The Lord Of Misrule

by House, Gregory

  The half undressed Delphina approached a much blushing Ned with a gilt cup held in front of those magnificent breasts. She’d half shrugged out of her kirtle which settled in a skin tight fashion over the smooth skin of her stomach. Ned very loudly swallowed at the sight, not having to fake the amazement of a rough country yeoman. He was damned sure his blush extended from head to toes, and as his angel sharply reminded, without even a codpiece for modesty!

  “M’lord, I was given this mixture by a Moorish astrologer retained for his skill in blending potions of love by Sir Francis Bryan. It contains the rarest of ingredients—the powdered horn of the unicorn, crystallised tears of a lion and the crushed stones of a Spanish bull.”

  Ned took the proffered cup, looked into its crimson depths and drew in a deep breath. It may indeed have contained all those exotic ingredients, cinnamon and cloves for sure, as well as the sharp aroma of honey. Cautiously he tilted the cup and pretended to swallow deeply and greedily while rolling a few drops over his tongue contemplating its taste.

  It was just the smallest flaw in this play of cozenage that began Delphina’s sudden dramatic plummet from grace and perfection. Memory finally spurred Ned’s flagging resolve as he inhaled the sweet aroma. Yes there it was, sugar and honey to mask the tang of the poppy juice. This familiar taste brought to mind another lass, somewhat more fully clothed, wielding not the tools of desire but rather the hot iron of the barber surgeon to cauterise his wound. Once tasted the poppy juice was never forgotten.

  Unbidden another fragment of classical learning surfaced. Oh yes, this was exactly like Ulysses and the Lotus eaters, thus would Delphina ease her new swains into the bath, and to keep the theme, all too soon they’d be the arms of Morpheas.

  Ned languidly dropped the large gilt cup from his lips and wiping off the residue with the back of his hand glanced at the waiting and attentive Delphina. For once it wasn’t the rosy nipples that held his attention. No indeed. Instead there was the smallest hint of a gloating half smile and the keen watchfulness of her eyes.

  Her fine boned hand reached forward, and stroking his, gently but firmly pushed the cup back for another quaffing. “M’lord, the Moor always advised that for fullest effect it be taken in one long draught.”

  Her teasing voice alone would bring the withered dead back to life. And with those remarkable emerald eyes urging a fellow on to do the deed how could any eager lad refuse? The fact that the tip of his tongue went numb was but the last clue to the play and despite the urging of his cods washed away any remaining entanglements of the enchantment.

  “Oh by Christ bones what a sweet flavour this ‘as.” Ned folded his other hand over hers. Underneath his fingers her hand quivered with eagerness for him to take the draft. Resisting the pressure Ned paused with the drugged chalice partway to his lips. “Oh yes sweetest Delphina. I’s one question I’s been meaning to ask yea?”

  His half–clad host appeared to still a slight frown and once more unveiled that radiant smile. “Why of course Master Paston, whatever may please y’.”

  “I’s thank yea mistress for yea indulgence, but I needs t’ know, kinda private like…” Ned pulled the cup down and her hand with it while he moved his head closer as if to shyly whisper. “Yea see…I’d…I’d…I’d like to know where you stashed Richard Reedman!”

  Delphina once brilliant gaze froze and her head swung briefly over her left shoulder. Then she reacted to the import. “Yea! Y’re no yeoman!”

  Ned may have been unclothed but he wasn’t standing on ceremony. He dashed the hippocras lees into Delphina’s face, and using her trailing sleeves as leverage, flung her away from him. The deceiving punk slammed into a large cabinet and dropped stunned to the floor. However that brought only an all too brief respite. In less time than it took for him to scoop up his bundle of clothes, a loud hammering beat upon the door. Oh what a pity, sniggered his daemon back from its transport of delights. Perhaps Delphina shouldn’t have pulled the sturdy timber latch across to calm the nervous country lad. Damn but they were fast—her fellow rogues and cozeners must have been huddled outside the door awaiting for her signal.

  As the timber door cracked and strained at the assault Ned searched frantically for an avenue of escape. A large robing cabinet stood to one side as did a coffer chest but only a drink sodden fool would consider hiding in either of them. As for the traditional spot for secreting cuckolds of under the bed, well there wasn’t one. The thudding increased in tempo and impact. Perhaps Delphina’s loud moans of regained consciousness spurred on the effort. In the meantime if he wanted to live, Ned had to get out of there.

  A familiar and now angry face thrust itself through the splintered gap in the door, and beheld the fair Delphina stretched out on the floor. “Yea stinking piss channel maggot! I’ll gut yea for this, Paston!”

  Ned thought Flaunty Phil’s dire threat a trifle overblown. However since the opportunity presented itself he scooped up a wooden bucket and flung it at the protruding face. A bellow of pain told him that Flaunty Phil was all too keen on threats over precautions. Ned suspected the diceman’s features had been a little dented especially his fine nose.

  However as satisfying as that was it didn’t get him out of the room. Unwittingly Ned found himself at the closed shuttered boards of the window. This wasn’t an option any naked lad would readily consider. Well not until the door and frame gave way with a final screech of splintered timber and a loud cry of triumph. Given the impetus Ned kicked open the shutters and briefly peered out into the chillingly cold dark of the Fetter Lane night. Ready or not, clothed or not, if he wanted to live Ned Bedwell had to chance it. Clutching his clothes bundle he leapt for the swaying sign of the Wools Fleece below him and prayed for a nice soft mound of…snow?

  Chapter Seven. The Fleetest on Fleete Street.

  His gasped breath plumed white clouds into the chill night as Ned staggered into Fleete Street. By Christ and all his saints he’d made it out of Fetter Lane alive! It was a miracle—Lady Fortuna must be guiding his steps. His finely tuned ears told him that by yell and scream there must be over a dozen or even a hundred after him, all keen for Bedwell blood and to claim Flaunty Phil’s bounty. As for his feet he couldn’t feel them. His daemon did suggest that at this particular moment that was for the best, though it did commend him on his turn of speed not to mention ignoring all those bruising frozen ruts and broken cobbles on the road. In the normal course of life they’d be damned painful if you kicked them with even a shoe clad foot. If Ned had time for reflection he’d have reminded himself that one foot did have a shoe and ask why was it as numb as the other?

  He didn’t’ though, still focused on the three or so paces to his front as he wove from one dim spill of pallid illumination to another. Curse the former Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster for a stuck up measle! First Ned experienced the sloppy work on the Fleete Bridge and now he found that More didn’t even bother to enforce the lantern regulations and so close to the Inns of Court as well. What, sneered his daemon. Didn’t the famous heretic hunter want the good citizens to notice his rag tag of slinking pursuivants slouching on the corners a spying on good citizens—for shame, what an excuse for a Christian man.

  Out of the deep gloom of a winter’s night came a small wavy glow heading towards him and then suddenly a pair of iron shod staves pointing ominously at his exposed mid–section “Alt. I says, ‘alt!” sounded a gruff voice from Ned’s front.

  Precipitously he thudded both feet down into the skidding snow and the twin blunt ends thumped painfully into his wadded padding, setting him back a few paces and threatening to tumble him into a very chilly looking mound of snow.

  “Ere. Wot y’ doin wit ut y’ clothes on? Dun cha know it’s not May Day?” growled the voice that had commanded him to stop.

  A lantern waved towards Ned’s face and he blinked at the apparitions before him. Taking a completely wild guess from the lantern, staves and stupid questions it had to be the infamous Common Watch of the Libertie
s Ward of Farrington Without. As fine a body of stout yeoman as you could find shovelling turds from a jakes, so long as there was someone not too dim to show them how to use a shovel, particularly which end to hold.

  “I’m…I’m being pursued by roisters and thieves from Fetter Lane!” Ned managed to gasp out in between shivers and gulps of air.

  “Oh yeah, so y’ say?” drawled the larger and more suspicious watchman. He had a long scraggly beard and his single eye glowed yellow like a cats in the lantern light.

  “Ow d’we know’s yea ain’t hooked ‘em. Yea could be a cursed curber?”

  The smaller of the two poked Ned’s clutched bundle suspiciously, as the second larger watchman rubbed a rough bristled chin peering closer with his one eye. “Looks suspicious t’ me Rolf. He could ‘ave nicked them from a stew.”

  “Oh yeah, Bottoph. It could be. There’s been a lot a thievery o’ late. They’s even stole ol’ Jim’s cod stuffing when the manky old beggar was a humping that mistress o’ the game by Fend alley yester eve.”

  Rolf, the larger watchman, gave a braying laugh. “By St James’s bones ye ‘ave to ‘ave no nose ta get that close to ol’ Jimmy. He stinks worsen than the Fleete.”

  His companion nodded eagerly still trying to get a look at Ned’s tight clutched clothes then spat a brownish gob into the darkness and scratched his bristly chin in contemplation.

  “Y’knows Bottoph, I reckons they’s could have been lifted. I reckons we take ‘im ta Justice Smyth’s fo’ a check o’ the bills an warrants.”

  Ned stepped back a pace and clutched his bundle tighter. “No, no. These are my clothes I tell you. If they’re taken what will I wear?”

  The smaller one, Bottoph by name, seemed unperturbed by Ned’s exclamation and waved a lantern closer in front of Ned’s face. “Rolf ain’t this the ruffian we’s were supposed ta look out fo’?”

  “Aye. He has the look o’ a rogue fo’ all his blue colour an’ he’s runnin around with’ut his clothes. Must be some heathen musslemen or wild Irish. I hear’s they do ‘ave strange habits.”

  Ned for all his shivering was getting distinctly nervous about this pair of watchman. “I am a clerk at Gray’s Inn, you measle brained tosspots. As I said I’m escaping from a pack of rogues and roisters in Fetter Lane. They tried to rob me!”

  Ned kept it simple and left out the seduction by Delphina and the cozenage by Flaunty Phil. These were watchmen after all and not overly burdened with the blessing of learning or other cognitive talents. Though now he’d stopped for moment his head cleared enough for just a few coherent thoughts to trickle through the fog of panicked flight and the first item on the list was a question. If he was frantically running down Fleete Street bereft of clothes with a pack howling after him, where the damned hell was Rob Black? Or his backup rescuing Revellers?

  “Oh so yea says, but ‘ow do we know?” The iron shod stave once more poked him in the padding.

  Ned’s more lawyerly instincts finally made their presence known and he gave what he hoped as an innocent smile. “Look, ah Master Bottoph and Master Rolf, I see we’ve got off to a poor start. Why don’t I pay you to escort me to Newgate?”

  The two watchmen stopped for a moment and the situation relaxed a trifle. “Ho Master Bare Buttock is that so? `ow much?”

  Ned straightened up and tried to appear generous of purse, though only moderately prosperous and not quite as desperate as he appeared. His daemon thought this a forlorn hope considering the evilly speculative grins on the faces of his two potential saviours. “Well good fellows I’d say an easy…”

  “CHRIST’S BLOOD, WHERE IS HE? TWO ANGELS, TWO ANGELS I’LL PAY FOR THAT BARE ARSED BASTARD!” The loud scream of frustrated rage punctured the night followed by what seemed like a hundred baying voices all eager for a bare buttocked Bedwell.

  Abruptly negotiations shuddered to a halt as the pair of watchmen swivelled their beetled eyed stare towards the source of the sound. “Ere, where did y’ say y’ came from?” the one called Bottoph asked cautiously.

  “I said Flaunty Phil and his pack of roisters at the Wools Fleece are after me!”

  The two watchmen gave each other a significant look and edged back half a pace and the taller of the pair, Rolf, coughed almost apologetically and spewed out another slimy gob. “Harrumph. Facing Flaunty ain’t even worth a dozen angels! Anyways that’s Harris an’ Semple’s patch. Nowt ta do wit’ us. We’ve an affray to deal wit’ down at the Swan’s Nick ‘aven’t we Bottoph?”

  “Oh, err…yeah.”

  Without even a farewell or a wish of ‘better you than me mate’, the lantern, staves and watchmen rapidly vanished into the shroud of the night as if they’d never been there.

  Ned gave a bemused shake of his head and swivelling around tried to figure out where the Wool’s Fleece pack was. The untimely obstruction by the Common Watch had left him a little disorientated. To make it even more confusing it had also started snowing again. The flakes burned ice cold on his shoulders. Ned spun slowly around looking for a familiar landmark or shop sign. The swirls of snow closed in his view enshrouding him and dimming the few pallid lanterns. This wasn’t the way he’d thought this day would end. May the vengeful Lord God visit the pizzle rot on that damned measle–brained, codpiece fondler Richard Reedman!

  Chapter Eight. An Unlikely Rescue

  Taking the loudness of the angry cries and the approaching pools of bobbing light as a good measure of peril, Ned increased his stumbling pace. He could swear that he’d just passed Salisbury Court on his right so if memory served him the Fleete Ditch Bridge was maybe a hundred paces ahead. Anyway he desperately hoped it was the well know landmark. The dark of the night and the snow made this a treacherous game of Blindman’s Bluff. One wrong turn and he’d find himself face to face with Flaunty Phil and the irate Delphina, not to mention their rowdy flock of Fleecers and so far no help in sight.

  As an added complication his shivering was getting worse. The numbness was travelling up his legs. His feet felt like frozen lumps of…of, well nothing. Since he spent a considerable time shuffling between Gray’s Inn, Middle Temple Inn and St Lawrence Poor Jewry in the city Ned’s knowledge of the layout of this Liberties was pretty good. As an apprentice lawyer and aspiring rogue it was always handy to have a comprehensive knowledge of shortcuts not to mention potential escape routes in case of ‘difficulties’. Tapping into his instinctive memory Ned knew that once past that bridge of recent ill repute there were a dozen small alleys off Ludgate Hill. It would be a simple matter of a moment to duck into a hidden corner and gain some breathing space to re–don his apparel. After that a few twisty turns and he was slipping down London Wall via Blackfriars and then an easy stroll along the broad path of frozen Thames to regain the safety of the city and the comfort of the Revels.

  Ahh the Revels. His angel was most pleased he’d brought up that vexing subject. What about Richard Reedman, the fellow he was supposed to be rescuing rather than cavorting in the snow, it asked pointedly? If he’d had the energy Ned would have blushed with embarrassment. How was he to slip out of this ticklish situation? And then there was explaining to Meg just what had happed to Rob. The lad wasn’t a fool and when last seen had been fairly sober, so his chances should be good. However when that door had crashed open revealing an irate Flaunty Phil, sword in hand, Reedman problems and Rob’s whereabouts had plummeted drastically in the hierarchy of priorities. A rapid and as it turned out painful exit via the window had topped the list.

  ***

  However all that was for later. At the present, as his daemon reminded him, any future without a serious kicking and side dish of swords and cudgels wasn’t a betting prospect. As a gaming fellow with skill at the baiting pits he wouldn’t put much more than a clipped groat on his current prospects. Then as if conjured by the thought his chances plunged lower than a chipped farthing. A piece of broken cobble thumped in the snow beside him and Ned jumped in fright. This single stone was only a precursor to a barrage that
thudded around him, clattering off walls and sending up small spurts of ice on their impact, that was except for the three that smacked him painfully in the back of the legs. Ned stumbled into the snow and gasped in pain as he once more rolled over onto his bruised back and sore shoulder. That cursed sign! How typical of the Wool’s Fleece—the decayed iron chains holding the tavern’s sign had snapped under only the slightest strain. It was another cursed humiliation to add to the tavern’s long list. Damn Delphina for a conniving doxy!

  The cries grew closer and at their urgent prodding, instinct once more came to the fore, pushing Ned up to hobble towards the beckoning twin lanterns of the bridge.

  If he’d breath to spare, he’d curse Lady Fortuna as well for being a treacherous deceiving mistress. A few days ago he was hanging off this cursed bridge in imminent peril of plunging to a disgusting and disgraceful end. It was sublimely ridiculous that he should be facing the fate again so soon. His daemon’s frantic warning cajoled him to take a step, then another. The rain of missiles continued as did the angry cries calling the pace of the hunt. A few more struck him glancing blows on the shoulder and back, but Ned just winced and gritted his teeth. He wasn’t that lost to the cold and fear that he’d cry out now. Flaunty Phil and his fellow rogues were close and gaining on their quarry. The shrill scream of Delphina was an incentive he didn’t need.

  ***

  A strange apparition seemed materialise in front of him. Ned shook his head and cleared away the snow and ice building up on his eyelashes. Since he couldn’t make the bridge, it appeared that it was coming to him. Oh Lady Fortuna, such a worker of miracles!

  As Ned limped along the light grew clearer and closer revealing a potential new problem. The lights weren’t the Fleete Ditch Bridge but instead a small group of sojourners challenging the winter dark. Ned’s spirit quailed. Knowing his fellow Londoners this could be a company of carousers in which case he may be saved, and that was a slim ‘may be’, or a pack of Liberties roisters which meant freezing to death would be a blessing and a kindness. Ned hesitated. What was he going to do? He could sit down and try to pull on some clothes. As far as his angel was concerned that would at least be a start. His daemon counselled otherwise—chance it. Did he really want to be remembered for freezing in the snow whimpering and mewling? Wasn’t he a man of parts? Red Ned Bedwell, the scourge of the Southwark baiting pits, bane of both Earless Nick and Canting Michael, gang lords of the Liberties. By Satan’s burnt black arsehole he was!