The crossing of London from Petty Wales to the eastern Liberties, past the Fleete stream, was not a pleasant jaunt, and for Ned, this was his second time in one day. Another flurry of snow added to the mounded banks of frozen slush in the streets and made the walk bitterly cold. As Ned had observed just yesterday from the cheery interior warmth of the revels room, the white blanket did soften the outlines of the roofs, while at the same time hiding the ruts, potholes and broken cobbles of the city roads. Once more he was quietly cursing, stumbling over another concealed obstruction, though this time he kept his balance. A tumble before Gruesome Roger was one thing, but in front of his still fuming mistress…ahh no. Ned had seized the leadership of this little band due to a single clue, and any slip up on his part would see Meg Black once more taking control. He’d no desire to go traipsing through her idea of his supposed haunts.
No doubt Meg was still fuming over the usurpation. That was evident by her continued silence. His daemon had hinted that, knowing ‘Mistress Black’, she was probably plotting and scheming revenge for this latest slight. Now if pressed, Ned would reluctantly concede that Meg had many commendable virtues. She was friendly, rather attractive, possessed a cutting sense of humour, as well as possibly being more intelligent than was good for a girl of her position. However one trait stood out above all others, her stubborn loyalty. That was the single most important factor in their survival during the Cardinal’s Angels affair. Of course once it had been guided by his natural leadership, they’d prospered. But the flipside of those traits was her stubbornness. Once Mistress Black latched onto an idea, not even a barrel of gonnepowder could blast it loose.
As an example, her present obsession, i.e. that in the space of a few hours the infamous Red Ned Bedwell had nefariously tempted poor Walter from his pious pursuit of Christian reform. Ned didn’t mind proclaiming his skills and talents. He was quite proud of most of them. But that brief span wasn’t long enough to teach a neophyte the deepest secrets of Hazard so that they’d gain six angels. Or know when was the perfect occasion to pull the weighted purse trick. In the hours since lamb Walter’s startlingly convenient disappearance, Ned had some time to mull the situation over. His conclusions were no where near certain, but the best he could come up with was that some person, so far unknown, had got to young Walter and put him up to this mischief. His personal suspicion was that this series of unfortunate events was linked to a rival of the Dellingham’s in Shropshire, hence the cryptic warning to be on guard from Councillor Cromwell. Though, why his patron insisted on such round about methods of making his tasks known had Ned perplexed. Maybe it was a habit picked up during his time in Cardinal Wolsey’s service. That must have been a post set in the very midst of plots, pursuivants and power. Having had only a glimpse of one of the Cardinal’s schemes, Ned could see how concepts of honour and loyalty were warped and twisted to serve personal ambition and survival.
At the bridge over the Fleete, Ned felt a familiar thump on his shoulder. Oh ho. Curiosity must have finally driven Meg Black past her natural limit of endurance. Grasping the stone wall on the side of the bridge to steady himself on the slippery cobbles he turned towards a very upset Mistress Black. “Yes?”
“Where are you dragging us, Ned Bedwell?” Her voice held the sort of inquisitive menace he’d come to know too well. Meg Black had worked herself up into a real temper.
“As I said Mistress Black, to where Walter is.”
“Hmm yes, so you said! But I wonder how the Ned Bedwell who’d been strongly proclaiming his innocence suddenly ‘discovers’ the missing Walter?”
Ah yes, he suspected she’d take this tack. Her suspicions must have been working over time.
“Why Mistress Black, you know I have my sources throughout the city.”
This perfectly reasonable reply was greeted with a derisive snort. “Sources? Is that what you call the company you keep? How many of those ‘sources’ need to avoid the parish constables?”
Hmm, was this perhaps a not so veiled reference to his frequent evening companions? Ned bit back the instant retort about ‘scurrying reformer rats’ he’d heard so recently. Instead he returned a dismissive shrug. “It’s true they shun attention. However they’ve aided your ventures more than once.”
At that honest comment, Meg Black shifted her view to the broken surface of the Fleete. Rather than the noble stream that entered the city, this part was choked with ordure and refuse. If it hadn’t also been full of ice, then it would have perfumed the surroundings with a miasma that cleared the nose and choked the lungs even in winter.
Ned could see that his barb had hit home and felt it was time to relent, though only a little. “Come on Meg. This bickering is foolish! We gain naught from it. We’re heading for a place by Temple Bar where I was told Walter might be. I trust the source and let’s leave it at that.”
It was plain that Meg Black was undergoing her own inner tussle – revenge and slight, battling with reason and sensibility. “This source…is…are they reliable?”
Ned gave a single nod. The future held nothing but trouble if he elaborated on his relationship with Adeline. With an exasperated snort, Meg Black considered this for a moment, and with an almost imperceptible bob of her chin, stalked off. Well this was the best he could expect, and so far still in charge he led their small band westwards along Fleete Street.
The Red Boar was a typical smaller tavern cum gaming house. It stood some two storeys high with white lime–washed walls and a thatched roof. . Buildings like this were common in the crowded warrens of the Liberties of London though not always quite so clean. Set on the London side of Temple Bar, it was near enough to Chancery Lane to draw upon clerks and Royal officials from Westminster and still be safe from too close supervision. The Liberties were one of those wonderful anomalies that made legal life in and around London so fruitful. It lay outside the boundaries of London City but not quite in Westminster. Nor did county officials hold sway here. Thus, by a quirk of law both secular and temporal, this region fell in a nebulous zone of jurisdiction. One of his friends at the Inns, a northerner, had likened it to the debatable lands between England and Scotland – a place said to be infested with wild hairy kneed Scots and fugitives from English justice where the only law was the sword, and murder and croft burnings were a daily occurrence.
It wasn’t though because of one simple reason. This patch of ground, lying as it did in between the city and Westminster, was valuable property. Many lords and bishops had their city houses and palaces here, especially along the river. Wolsey’s York Place was just the largest and closest to the Royal palace at Westminster. That much noble breeding and clerical sanctity desired a measure of peacefulness, and around their mansions they enforced this. As well, the space in theory fell under the purview of the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, who most recently had been Sir Thomas More. Thus if you were either a ‘sturdy beggar’ or a known heretic, the Liberties held doubtful sanctuary.
Even so, the Liberties still teemed with places for cony catchers or masters of cozenage to prosper at their craft. So by rights, the Red Boar should have been a sinkhole of depravity, patronised by persons keen to avoid the scrutiny of the city constables, but it wasn’t. Milliken Tover, the taverner, wanted a more respectable clientele. So like so many enterprising merchants in London, he hired a hefty retainer from Captaine Gryne over in Southwark. This dominating presence tended to treat beggars and miscreants without the tender discretion of the law – usually in fact with the assistance of an iron shod cudgel aimed behind the ear. This guaranteed safety was only one reason Ned often came here. The ….ahh…other was Adeline.
So Ned wasn’t concerned when Tover’s heavily built figure came bustling up to him as soon as they they’d passed through the doorway. He’d a happy smile on his jowly cheeks and a most eager twinkle in his eye. “Good ta see you Red Ned. I was told y’d be here. Come ta settle y’ friend’s bill, already? I’s always said y’re a true gentleman!”
Ned w
as jolted to an abrupt halt. “What? What friend…what bill?”
Obligingly Tover thrust a scribbled piece of paper in front of his face. Ned had no choice but to accept it or have it used as a nose napkin. Ignoring an instantly curious Meg Black and Roger, he walked over to a tallow candle and peered at the writing. He blinked several times in disbelief and reread it twice more, before Meg Black, unable to restrain her curiosity, shoved in next to him for her own perusal.
It said, in only a slightly wandering hand;
To Master Milliken Tover, Taverner of the Red Boar. In my capacity as a clerk of Councillor Cromwell, I, Ned Bedwell of St Lawrence Poor Jewry warrant and avow that I stand guarantor for all and any debts incurred by Walter Dellingham in any manner whatsoever. Dated the twenty fifth day of December, Fifteen Hundred and Twenty Ninth year Anno Domino, the twentieth Regnal year of Our Sovereign Majesty, King Henry VIII.
To Ned that part was bad enough but worse was underneath – the signature. It was his or damned enough close to it was possible. By all the blessed saints, what had Walter done? His daemon had a more urgent question – how had he done it? While his angel, not to be surpassed, whispered an even worse question, how many more of these are there floating around London?
Ned turned back to the eager taverner. Tover was wearing his most earnest face, the one he kept for his more valuable customers, when he was presenting their slate. “How long was he here?”
“Mayhap, two or three hours, by the bells of St Paul’s.”
“When did he leave?”
“Oh some time ago, ‘e cleaned out some five or so of the clerks from the Middle Temple and then disappeared wit’ a blonde punk he’d come in with. I’s seen ‘er round the Liberties often. She usually dresses like that colourful flock around St Paul’s.”
Ned dropped to the bench and shook his head wearily. Damn, too cursed late! Walter had been here and once more successfully played the cony–catchers game, no doubt about that. Even Meg Black couldn’t dispute the evidence. Ned took a deep breath and focused on the expectant taverner. “I’m afraid, Tover, this isn’t my pledge. It’s been forged.”
His happy visage sagged, disappeared, and then underwent several more variations before settling on the one Master Milliken employed for indigent clerks who didn’t cough up the gilt. “Damn y’ Red Ned Bedwell. I’m down one angel, eight shillin’s and four pence for food and drink. Who’s goin’ to pay for that?”
It was a very good question. Right now Ned wanted Walter really, really badly just so he could grab the little worm by the doublet and shake him until sufficient spare coins rattled loose. In the meantime he passed the bill to Meg Black. “Yours, I think.”
Gone was the mutual forbearance of the last twenty minutes. Now Mistress Black folded her arms and refused the tainted bill. “What cozenage trick is this, Ned Bedwell? It’s got your name and signature on it. You sort it out – you lost him.”
Oh how predictable! This was obviously, at least to him, a well planned cony–catchers play, and he was the cony. Either Walter or his puppet–master was going to regret this. With a frowning glare in the direction of Meg Black and Gruesome Roger, Ned slowly reached into his doublet, pulled out his purse and held it up thoughtfully in his hand. “I will pay this single bill, but you know Meg, past all your rancour and upon your Christian conscience, it’s not mine, and Rob and all the Christmas Revels company will back me up.”
For once Meg Black’s guilty conscience forced her to look away and Ned gave a small, tight smile. At last, a victory of sorts. “However, this comes at a price. I want Roger here, to spill on Anthea the punk and Earless Nick, because I think he knows exactly where Walter is, right now.”
***
Chapter Nine: A Christmas Carolling
Cautiously Ned slipped around the corner of Bride Lane. In one respect he thanked the saints, that it was dark enough since the onset of the early winter night so he could move unseen towards his target. On the other hand he cursed the darkness for its ability to similarly hide any threats. As for his companions in stealth, the less said about them the better. Meg Black moved quietly enough, but Ned wondered in the event of an affray just where she’d produce the hot poker from. Because, it wasn’t as if this particular gathering of the Liberties miscreants would be cowed by her shrewish tongue or bitingly sarcastic manner.
Then there was Gruesome Roger. Ahh yes good old ‘Hawks’. Hadn’t he proved to be a veritable mine of information once his mistress had ‘convinced’ him to confess his prior employment. Roger Hawkins, the loyal, sour faced, dependable retainer of a thorough going, reformist minded lass – didn’t he come from a very murky background indeed. It had proved a real eye opener to even Ned’s apprentice lawyerly cynicism and soundly convinced his daemon that challenging Gruesome Roger was a short cut to a shroud.
In his prior service, before somehow linking up with the Black family, good old faithful Roger had been a very wicked lad. In fact the retainer’s previous devotion to the darker aspects of the Liberties life had left Ned deeply awed. It was amazing how much of a potted history could be fitted into ten minutes. A good analogue was the breaching of prison walls. Out poured a life–story’s worth of dread deeds and deepest sin, let loose in one cathartic confession.
It was Mistress Black’s reaction that had amazed Ned the most. At the litany of ‘wickedness’, she’d blanched occasionally at some of Rogers reports, then bade him remember that he had voluntarily turned away from that life and sort redemption. That act, she said, spoke of the soul’s hunger for the purified word of God and, Meg Black continued, that the way to wipe away the hold of the past, was to tackle the demons who’d shackled him for so long.
The reaction had been a snivelling Roger, overcome by his passions, kneeling to beg forgiveness from his mistress. Even Ned’s daemon lost its usual cynicism at the sight. However it did whisper out of the side of its mouth that this was excellent coin to save up for use at a more convenient occasion. In the meantime Ned listened very carefully as the workings of the Liberties were explained by one who’d stood at the right hand of the Lord of the masterless men of the Liberties, Earless Nick.
That information was one reason Ned was sliding so quietly along Bride Lane. This so called lord spread a range of guards around his lair. Though Ned accepted it as a sensible precaution, the other news that chilled was that Earless Nick maintained a scattering of beggars and punks throughout the city to spy out advantages. Ned tried to concentrate on the here and now, but that delightful titbit shook him. He’d already made an enemy of Canting Michael, the owner of the baiting pits and gang lord of half of Southwark. Now…damn…now to find that due to the cursed nuisance, lamb Walter, Red Ned Bedwell risked the wrath of another. As consolation, his better angel reminded him of the honour and virtue he’d gain in the eyes of Meg Black for undertaking this venture. Somehow that just didn’t balance the scales. Not at all!
According to Gruesome Roger, or ‘Hawks’ in this region, a guard should be stationed one building down, on the corner. Ned knelt down on the snow, in the shelter of a doorway, and carefully peered past a convenient pillar. Yes, he could just make out a figure standing in a recess twenty paces away, stamping his feet.
A hand touched his shoulder and Ned almost bolted. Then Meg Black whispered a question in his ear. “Only the one guard?”
Easing back the panic, Ned gave the shadows a thorough inspection. A light crunch of trodden snow told him that Gruesome Roger had joined the crouched huddle. Finally satisfied, Ned pointed to the lurking darkness. A low cough and a plume of white mist from chilled breath could be seen in the light of the cresset lantern beyond. “Yes. He’s alone, so we’ve got this far. Any ideas on how to get past him?”
From a hidden satchel produced from the depths of her heavy gown, Meg pulled out two small items and passed them to him. In the dim light from the few lanterns in the lane Ned could make out a small leather flask and a paper parcel, both commonly used by apothecaries for medicines.
He shook his head. This didn’t seem like the time to dispense physicks! “What’s this? You want me to balance his humours, or maybe check his urine?”
“No, you measle brained puttock. Splash the contents of the flash around your face and neck. It’s aqua vitae from brandy wine.”
Ned frowned and gave the flask a puzzled frown. “Why?”
He could have sworn Meg Black muttered several ‘common words’ that any goodly Christian young lady shouldn’t even know. “Because when you stagger up towards the tavern, he’ll just take you for a drunken clerk.”
He had to admit this was actually sound thinking. However that only accounted for one of the two items. Ned held the spare parcel up and waved it enquiringly, well at least as best as one could in the London evening. Even in the murk he could tell that Meg Black exasperatingly shook her head. She grabbed his collar and pulled him closer and in a most emphatic whisper, told him what he could do with it. At the conclusion, Ned stiffly got up and set about his task. His daemon, however, whistled in sheer amazement. Meg Black was a true mistress of dangerous deviousness.
John Plyborne tucked his freezing hands under his armpits and hugged them tight. This was a perishingly bitter evening to be on guard duty. He’d given up swearing at Robarts for winning the dice throw that put him here. Grumbled about missing out on the pork and pease pudding was acceptable, but no…not the dice. They were Nick’s own set and you’d have to be seriously piss–drunken to challenge Earless Nick on the roll of his ‘lovely pair o’ducks’. Anyway Nick was in one of his strange fancies this night, so it was probably safer out here in the snow. Once more John stamped his chilled feet. Thankfully, the boots he pulled off that fool last week, allowed enough room to stuff in the extra rags. He gave the black night sky a forlorn glance. The clouds, from what he could see, were low and heavy. It’d be a far dump of snow later, he’d wager. By Christ’s bones, he hoped ol’ Toby had sobered up by then. Twas his turn from the ten o’ the clock chimes. John gave a grimace and coughed. Damned cloak had more holes in it than a whore’s chastity. Slipping off wasn’t an option either. Nick had flogged One eyed Cheswick for that sin last week. So rather than a raw back, he’d suffer the cold.
The Lord Of Misrule Page 8