Read The Liberties of London Online
Authors: Gregory House
The Liberties of London (7 page)
Chapter Eight: The Devil’s Delights
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 was 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.
In the midst of all this chill, cheerless Christmas, John heard singing, and from the vocals, it was neither angelic nor a wayward choir. No Christmas carolling this, unless it was the style that went on in the many ‘Liberties Nunneries’. As the off tune song warbled closer, John gave a gloating smile. Oh yes, this was a cursed sight more earthly. Most hymns he’d heard didn’t extol the warmth and charity of an abbess’s cony, or the abbot’s fondness for its soft pelt. Now, that was a carolling he could get used to. A fine voice, if somewhat slurred. As the singer wavered into view, John could make out a well dressed gentleman staggering down the lane, giving out his all with a few country ballads. He easily recognised
Cakes and Ale.
“I give ‘er sack, I gave ‘er ale, I gave er cake, I gave ‘er gold.
“I kiss’t ‘er wonce, an’ kiss’t ‘er twice, an’….an’…an’, oh yes, she gaven me all!”
“Opppp! Ahhhhhhh!” “God’s blud! Ahhhhhh! By the Devil’s ‘own arse, better ‘ut than in!”
John blessed his patron saint for putting him on duty. This was a true Christmas gift, a tosspot ready for rolling. Eagerly he stepped out into the lantern’s light. “Ho good clerk, where are y’ bound this cruel night?”
“What? What? Where are ye, varlet? Can ye tell where…Ahhhhhh! By t’ Devil’s own cod’s, a veritable trumpet! A trumpet I says. What says ye, sirrah?”
John had stepped forward to catch the unsteady figure, when the gentleman let out a monster of a belch, and he’d been forced to lean back as the wave of consumed brandy wine rolled over him. His grin widened like a shark. This was going to be
so
easy. The fellow could hardly stand. Having been a nip as a lad, he could still lift a coin or two with practiced ease.
“What say ye sirrah? Where do I fin’ t’ Bludy Goat?”
John easily slipped an arm under the swaying figure. This was the best Christmas ever! This tosspot actually wanted to go to the Black Goat. Damn him for a sack soaked fool, Earless Nick would fleece him in a trice and best of all, that were a very,
very
fine, thick gown the belcher had on, just right for a winter evening on guard.
“Why, Sir Clerk, lean on me, an I’ll take y’ there, a warm fire and the best sack in all the Liberties.” John chuckled with not so false glee.
Then five paces from the door, his charge stumbled and dropped towards the snow. John, with his heavy build, steadied the poor drunken cony and reached down to check the purse. As he did so his victim twisted suddenly and a strange puff of dust flew into his face as he breathed in. For an instant he was puzzled, then…then the burning pain clawed up his nose and down his throat. His eyes streamed with tears and all three felt like they’d been scalded with burning ashes. With his hands clutched to his fiery throat, John dropped to the snow desperately pushing his face into the soothing chill. That’s why he didn’t notice his former charge straighten up, though he did feel the boot to the skull…well at least briefly.
Ned looked down on the fallen guard and shook his head. Pepper, by the saints, pepper, and some heathenish concoction. Just was well Meg Black warned him not to breathe when he cast it out. As he had found himself thinking on more than one occasion in the past, he’d have to watch that girl. For a sweet Christian lass, she had a very evil and vindictive turn. Ned grabbed a hand full of fresh snow and rubbed his gloves and the collar of his overmantle. Cleaning could happen later, but he’d be damned to have any of that hot spice powder on him. He’d seen that fellow’s face–red and suffused, gasping for air. Ned gave a small wave and two figures moved out from the deeper shadows. Time to pay Earless Nick a visit.
***
Chapter Ten: A Knave
“Ho, where’s the sluggedly measle who serves here?” Ned slapped his palm flat on the table. If the door boomed like a great gonne, this snapped through the common room like a shot from a harquebus, sharp and threatening.
A fellow, large in bulk if not muscles, with a long black beard, pushed himself reluctantly up from the dicing table and waddled slowly over, pausing for a leisurely gob into the fire. Finally he arrived and stood arms on hips in front of Ned with a sneering scowl and projected another green ball of slime at the floor rushes by Ned’s boot. “Wot y’ want! This ‘ere tavern’s only fo’ Lord Nick an’ his men.”
Ned was ready for this. The taverner keeper should’ve been as well – his assumption of arrogance and security let him down. Ned took a leisurely pace forward and shot out a boot, catching the large man in the side of the knee. Still, with tree trunks for legs he may have still stood, like an ancient oak, but Ned moved faster than his opponent’s startled reaction. In a move he’d learnt from a master of defence, Ned stepped in close to the angry taverner, grabbing his approaching hands and tugged them outward. As the finale to his welcome, his left knee shot up and impacted solidly with the taverner’s cods. For a moment the man’s eyes crossed with puzzlement as the hefty blow to his nearest and dearest fired up to the brain. Finally, the message received, the groaning man crumpled forward, collapsing on the floor, both hands clutching his bruised cods whimpering small squeals of pain.
As a conclusion Ned whipped out his poniard, placed it across the base of the taverner’s nose and twitched slightly. A few drops of blood stained the rushes. “No man speaks to Red Ned and his lady without respect, you lard–tubbed, pizzle shrivelled measle!”
At the sudden prospect of blood, the tavern common room went quiet. If this had been the Gryne Dragone in Southwark, whosoever had been foolish enough to pull this stunt would have been punctured or hacked by enough ironware to fill a Ward Muster armoury.
Here it was different. This was the still quiet of fear and hungry anticipation. The crowd in the Black Goat were waiting, for what Ned wasn’t sure, until a voice called out in the lazy affected tones of the Cambridge graduate. “Leave him. Bottoph is a lazy, surly slug and losing a nose would no doubt improve his looks. However he’s already broken into my habits and it would be an inconvenience to train another taverner.”
Still with his blade in place, Ned tilted his head up and scanned the audience for the speaker. Several tavern patrons instinctively shifted, creating a clear corridor of sight towards the table nearest the fire. At one end sat a well dressed gentleman. Like Ned he was wearing a heavy over mantle gown, though this one was half shrugged off the shoulders to reveal a shot silk doublet. That, in the sign language of presentation in this modern age, spoke of affluence and status. If Ned had any doubts, a heavy gilt chain circled the fine cambric linen collar, framing the face above. Ah yes. Ned dropped the whimpering taverner and stood up straight. The face, that…that was interesting. The speaker possessed the kind of features that would have made an angel weep, while his hair casually spilled from beneath a velvet cap in a wavy flow like sun tinted gold to his broad shoulders. Ned instantly felt a wash of jealousy, especially as he noticed the sharply indrawn breath of Meg Black. No doubt about it, Earless Nick was surely the handsomest rogue in all of London.
Casually he slipped the poniard back into its sheath and fixed the speaker with an arrogant stare, hand deliberately resting on his sword hilt. “Who are you to request a favour of Red Ned Bedwell?”
“Oh I plead your forgiveness for my lack of manners, Red… ahh, Ned.”
As he should have expected, the words had the right sound and manner, but as for deeper meaning, Ned knew this fellow never ever begged anyone’s forgiveness. The lazily indulgent tones continued with a small flick of a very clean hand at the surroundings. “I am Nicolas Throckmore, master of this humble abode, and I invite you and your beauteous lady to share a glass of Bordeaux sack.”
Ned inclined his head in a respectful nod as to an equal. Another casual wave of Master Throckmore’s fingers had three of his retinue hurriedly scattering and scurrying. Two hauled up a pair of carved chairs that would have more suited a noble’s parlour rather than a tavern, while the third bustled behind the taverner’s bench, searching out the requested wine. As for the moaning taverner still lying on the floor, not a man moved to aid him. So command here was absolute. Ned’s daemon quivered in fear. Earless Nick demanded respect.
Putting out his arm, Meg Black automatically placed her hand on it and allowed him to escort her to the table. Making a show of the placement of her dress, she took the chair closest to the fire, the position of respect and honour. Without a further glance towards her, Ned took his own seat and assumed a stance of benign indifference, as recommended by the masters of manners at the Inns. It gave him a chance to quietly survey the room as they waited for the proffered refreshment.
Overall it was a generous space, larger than the Red Boar, with a decent sized stone faced fireplace. Some five tables filled the area and lighting was provided by tallow candles in wall sconces. That alone spoke of modest expense. However to Ned’s eye, there were several more telling examples of wealth. At Nick’s right hand was a multi branched gilt candle stick and it burned five new candles, from where the sweet aroma of fresh beeswax spread its perfume. If all this weren’t enough, the walls were covered in large painted canvas panels, mostly highlighting feats of heroes. On the left was King Arthur, while opposite, Hector fought Achilles. Many a gentleman’s house couldn’t boast as many.
All the while, Nick smiled indulgently, as the Master of the Liberties watched Ned review all ‘his’ many trappings of nobility. Where you stood in this society was all about display – your silverware, hangings, tapestries, clothes and jewellery, and most of all, how you stood your ‘place’. Ned’s better angel may complain about how savagely and cruelly he’d treated the taverner, but without that display of power and status, they’d have been rolled bare minutes after walking through the door.
Finally a tray arrived and Nick’s ragged retainer made a good effort at the proper etiquette for serving. The wine was poured from a silver ewer into a matched set of three Venetian glasses. The first was presented to Meg, then the second to him while the third, with a touch more deference, to their host. Ned wasn’t a fool. He waited for Nick to drink, which he did with evident pleasure. Meg Black had grilled her repentant retainer over Nick’s favoured cozenage gambits. Luckily drugged or poisoned wine wasn’t one of them. Raising a toast to their very generous host, Ned sipped the sweet sack. He politely tipped his head in appreciation. It was strong and significantly better than the one he’d acquired for the Christmas Revels. His daemon promptly suggested a reason – ‘connections’ to the Royal cellar.
Having observed the social niceties, Nick lent forward, eyes twinkling with, well what? Pleasure, anticipation, curiosity? Ned didn’t know but he was instantly on his guard. “Pray tell me, Red Ned, how has my humble tavern gained the pleasure of your lady’s presence?”
Meg Black had been mostly silent. Apart from a few murmurs of thanks, she’d played the demure lady perfectly. What’s more, on some quarter hour’s notice, she’d found a nearby friend and borrowed a swag of gilt – including gold earrings, a silver chain necklace inset with an amethyst, and another of those pearl studded french hoods that all the best reformist girls so adored. Now she played her part. “Good Master Throckmore, Red Ned trespasses on your domain on my petition.”
Earless Nick’s smile widened to show a perfect smile. Ned tried not to feel any more resentful, thinking of his chipped and not so pristine front teeth. “Is that so my lady? Well for one so fair, I must forgive the transgression and instead give thanks for your visit.”
Meg played up to the compliment and returned her own generous smile at the gallantry. Ned kept up his own hooded smile, but by the saints he’d enjoy throttling this slippery weasel. “I fear, good sir, I have mislaid something and Red Ned kindly offered to help me find it.”
The beaming smile shifted to Ned and he bathed in its warm glow. Pity it didn’t reach Earless Nick’s eyes – they still glittered, but more with speculation than friendship. “Why Red Ned, the actions of a true knight, straight out of the tales of Mallory or the ballads of de Troyes. I commend any man of honour!”
Ned returned a bow for the flattery. It paid to keep to conventions since they had naught else. Earless Nick, still polite and chatty, must be wondering how they’d passed his guard unchallenged. However none of the motley collection at the other tables had moved to investigate. So Ned’s surmise was that Master Throckmore was deeply curious at their arrival and assumed a retinue waiting outside in the lane. So Nick would string them along with the
hail fellow well met
play, and keep his lads close.
“So my lady…?” Nick switched back to Meg with a hanging question.
She played it well by pretending to be pleasantly startled, with a hand up to her mouth, and a further look of embarrassed surprise. Well Ned’s evil little daemon hoped she was pretending. “Oh forgive me Master Throckmore for my rudeness. I am Mistress Margaret Black.”
At that Nick’s light blue eyes sparkled with delight and maybe something deeper. Ned strained to keep a pleasant smile on his face. “Why Mistress Margaret, how can I be of assistance?”
“I am afraid I was entrusted with the charge of a cousin of mine from the country, an innocent lad named Walter Dellingham. Unfortunately this morning he went astray in the city and I fear sir, he’s been taken by varlets and rogues!” Meg had dropped her eyes and blushed deeply, as if shamed into confession.
“I see, that is terrible, the poor lad.” Nick had reached across the table with the finest kerchief Ned had seen outside the Royal courts and offered it to the clearly upset Meg. As far as Ned was concerned the weasel’s hand had lingered too long in the exchange.
Meg gave a delicate sniff and a sad smile and waved the tightly clutched piece of linen towards Ned. “Yes sir, it is a sorry tale and Red Ned here suggested I come to ask the Lord of the Liberties for his aid.”
Once more Nick reached across and patted Meg on the hand, his fingers, to Ned’s jaundiced eye, again appeared to hover overly long.
“My aunt would be distraught if she heard that anything happened to Walter and her health, well sir… it is so frail.” A single tear trickled down her cheek, lightly dabbed by Nick’s linen kerchief. “I’ve heard such terrible stories of what happens to innocent lads in London! If you could help us, I can give a reward of ten angels for his safe return.”
That was good enough to stimulate real interest, though not too much so that they’d think of ransom. Nick however waved the offer away as if it were of no concern. “To dry a sweet lady’s tears I wouldn’t think of taking any coin. Though…?” The question was let hang in the air as a floating offer.
Meg eagerly pushed forward now clutching the crumpled linen in her hand. “Yes, Master Throckmore. What is it?”
“Well if I may so bold, if Red Ned here would play me a round of cards for the pleasure of your company, I would be honoured to help.” Oh that was an excellent play crooned Ned’s daemon, what a brilliant switch.
Meg, hope all over her face turned to him and grabbed his sleeve eagerly. “Oh Ned, Ned, please accept. Think of poor Walter all lost and alone! He may even be hurt! Oh I beg you, accept!”
For a moment he played at considering, and then patting her hand, Ned consented with a gracious nod.
If anything, Nick’s smile edged towards the predatory and his eyes sparked with dangerous amusement. Then their host clapped his hands and ordered the table cleared. The candle stick was moved to the centre and a pack of cards laid out with a simple flick of Nick’s hand. Ned knew the trick – flash the fingers fast and confuse the coney. The said fingers were covered in rings. The ones on his right hand were wide and covered most of the bottom segment of the digit from index to pinkie. They were the strangest he’d ever seen, rough, heavy and battered, covered in a worn layer of silver gilt, though grey iron patches could be seen in the parts where the gilt had flaked off. For a man so concerned with appearance that was odd.
Then once Earless Nick had finished his display, he fastidiously wiped his fingers on a proffered cloth and turned to Ned with that bright smile of his. “I take it, Red Ned, you know the game,
Thirty One
?”
“Of course Master Throckmore, I’ve played it often.” For the first time this evening Ned told the truth. It was a heady experience.
“Excellent. Well I’ve made a few minor improvements to liven up the game.”