The Liberties of London (3 page)

Now however, a few years later, he felt jaded and cynical. Almost losing his life while caught up in a treasonous plot of the premier prelate in England had caused a monumental crisis in faith. After that the scales, to use a biblical phrase, had fallen from his eyes. Since then, he’d done some serious thinking and an awful lot of heretical reading. Erasmus of Rotterdam’s
The Praise of Folly,
an acceptable Church tolerated tome, had been the first. In it Ned had discovered that the flaws, faults and corruption of the Church looked so much worse when delivered in a satirical, chiding tone. Erasmus had lampooned the pompous vanity of Cardinals and the self serving priests, keener for gold than God. It had slotted in very nicely with Simon Fishes
A Supplication of Beggars,
which detailed the ravenous exactions of the Church in England. The part on indulgences and purgatory had been particularly interesting.

They say also that if there were a purgatory, and also if that the Pope with his pardons for money may deliver one soul then: he may deliver him without money: if he deliver one he may deliver a thousand: if he may deliver a thousand then he may deliver them all and so destroy purgatory. Then is he a cruel tyrant without charity if he keep them there in prison and in pain till men give him money.

So simple. Ned had to admit it sounded an awful lot like how Cardinal Wolsey had acted in the courts. A decent ‘gift’ and you gained the verdict you wanted. It seemed to him such a betrayal, that Holy Mother Church also saw no difference in the gaining of access to Heaven. How could that work out? Say old Lord Falseheart, who’d stolen, murdered and engaged in the vilest treacheries, lay in his deathbed, rich beyond measure and in the end had given all his treasures to the Church. By Apostolic decree, he was guaranteed a place beside God for his payment. Now here was the problem, as Ned saw it. Was Lord Falseheart’s purchased right as valid as the innocents whom he had slaughtered? According to the latest English translations of the Bible coming across from the Low Countries, that wasn’t so. Nor was it in Ned’s admittedly peculiar interpretation of justice. It shamed him to see how earthly law, as defined at the Westminster Courts, pandered to those with wealth.

According to some, the answer to these abuses was ‘reform’, a simple word with very dangerous connotations. Now a lot of Ned’s acquaintances at the Inns of Court had talked about these new ideas coming out of the German lands. Names like Luther and Zwingli, while not mentioned aloud, were commonly whispered. The medium of this reform movement was not gossiping clusters of clerks or wild haired men preaching at market places. No, it was something much more difficult to track down, that could be passed innocently from hand to hand and affect hundreds in its passage. It was a book.

Dangerous, subversive, damned heretical and corrosive of the soul! That was how Bishop Stokesley of London termed the flood of forbidden heretical books. Ned had to admit the Bishop could be right. Heretical books had changed his life though not just from their perusal. It was another stranger route that had snagged him.

No less an authority than Sir Thomas More claimed that the flood of ‘fetid filth spewing from the arse of Luther’ was dropped through open windows as baited traps for the innocent and unwary. The truth was somewhat different. It was smuggled into the country and snapped up by avid readers, ready to hand over a few shillings. And one of the main suppliers of this heretical trade was Mistress Meg Black, apprentice apothecary, the recent ruiner of his Christmas Revels, and current reluctant partner in the minding of young Walter Dellingham.

Ned still wasn’t sure how to describe their, what…friendship?…Acquaintance?… familiarity?…connection via his companionship with her brother Rob? Or perhaps it was the shared travails and threats of the
Cardinals Angels
? Maybe even a touch of gratitude for ministering to his injuries, even if one time it was with a white hot poker, though his better angel prodded him to reluctantly admit the wound had healed well. However his daemon had slyly suggested another reason. Since the College of Barber-Surgeons had essentially forbidden women, Meg Black would take her practice in surgeoning where she found it.

However neither gratitude nor connivance explained why Ned found his cods stirring alarmingly as Meg Black swayed past in a laced bodice and kirtle. She was fair enough at some five foot in height and he had to admit he liked the way her blue grey eyes sparkled with mischief. Or the tilt of her pert nose when she was amused and the manner in which she brushed her chestnut hair off her ears with a distracted flick while she puzzled through a problem. This allure though had its draw backs. In all of London he’d never met such a forward lass. Instead of the modest, respectful silence becoming to a young girl, as was proclaimed from the pulpit, Meg Black followed her own wilful customs and was never one to shy away from dispute or argument.

Actually the more he thought about it, the more Cromwell’s request of his involvement in this task of sheepish–reformer shepherding seemed somewhat strange. Why him? Surely Cromwell had several more qualified retainers, all hot for reform, with the status to show an impressionable country lad around the best reformist sites of the city. The short missive signed by his ‘good lord’ was as brief and cryptic as he was coming to expect. It charged him
to ward and protect Walter Dellingham from the many perils that manifest in this city of London,
and that was all. No further instructions, admonishments or recommendations. Considering the usual hedging and prevarication of his Uncle Richard, this instruction was briefer than a bishop’s penance. Ned gave Meg Black a covert glance. She seemed pleased with a faintly satisfied smile on her face, the one she usually had after successfully finishing a complicated remedy. His daemon noted that for a hot bible–smuggling reformist, Meg seemed extraordinarily pleased to be here. Odd that. Another suspicious thought bubbled up. She couldn’t have volunteered him, could she? His daemon suggested some devious motive, but his better angel vetoed it, instead raising the matter of Christian charity and fellowship. Of the two explanations, Ned tended towards the first.

A few more strange ideas collided in his imaginings. Those old chivalric tales, with the maiden a–sobbing and a–sighing, always had some manner of rivalry between two contenders for her attentions. Could that be it? Meg Black, the most practical of girls, hadn’t rigged this situation and dragged him away from his Christmas Revels, just to have him enact a storybook competition for the hand of the fair damsel. No, Ned shook his head. It couldn’t be so. After all she’d need another claimant, an opposing rival…and there was none.

Until Ned’s daemon pointed him to the right of Meg, at Walter. Once more Ned denied the path of his daemon’s snide whispers. Walter wasn’t even vaguely possible as a rival. The weedy lad was from a reform minded family true, but the fellow was humbler than a cony and according to his mother had a diet to match, happy to munch on lettuce and carrots. In spite of the ridiculousness of the suggestion, his daemon continued to niggle. Why not? Wasn’t this all too coincidental? Remember how after they’d been left with Walter, he’d cast his mournful gaze upon Meg and asked in that weak–kneed, wheedling voice if they could ‘please’ go to St Paul’s. Because, as he’d claimed, his family had railed so much against the Bishop of London, if they accompanied him then he’d feel brave enough to see the devil’s lair.

That was the reason they’d had to endure this two hour session instead of visiting secret bible study classes. Oh, on that point Ned’s recrimination shuddered to a halt. Meg had dragged him along to one, three weeks ago. It had been more of an ordeal than the Christmas Mass. They’d all been so secretively intense, asking him passionately if he’d been saved. No, Christmas Mass, for all its errors was preferable.

Though once more he bent his gaze Walter–wards, while previously he’d been almost nuzzling up to Meg, now their friend, the cony, was busy craning his neck over his shoulder, peering towards the shadowy back of the building. In the meantime his daemon ticked over a few plans. Kidnapping was out since Cromwell was involved. So was a duel. Public humiliation could work, hmm there was a possibility. His better angel roundly chastised him for the wicked thoughts. He had to agree. Humiliation could create sympathy. Everyone knew how flighty and unpredictable women were.

However his ever helpful daemon nudged one intriguing idea out into the light. Hmm. Ned gave their ‘guest’ a slit eyed inspection. Yes, yes that could work and would somehow be so appropriate. Ned pushed off from his place by the pillar, shifted towards his target and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Walter, my fine fellow. What say we leave this den of Satan’s imps and get some fresh air? I certainly feel the need to take a piss. My bladder’s fuller than a bishop’s cellar.”

With that Ned speedily levered his mark away from his fellow guardians and gave them a cheery wave. “Back soon. Let us know what happens at the end of the sermon!”

Both Gruesome Roger and Meg glared at him. One was puzzled, the other suspicious. Ned ignored them and quickly pushed the compliant Walter out the door.

Even in the heavy Christmas snow the daily affairs of London didn’t stop. Ned gave a quick glance around and spotted the prominent cluster of colour, sheltering under the eaves of a tavern across from the church. With a hefty grip on the shoulder of his charge, he steered him towards a nearby wall. “Walter my fine fellow, I take it you’ve never been to London before?”

“Ah… ah, no Master Bedwell. Never. My mother said it was a sink hole of depravity where harlots strutted openly on every street.”

Ned gave the gaudy gathering several yards away another rapid scan. Hmm, Lady Dellingham could have been right here. “Not so formal Walter. Call me Ned, or as my closest friends do, Red Ned.”

“Ahh…certainly Red, ahh, Ned.”

It was hesitant but at least a start. Ned took a position in front of a wall just up from the watching crowd and began to unlace his codpiece. “Around here there’s a lack of privies, so Walter my lad, its common practice to use a pissing wall.”

Actually Londoners also used the piss channel in the centre of the road that hopefully carried refuse to the river. With a relieved sigh, Ned performed the necessary function soon followed by a puzzled Walter. Taking his time despite the winter chill, Ned made sure the mounded snow steamed in a prominent display of capacity until he was certain of a result.

An approaching voice trilled suitable appreciation of his feat. “Ohh I’s says lads. Youse got a rit royal sceptre an’ orb ’ere. Fancy Anthea crowns ‘em fo’ a six pence?”

Ned finished relacing his cod piece and turned with a smile towards the first of the brightly arrayed girls strutting towards them. The punks of St Paul’s were a colourful bunch, proud of their gaudy plumage. As Ned knew, in the hierarchy of ‘street vendors’, they stood near the top of their free ranging sisterhood, only surpassed by the brothel mistresses in the various ‘nunneries’ scattered across the city’s Liberties. He was also aware of their forward and bold manner that had the preachers at St Paul’s vexed at the displays of open lewdness. For young Walter, he could think of none more suited for the poor mouse. Mistress Anthea had long blonde hair fluttering loose under a simple green cap. She was dressed in a lace fronted kirtle of worn scarlet and had her chemise pulled down around her neck, exposing an interesting amount of breast. A heavy dark cloak was looped through her arms. No doubt it nestled around her shoulders when trade was slower.

Ned doffed his own cap in a play at gallantry as the St Paul’s punks came closer. “Why thank you for the compliment, though I fear that I must decline your generous offer. However my friend here is new to the glories of London and may be interested.”

With a wave of his hand, Ned indicated the gawping Walter. At the invitation Mistress Anthea, the boldest of the punks, slipped between the two of them and wrapped an arm around Walter, pulling his face into a close inspection of her bulging bodice. Ned gave an amused chuckle at the sight. “So Walter, you asked to witness the wicked haunts of Babylon. Care to caress a set of devil’s dumplings?”

Obligingly Mistress Anthea wiggled her bodice and two rosy nipples popped out. Ned could tell how cold it was, for the nipples were as hard and pointy as a church steeple. Walter’s eyes locked on the sight and he swallowed with an audible gulp. “Oh Lord, save me from temptation!”

“Y’know what they say Walter? To conquer sin you must recognise it.”

Tentatively Walter the cony reached out and stroked the top of one breast with the back of his fingers. Mistress Anthea smiled encouragingly and caught up Walter’s hand, then looking the lad full in the eye, nibbled his fingers. Walter the cony gulped even louder and his breathing altering noticeably. Ned considered the situation. The education of Walter into
the Ways of the World
was looking good.