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Chapter Twelve: Fleete of Foote
Steadily they pushed along the back lanes and alleys off Bride Lane, pausing every now and then to check the deep prints left in the snow by the fleeing Walter. Ned had to admit it. Some minutes ago he’d been flummoxed, but Meg Black’s satchel of wonders had set them back on the hunt. By the saints, an improvised lantern. He’d even publicly admit it was damned clever, for a girl, although there was an enormous obstacle in the proclamation, and it wasn’t his touchy pride.
During the chase he’d had some time to think over a recurring question. Why the satchel and why did she always have it whenever she left the apothecaries? A court rhymester like Wyatt would have produced a set of sweet couplets circling around the theme of rescuing a lover of durance vile. Ned though, was somewhat more realistic. The simple reason was the continual hunt for heretics by the Bishop of London and the new Lord Chancellor, Sir Thomas More. Ned had seen it claim a few he knew at the Inns of Court last year, and by chance, during the affair of the Cardinal’s Angels some months ago, they’d brushed past a pack, seeking heretics for the Lollard towers. Sometimes over a dozen a week were rounded up and marched off to prison to face Foxford, the Bishop’s grim faced pursuivant of heresy.
It was a risky time to speak up about the abuses of the Church or complain about the high handed actions of clerics. Even a simple dispute about the amount of tithes to pay could land you in front of a tribunal of canon lawyers, questioning your faith and then suggesting a charge of heresy. Ned should know. He’d seen a few cases pulled from the common courts because they questioned the legal right of priests to do, well whatever they wanted. Richard Hunne, a prosperous merchant of London, had tried that some dozen years ago and was murdered in a Lollard tower for his honesty. Then when already dead, he was declared a heretic and all his wealth seized. An action completely beyond the law, but the Bishop of London got away with it, because as they sneeringly said, the secular was exempt from commons judgement, by the authority of the Apostolic See.
As far as Ned could see that created a problem, one he suspected still remained unresolved since the removal of Cardinal Wolsey. King Henry, in his pursuit of an annulment from his current wife, Katherine of Aragon, needed the support of the English Church. However Pope Clement in Rome wanted the Queen’s nephew, Emperor Charles V, kept at a distance, especially since a few years ago the Emperor’s army had sacked Rome and held Clement hostage. So the Pope was unlikely to tell the English church to accede to King Henry’s request.
So in a nut shell, during perilous times any person with reformist inclinations erred on the side of caution. In Meg Black’s case, add in a penchant for smuggling forbidden books, and it was no surprise she was ready to flee in an instant.
Thus they came to the problem of Walter, the quarry of their pursuit. Ned was almost certain the supposed young reformer had a set of priorities at variance with those of either Meg or his family. Normally he wouldn’t care a fig about this but his patron, Councillor Cromwell, directed otherwise, and then there was the other problem. Walter had fallen in too easily with the likes of Earless Nick, a notorious rogue, and his incentives for turning were as cheap as a blonde punk and purse full of gilt. That was poor enough, but as Ned trudged through the snow heading along Fleete Street a worse prospect hovered overhead. What if young lamb Walter had been scooped up by More’s pursuivants? A lad who’d fallen for his first flash of tits was unlikely to possess the moral resilience to resist the Lord Chancellor’s questioning. Ned’s daemon readily suggested that Walter would sell out anyone to save a bruised finger, and as loath as he was to condemn, Ned had to agree. Walter Dellingham was proving too unpredictable to be allowed to have free range of the city. Something would have to be done.
The snow was coming down heavier and even their improvised lantern was spluttering. As for visibility, well Ned could see Meg to his front and Gruesome Roger some two paces on. However after that even the few outside lanterns either side only shed a fitful illumination at the odd doorway. Ned shivered. This was damnedly bleak weather to seek out the lost lamb. They’d better find him soon or else they be frozen. He’d heard how earlier this week several beggars had been found huddling on the Church steps, all dead and frozen by the piercing cold. He for one didn’t want to end up like that.
Suddenly Ned bumped into a stationary Meg. Gruesome Roger had halted just in front and was crouched down, shielding the cresset in a doorway. He stretched out a hand and pointed at a figure wrapped in a cloak quickly walking down the road maybe twenty feet ahead. “There’s our little lamb!”
How Roger knew, Ned didn’t have to ask. The furtive way the figure kept on looking over his shoulder reminded him too much of the service at St Paul’s. All they had to do was grab him. Feeling an overwhelming desire for a touch of retribution after all the lost lamb’s diversions, Ned volunteered to sprint after Walter and seize him, while the others watched out for Earless Nick’s men. Anyway Gruesome Roger was still limping from his earlier run in with their dear lost lamb.
Slipping out from their cover, Ned strode through the snow. His long legs made it relatively easy and while the knee high horseman’s boots were cumbersome, his feet were dry. He’d picked a shadowed approach, moving fast from doorway to corner water butt, trying to keep out of Walter’s darting, over the shoulder scans. Ahead Ned could see the lanterns on the bridge. In between the flurries of fresh snow they glimmered like the mythical Faerie who lured travellers astray.
The be-cloaked Walter was at best ten paces from the Fleete Bridge. After that up the steep hill there was the gate into the city. At this time of the night it would be closed, but for a fee, the Common Watch would let you through. The gate was the perfect barrier to slow down Walter, except that who knew what sort of fracas the fool would raise when collared. Ned didn’t want to take the chance of loosing him again, so he left his final patch of cover and ran as fast as he could towards Walter.
About one pace off and Walter’s nervous habit swung his head around just as Ned was reaching for his shoulder. The lost lamb’s bleary eyes widened in shock and he almost bleated. “Wh…Wh…What?”
Before he could dart off, Ned’s fingers locked onto his cloak, pulling the errant lad up short. “Walter. My, my, how we’ve missed you!” Ned reeled the lost lamb in and put a friendly but firm arm around the clearly reluctant figure and began to walk together onto the bridge. Got him crowed Ned’s daemon!
It was as Ned was strolling across the bridge, his charge ‘securely’ rescued that it all went terribly wrong. “That’s ‘im!”
The cry came from just behind them and Ned spun around to see three figures standing under the light of the bridge lanterns. Gruesome Roger and Meg, his supposed ‘rearguard’, were conspicuous by their absence. Three to one weren’t good odds, and though handy in a brawl, Ned had only recently started training in the not so gentlemanly arts of defence.
There was of course another problem–lost lamb Walter. Only the good lord knew were his loyalties lay. It was a brief struggle for a moment, though as his daemon said, the sheer unpredictability of his charge made Walter a dangerous liability in any fight. Knowing that it was only marginally the better of two poor choices, Ned pushed the lad towards the black shadow past the end of the bridge. “Walter I’ll stay here and keep them off. I want you to run up the hill to the gate and summon the Watch and then head for the Sign of the Spread Eagle!”
“Ye…ye…yes Ned!”
Before he released the lost lamb, Ned pulled Walter close and stared into his watery eyes. “Now Walter my lamb, if you betray me, I’ll see that you suffer in ways that you can’t begin to imagine!”
“Ne…ne…never Ned. On my soul!”
Ned closed his eyes for a moment and thrust Walter into the darkness, then shook his head. Humph, Christ on the Cross! He’d had the fool for almost a minute, damn!
Dropping into a half crouch, Ned drew both his sword and poniard. They whispered from their sheath w
ith a very soft hiss, almost imperceptible in the falling snow. He exhaled slowly and twisted his feet to check his footing. It’d been a few months since he’d last been in a fight and that one hadn’t ended well. Actually the final result was success, but the battle itself was a shameful rout that had him hiding in an empty badgers set waiting for an irate Spaniard to go away. Chance, pride and revenge had rescued him that day – it was unlikely to do so here. Ned took up the stance he’d so recently learnt from Master Sylver, his instructor in the less than gentlemanly arts of survival. His left hand was down by his thigh with the dagger inclined upwards and forward while his sword was held out point towards the threat and laid at a slight deflecting angle around torso height.
The first of Earless Nick’s men moved into the fitful shadows of the centre of the bridge. He was a large brute, armed with an iron shod cudgel and a long dagger. The second, just behind him, was smaller and appeared to have at least one dagger. Ned factored for two. The third stood back and was perhaps of medium height. From the glints as the fellow passed the lanterns he was armed with a large heavy blade, maybe a cleaver like those favoured by Captaine Gryne’s men.
The odds were bad. By the damned saints, where was that sluggard, Gruesome Roger? Ned breathed slowly as his potential assailants warily slid forward. It looked like he was on his own. Even if they heard the sounds of a fight, the Watch stationed at the gate wouldn’t interfere. They didn’t like trouble, especially if it was unprofitable. Ned had been in his fair share of brawls and fights. He could count himself reasonably skilled with fist and boot. As a ‘gentleman’ he’d been pursuing more honourable methods of defence such as sword, dagger and polearm. He was far from an expert and was in fact mostly a novice. However Master Sylver said the art of defence was also a matter of feel for the situation. Did your opponent want to be there and how did they move?
Watching these three slowly advance, Ned gained the impression only one of them was really keen on a scrap. The other two were more in the line of strutting roisters. That was good as he needed any advantage he could scrape up. So rather than wait he launched himself forward with a bound.
His attack startled the large fellow with the cudgel. Earless Nick’s sturdy beggar waited too long to swing and Ned slashed him across the arm in passing. His target was neither of the front two. So he also bypassed the smaller fellow armed with a dagger, parrying briefly, and jabbed at a thigh as he slid past, before colliding with their surprised leader. The heavy blade had swung down in a standard slash but Ned blocked it with his crossed sword and dagger and threw himself forward on now unsteady feet. Behind him the larger assailant had begun to howl in pain, while the dagger wielder had backed off, reluctant now to close. That was all to the good. Even in a brawl, Ned knew it was damned difficult to concentrate on more than one opponent at a time. With all the snow and ice the cobbles on the bridge were as slippery as a greased slide. With his forward momentum still accelerating, Ned gave up on keeping his footing. Instead he hammered the sword pommel into the cheek of Earless Nick’s retainer with all his falling weight. The fellow gave up on the fight and staggered backwards, dropping his heavy blade, hands clutching at his face. It was then that the smaller fellow decided to be brave, and with a cry, charged. Ned was down on his knees, sword somewhere else. Instinct swung him around and Master Sylver’s training had him automatically thrusting out his left hand before he’d actually had time to think about it.
The lighting on the bridge may have been poor, but Earless Nick’s last uninjured minion should have been more cautious, and perhaps indulged in second or even third thoughts. It must been his larger companion’s injury that spurred him on. Blood did that. Sometimes it broke men in combat and they fled. Other times they acted like lions. This fellow was, in fact, a foolish lion. The assault was bravely done, though with a serious flaw. He didn’t notice the poniard. Ned’s back slammed into the wall and given that it was stone, it should have been solid and it was. For an instant then, years of long winters and careless repairs gave way and Ned slid backwards through a sudden hole, his flailing hand seeking purchase even as he pulled the poniard from the groin of Earless Nick’s stunned minion. For an instant the hilt caught on a hollow in the mortar, until the weight of his screaming assailant landed on his shoulder and Ned lost his grip on the blade and tumbled backwards towards the yawning foul depths of the Fleete Ditch.
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Chapter Thirteen: A Lamb Gathered In
Ned strode angrily down the street. The season’s snow didn’t appear nearly so inviting today after the trudging traffic of the city had reduced it to a pale slurry. In this chilly weather at least it didn’t reek. That was some comfort – a very small one. Ned was angry. Actually he was well past that shallow emotion now, he’d moved into the territory of absolute rage. Any physician wouldn’t have bothered with vague mutterings over the interpretations of a piss bottle’s colour. Instead they’d have immediately prescribed him a treatment for extreme choler, even strapping him down for a course of bleeding. Luckily no decent doctor trod the cold, cold lanes of London at Christmas, seeking to help the afflicted. Those stuffed sods were wealthy, warm, and most of all they were at home.
By all the blessed saints and Christ’s holy blood! Ned thumped his fist rhythmically into his thigh as he strode along. It would be fitting to blame someone else. Meg Black, for her conniving and scheming, would have been perfect or perhaps that duplicitous minion of hers, Gruesome Roger. The arrogant fool had known who’d locked their talons into Walter. It could have saved them hours of searching, even if it had been Ned’s own naivety which had unleashed the monster that prowled the London dens of iniquity in the first place.
Well now he had no choice. This morning Meg Black had been summoned to attend Lady Dellingham in some kind of tour of the city’s facilities of improvement, charity and detention along with his patron, Councillor Thomas Cromwell. All fruitful ground for the reform minded. After that Ned was ‘expected’ to produce a healthy, happy and ‘educated’ Walter for retrieval by the six o’ clock chimes at Williams the apothecary’s establishment. As if… They’d lost the not so innocent lamb at the fracas on the Fleete Bridge that had left Ned so perilously exposed to whims of Gruesome Roger’s wry amusement. Even his better angel whispered it was impossible. He’d have a better chance of whistling up the Queen o’ Faerie. Though Ned was loath to admit it, the Christmas Revel was a disaster, as was his guardianship of Walter. Even his better angel chided him on the error, of course given the chance lamb Walter would bolt, though it did at least admit that an undependable Walter at your side in a brawl was too risky.
As comforting as that was, it didn’t change the facts. In one day and a night the meek little sheep had turned into a prowling satyr, unquenchable and insatiable. Now Ned was left with only one last resort. It was off to the Sign of the Spread Eagle Tavern to beg the aid of his fellow revellers. A fee of four shilling each if they helped him scour the city should engage their interest and he’d post a two angel finder’s bounty to sweeten the deal. Thirty odd lads, even in their advanced state of ‘celebration’, should be able to find something. Perhaps returning in force to Earless Nick’s lair was a possibility, though whether Walter had slipped back there was difficult to ascertain. Ned sent a quick message to Captaine Gryne hiring two watchers to guard the Fleete Bridge and Newgate, plus a couple more to traverse the western London Wall. More damned expense!
Of course, if those measures didn’t work… well he’d cross that shit filled sewer when he came to it. Unconsciously he swung right into Bread Street after an unfruitful hour of scouring the riverside haunts of rogues around Queenhithe Ward. It was a few streets to the tavern and Ned could already hear the coins draining from his purse. Damn, not even enough to flee to Calais, that’s if any ships would risk the drifting floes of ice in the river, he’d have to ride down to Gravesend. His better angel chastised him on these thoughts – desertion of ‘sweet’ Meg Black, how could he even think it? At the same time h
is daemon gibbered in fear, reminding him that Mistress Black may be a reformist minded girl, but she still believed in the Old Testament style of revenge and she had lots of keen friends overseas not to mention that fearsome, secret satchel of hers. No. Reluctantly Ned put the idea of escape aside. Damn, he’d have to be all chivalrous and take the blame. That wouldn’t be so bad, except that all through this disastrous venture he kept on having the tingling suspicion that it wasn’t only Mistress Black who was playing him like a mummer’s puppet.
Some part of this ghastly venture was out of kilter. A part of his mind not currently imagining throttling revenge worked over the problems. Young Dellingham arrived fresh faced and meepish in the city. By some strange manner Ned Bedwell, the least reformist of Cromwell’s retainers, was selected along with Meg Black to lead this lad through the devil’s playground that was London city. Then over the course of two nights and the intervening day, this innocent rampaged through Satan’s cesspits, upsetting men even Ned would creep quietly past. What’s more, Walter had won at cards at least twice, dicing four times or so and Earless Nicks’ evident easy possession of the lad created its own suspicions. How had he done it? His daemon hinted that both Nick and Walter moved in too close a symmetry for chance. Chance huh! Chance had nothing to do with this at all. It was true that Lady Fortuna was known to cast her favours in an irregular fashion, but why would it all land on Walter? And why now? Luck didn’t flow like that in London. He should know!
The Lord Of Misrule Page 11