below. This time though, being lead up the treads by Delphina’s warm and delicate hand, it was as if he were transported to the realm of the gods and goddesses climbing the path towards blessed Olympus. His angel waspishly chided his classical allusions and at the same time sharply reminded him to concentrate on the stern duty ahead. If only it was so easy. Apart from a cascading flow of red gold hair, Delphina possessed a pair of entrancing light emerald eyes that sparkled deeply of her promise in the bed chamber. Even her softly sharp lavender scent tickled his nose setting off alarming conniptions in his cod piece. His wicked daemon, spurred more by lust than reason was in the saddle and it exulted at the wonderful opportunity this presented. To be rewarded for rescuing Richard Reedman and enjoy an hour or so of Delphina’s delights—how lucky could a lad be at Christmas?
Almost in a daze no doubt attributed to that doubly strong brandywine, Ned reached the top of the first flight of stairs and the delicious Delphina drew him along the half lit corridor with a ready teasing smile. Halfway along on the left lounged an ill favoured rogue, cudgel thrust in his ample belt. It seemed to Ned that this ‘Fleecers’ close set beady eyes watched his passage with a leery, knowing smirk of anticipation and whatever the allure of Delphina’s charms that sight served as a splash of ice water to his overcharged condition. Ned gave the watcher a dopey nod as if to a fellow engager in the carnal pleasures of the Wool’s Fleece. His better angel noted the slide bar of an outer timber door latch by the fellow’s hand. At first sight it seemed the only one and therefore a rather odd arrangement. Most rooms in taverns possessed the lightest of inside latches to at least give a semblance of security against the intrusion of common rogues and thieves. But to have one outside, well, that was a little different. There were rumours that some foully reputed stews over Southwark way weren’t that opposed to the seizing of girls newly come to the city for, ahem, ‘training’ as punks. While Ned wasn’t naive enough to tut tut or to swear an oath as a Christian that such scandalous practices were limited to the heathen Turk, to his Liberties tuned ear that practice was possible, but probably uncommon. Here a barred and guarded door strongly spoke of similar nefarious uses—secreting a reluctant guest mayhap?
This bout of speculation regarding room assignments took barely a moment in Ned’s passage to promised delights. Whether his guide Delphina dipped a head or fluttered eyelashes at the guard he couldn’t tell, lost as he was in her scent and the alluring sight of smooth, creamy skin at neck and shoulder. With practiced ease Delphina pushed open a door and in the manner of one receiving a lordly guest, curtsied him in.
Ned didn’t need to fain surprise. His mouth gaped open quite naturally. The room of promised delights was indeed quite a transformation from the rough and common space below. The walls where covered in panels of painted canvas, each one depicting in a classical manner a number of most lascivious scenes between, ah well, shepherds and shepherdesses. For purely ascetic reasons Ned tilted his head sideways to gain a fuller appreciation of one particularly scene involving several cavorting participants in a variety of positions. The painter had an excellent eye for detail and Ned’s daemon wondered if the fellow could supply a list of the female models and their ‘places of engagement’. But for all its opulent and distracting scenery the main difference between this bedchamber and that of any other discerning punk was the structure sitting in the centre of the space.
In Ned’s experience most ‘bed chambers’ contained a bed of some varying quality, at the lowest end a rough pallet stuffed with straw, while in houses of quality the bed often was an enormous structure several feet tall with a canopy and curtains of richly worked cloth. Here they’d taken classical allusions to a new level. There wasn’t a bed at all. Instead the room contained a large open bath full of steaming water. By the saints a real Roman bath! Ned’s ‘scholarly’ interest stirred. He’d read enough Roman writers including the much passed around
and dog eared Metamorphoses of Apuleius or as St Augustine sneeringly referred to it as Asinus Aureus, The Golden Ass. It certainly helped a young scholar gain a new and different insight to the manners of the antique Romans and many of his fellow scholars at the university had ‘discussed’ the many intriguing and diverting uses of a roman bath for um, oh yes for ‘philosophical debate’. He also knew of several houses of lewdness that claimed to specialise in ‘bathing’ though as yet he’d not had the chance to ‘wash’. This rescue was looking better and better, a real Christmas treat! Somewhat pleasantly startled Ned allowed himself to be led towards the bath.
He’d have expected the room to be rather chill but a decent fire blazed in the nearby hearth over which was suspended a steaming caldron, no doubt for recharging the bath. Delphina gave him a smile full of the promise of seduction and began to help unbuckle his belt and doublet. As if struck by a fit of mortified embarrassment Ned clutched at his cod piece. “Ahh nay Mistress. Could yea please latch the doors. I’ve a mortal fear of chills and agues.”
As if this was the most natural request Delphina shrugged with a slight moue of those pouting lips and drifted easily to the door. The latch locked with a satisfying click and Ned breathed a sigh of relief. The punk swung gracefully around and loosening the ties of her kirtle slipped her dress off those alabaster white shoulders exposing the tops of her rounded breasts. For what seemed like an eternity Ned was struck as mute as any beast in the field, though his daemon may have given a small whimper before fainting. The sight before him blanked out all thought and speculation. His angel may have tried to remind him of his friend Rob alone in the Fleece common room prey to all manner of cosenage but Ned was deaf to appeals of duty not to mention any and all details of the plan. Delphina’s pale skin was as smooth as silken velvet and just as beautiful as he’d imagined.
The Lord of Misrule (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries) Page 16