Read The Liberties of London Online
Authors: Gregory House
The Liberties of London (8 page)
Ned continued to respond politely as Nick outlined his changes and, damn, they were devilishly clever. In his version of
Thirty One,
the winner was not only the player whose cards added up to thirty one. Now, after one deal of five cards, you had the option of two exchanges of two cards, each of which you paid a penalty if you took an extra card rather than discard. Finally you kept two cards only and rolled a pair of dice to reach the magical number. Thus each play was a combination of two games of chance with the odds constantly shifting. That was bad enough. However with an added twist a player had to name how close he’d get with the roll. You could be one under of your proclaimed stake, but not over. A damned treacherous way to play. As if this game needed any further refinements in complication – only one Bedlamite mad would cross
Hazard
and
Thirty One
!
It took two fast games for Ned to get the hang of play, and each time he knew Nick was toying with him, Ned had noticed the way their host had almost perfectly predicted the fall of the dice. There was a trick to it, he knew. All he had to do was figure it out. At the start of the third game, the friendly banter moved up a notch. “So, Red Ned, how is my dear friend Canting Michael?”
Ned affected a casual wave of nonchalance and shifted his cards – a three of roses, a king, a queen and a pair of sevens coins and hearts. The royalty would stay and he’d toss the rest. “You know, Canting often asks me for a friendly game of bowls over in Southwark. I’m sure he’d appreciate your company,
Red
Ned. You know how affable he is.”
Ned gave what he hoped was an equivocal shrug and tried not to flinch at the suggestion. He knew it was code for Canting’s offer on his head. Nick was clearly suggesting a trade. The whole game was a charade and three items, at least, where being played for, the company of Meg Black being only the most visible. This fellow enjoyed games of double and triple bluff, with mirrors thrown in as well. In many ways Nick reminded Ned of a younger Duke of Norfolk. That lord’s schemes were so famously twisty, that a snake trying to follow them would be left in knots.
Nick, as expected, had drawn out the games, full of pleasant banter and clouded allusions. The Lord Chancellor’s recent troll through the Liberties, a hunting for heretics, was just one – though its relevance was unclear. Was this an offer of ‘protection’ or another threat? Thus they came to the last round of play. Ned had watched and watched and still he hadn’t caught it. What was the cony catchers trick?
Nick peered over at Ned’s revealed hand with a quiet smile. The knave and ace obviously were there on the table and even a fool knew they made twenty one. The Master of the Liberties’ own hand displayed a similar number, so on that they were equal. It now came down to the dice. Nick had predicted a combined roll of six. That was a low score to claim, though if Ned exceeded his ’stake’ he’d still lose. The dice were carved ivory, only the best and, following the German fashion, one was shaped as a naked woman, the other a man, both squatting hands on arse and complete in all detail. Nick had called them his lucky ducks and Ned knew they were as fixed as the crookedest fullans, but how? Maybe if he concentrated on how Nick held the dice? They were always in the cup and it was a standard horn beaker so that couldn’t be it. The cup was always in the right hand and in keeping with his fastidiousness, he wiped his hands on a clean cloth vigorously before each play. The fellow was obsessed with clean fingers!
Nick tapped the horn cup three times on the table and cast. The dice, obeying some hidden rule, spilled onto the table and came up six! At the conclusion of his play Ned’s opponent had the relaxed posture of a satisfied cony catcher. The self proclaimed Lord of the Liberties knew he had Red Ned boxed in, and he deeply enjoyed the entertainment of the struggle before the trap closed with an imaginary snap. Ned had been puzzling over Roger’s report of the sequence ever since the Red Boar and, damn it, he’d watched Earless Nick play the dice successfully four throws out of five. So how did he do it? How could the self proclaimed Lord of the Liberties know? Gruesome Roger’s advice on how Nick rigged his pair of ducks was unknown, though he said it was the same ritual every single time afore he threw them, and Nick always won whenever he chose. Though was it always one set of numbers? He’d forgotten to ask ‘Hawks’ that and it was too damned late now.
Desperately Ned prayed for guidance. It was a trick, a gambit, a sleight of hand, but in the open where only those with the same secret knowledge would understand. Before every throw Nick rubbed his hands on the silken cloth, afterward the dice was placed back into the cup. But what, what was different or the same?
And in a flash of inspiration Ned had it. Lady Fortuna was with him!
***
Chapter Eleven: The Nick
This move clearly gave Earless Nick a moment of puzzlement, though that flicker had only been for a second. Then the Master of Liberties had relaxed with a happy smile. To him it must have seemed that the famous Red Ned was cracking under the strain and taking ‘foolish precautions’ like having a blade to hand.
“Master Throckmore…”
A languidly waved hand halted his words. “Oh no, Red Ned. Not so formal. You can call me Nick, as do my closest friends.”
Oh now that was a rich sop considering his ploys. “All right…Nick, you have been the most hospitable of hosts to Mistress Margaret and myself. However I feel that you have been too generous. Therefore, since we’ve been playing for mere tokens, I wish to pledge this blade as a wager for my hand.”
Those light blues eyes of Nick’s shone with a potent combination of avarice and anticipation. He lost all trace of his former ‘disinterest’ and bent over the table to inspect the poniard. “I am overcome Red Ned. It is a splendid piece. Is it perhaps…Spanish?”
With deliberately slow hands Ned took the hilt in his right hand, held the sheath in his left and pulled the blade out a few inches, then lent back. For the first time that night Earless Nick displayed his true emotions. He ran a light finger over the spine of the blade, tracing the engraved inscription. Lust was clearly written upon his face.
“Yes, Spanish craftsmanship – from Seville I think. Red Ned, that is a very fine wager.” Nick slapped the table and laughed clearly enjoying the theatre. Ned’s daemon warned him that whether the blade was seen as a bribe or ransom, Nick was certain it’d be his before the evening was over. “I accept Red Ned! In return I offer you one Liberties pardon.”
Keeping up the spirit of the occasion, Ned replied with his own gracious bow. So it was a deal. Honesty and trust were, however, still up for debate. Repositioning the poniard so that the hilt lay across the table on his right, Ned picked up the horn beaker. “So Nick, heard any word of this young lad, Walter?”
The Master of the Liberties pouted ever so slightly and shrugged. “Mayhap my pursuivants will report something. They sweep the Liberties each evening and bring me news of its doings and goings on by ten o’ the clock.”
Ned inclined his head as he tapped the beaker, once almost touching the poniard. So Nick was getting overconfident. He’d let slip that he’d reinforcements coming. “I do hope so, Nick. It must be so difficult for a lad lost and alone without a friend in the city.”
Earless Nick’s eyelids flickered and for an instant his eyes darted towards the stairway to his left. Ned gave the horn beaker another tap beside the blade. “So true Red Ned. The city can be a fearful place without a friend or patron.”
There it was again – Nick’s eyes returned to the stairway. “While a patron on the Privy Council can be real solace in these decayed times.”
Now it was Ned’s turn to blink. What was that? Where did it come from? Was it a hint or a threat? For the third time he tapped the beaker on the table then paused. “I call a roll of seven, a ‘nick’ I believe.” Then with the entire table watching with a hungry eagerness, Ned up ended the beaker, spilling the dice onto his cards. They rolled briefly and stopped, a five first then a moment later a two. He’d won and the silence was broken by a roar.
“WHA….!” Whatever Earless Nick meant to say was drowned out by a booming roar. Almost instantly the tavern’s common room was lit by a bright red flash and filled with boiling clouds of acrid smoke fountaining out of the fire place. Accompanying that confusion, a chorus of shrill screams echoed from up the stairway.
In the midst of this turmoil, Ned grabbed his blade from the table and joined Meg Black crouching underneath. He put his mouth close to her ear and whispered, though between the screams, curses and the thump and clatter of upturned benches, if the Last Trumpet sounded none would hear it. “Head for the stairs. That’s where Walter is being kept!”
Still on their knees Ned, his head down by the rush covered floor, pushed Meg Black forward through the stinging smoke. She’d warned him that her little surprise would cause consternation and panic, and had offhandedly hinted breathing may be strained. Right now however, Ned noted that her use of the truth was positively miserly. This place stank worse than a fart from Satan’s own arse. When Mistress Black, some two hours ago, had volunteered the use of her skills, Ned had first thought she was offering to reveal a generous spread of breasts and cleavage to help entice and distract Earless Nick. As with any healthy lad, this was too good an opportunity to miss, so he’d readily agreed. However what they got instead was a vivid example of alchemist’s tricks– red flame, smoke and a burning stench of hellfire, thick and acrid. So that’s why she’d needed the chair by the fire.
Well, he ruefully thought, it had worked, though his daemon did pose an interesting question. Why was Meg Black walking around the streets of London with a pouch of blinding pepper and a brimstone smoke incendiary? His better angel sensibly suggested that was a question that could wait until later. Despite having to hold the collar of his gown over his face and being almost blinded by the smoke, they made it to the foot of the stairs without incident. Most of Earless Nick’s men could be heard making their stumbling way to the front of the tavern, coughing and cursing. As for their leader, Ned had lost him in the fog of battle, though his distinctive accent wasn’t anywhere near, of that he was sure. At a guess Nick would have figured this whole visit was a trap, and so head for his nearest bolt hole.
At the lowest tread they encountered another problem. The smoke, as was its want, was funnelling upwards into the rooms above, from which sounded a cacophony of screams and shrieks. Even with Meg Black’s surprise they had to be fast. Whether Earless Nick was respected or not, the locals would react to the threat of fire as Londoners always had in the past. Soon dozens would emerge to battle the flames and protect their buildings.
Acting as rearguard, Ned shoved Meg up the stairs first and slowly climbed after her, squeezing his eyes tight to peer through the smoke behind him, dagger at the ready. As they reached the top, a howling figure burst through the billowing fumes. It looked the very image of a harpy, blood streaked breasts, eyes a glazed, brandishing a long dagger and wailing. “Nick! Nick! It’s Hawks. He’s got Walter an’ set th’ place afire!”
At the sudden appearance of this screaming apparition, Ned flinched and took a step backwards. Meg undaunted, surged forward almost running up the last three steps and ignoring the waving blade, backhanded the harpy across her face. Clearing his eyes of streaming tears, Ned could now see that their assailant had been Anthea, the punk from St Paul’s, though how she came to be half dressed with a torn bodice and bloody on the stairway was a riddle for later. No matter, Meg’s blow had knocked her out and her body was now slumped against the wall.
Pushing past that obstruction Ned now led the way, hurrying along the corridor, pulling each door open and calling out for the still missing Walter. Their only discovery was some dozen scantily clad girls and their patrons, whom lacking hose and breeches either scrambled urgently out the windows or were milling around in the confusion. Depending on circumstance, the girls alternated between screaming shrilly and calling for help. And still no Walter.
It was now that Ned cursed the efficiency of Meg’s little incendiary. It had been damned useful below, but up here the drifting smoke made the search dangerous. Several times he’d had to turn aside his blade as a charging figure through the smoke had resolved itself into a young girl clad only in a chemise. If only for a bit more light, Ned sighed. That last one looked really cute with those long shapely legs. An urgent thump from Meg Black brought him back to the here and now. A large figure was swimming through the grey light towards them from the glints ahead in the smokey fog they were armed. Ned pushed Meg behind him, and dagger out, took up a half crouch and calling out menacingly, “One more step and I’ll gut you!”
Rather than a challenge or a girlish scream, instead Ned gained a very familiar curse. “Damn y’ for sluggedly wastrel, Bedwell. About time y’ got here! I hope y’ caught him, that slippery little ferret!”
Ned relaxed as Gruesome Roger limped into view, his face the usual grim scowl, though he did dip his head slightly embarrassed when he saw Meg. Then the import of his word struck home and Ned thumped the wall and swore. “What! Damn yourself, Hawkins, you useless puttock! Do you mean you lost Walter?”
“You slovenly fool, Bedwell. While you where fiddling with your cards, I was up here fighting off that clawing bitch, Anthea and two of Earless’ men!”
Ned sucked in a breath for a fitting retort. That was a stupid move and he ended up rasping his throat with the brimstone. Before the discussion could digress any further, Meg pushed between them giving each a significant glare from smoke reddened eyes. “We don’t have time for this! Where did you last see him?”
Her question was accompanied by a cuff to each of them to emphasis her request for cooperation. “Three doors back when he pulled loose and kicked me.”
Ned raised an eyebrow. Walter tackled Gruesome Roger? By the saints, he wouldn’t have credited it. The meek lamb had grown horns! A quick stumble around the hallway gave them only one choice – a door wedged shut two along from where they stood. A joint effort, shoulders to its rough wood, had them soon through it, to reveal an empty room with a rope of sheets trailing out the open window. Walter had escaped again. Ned looked at Roger and both looked at Meg, who gave a frustrated sigh and bundled up her good dress. It seemed the chase was still on.
By chance or design, Walter had picked the best escape route. This window overlooked a small, quiet courtyard. Within minutes they’d dropped down, even Meg hindered as she was by her skirts. Ned tried to peer through the wintery gloom. This was impossible – it had started to snow again and visibility had closed down to bare yards. By statute, the citizens of London were required to have a small lantern outside their dwelling. It was to be lit at dusk, between the celebrations of Hallowtide and Candlemass. As he’d seen too often, decrees may be grandly proclaimed, but the population as a whole ignored it. If those goodly householders weren’t going to waste good tallow rushes then who could expect it of the Liberties?
So to Ned it seemed that they’d reached a dead end. How could they track Walter? It was as dark as a Blackamore’s soul! Roger though, proved more resourceful. The retainer wrenched a cresset off the nearby wall and stuffed part of their sheet rope into it as a wick. Ned gave shrug. He’d already thought of that and dismissed it. So what – it was useless without tallow or a flint. Knocking on a door around here to beg some wasn’t going get you anything other than cudgel around the ears and a boot to the backside.
Damn! Ned thumped his thigh with a fist, and moving mainly by feel, slipped over to the narrow alley leading out of the court. Well Walter had to head this way, but left or right? One solution was to split up. They had a chance. However the menace of Earless Nick and his lads remained. They’d be recovering from Meg’s alchemist’s ploy, and he reckoned, keen for mischief and revenge. So separately they were vulnerable and no doubt Earless Nick knew the twists and turns of this patch better than the back of his hand. Ned returned the dozen or so paces to report his lack of discovery and beheld Mistress Black calmly digging into her hidden satchel. He let out an exasperated sigh – what was she doing? A smoke incendiary wasn’t any use here. Even flint and steel wasn’t going to light up that cloth, damp from the falling snow and sleet.
Ned huddled in the limited shelter of a projecting upper story and watched his partner in disaster fiddling around with another small flask. First she uncapped and poured some of its contents onto the bundled cloth in the improvised torch. Well he grudgingly conceded that may work. It smelled rank like the rock oil they used in liniments. The second though, had Ned amazed. This was a small mechanical tinder box. Meg wound a very small handle, then holding it close to the cresset, flicked a lever. Suddenly it shot out a small fountain of sparks and the cresset immediately lit up with a steady bluish flame. By the saints they had light! For the third time that evening, Ned seriously wondered what else the apothecary’s apprentice had stashed away, and as his daemon had asked, why?
***
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 becloaked 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 with 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 slightly forward
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.
***
Chapter Thirteen: A Lamb Gathered In
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 his 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!
This all still rankled him and Ned stopped in the midst of the street causing a following carter to curse him as an imbecile and to tell him in no uncertain terms to get out of way. Jumping aside he shifted towards the corner of St Mildred’s and Bread Streets and lent against the wall, under a projecting eave deep in thought. Ned had seen many tricks and cony plays before, loaded dice, shaved dice, marked cards, and he’d gained a canny knowledge of what cony traps were favoured and where. But it had taken months of watching and even so you still missed many gambits such as Earless Nick’s tricks with his five iron rings and lodestone dice. What a canny use of modern natural philosophy! If he hadn’t spoken to Rob last week and if their chat hadn’t veered towards the strange properties of iron on a pilot’s compass, Ned would have been lost. But that wasn’t all. One had to have the knowledge of where to go to employ these advantages. Ned had been in London on and off for a few years and he still occasionally got lost. For instance Earless Nick’s lair. Without Gruesome Roger’s reluctant admission, it would have remained hidden. So how did young Walter unerringly head for these secret haunts? His daemon suggested that was a secret to pry out later. In the meantime other more expensive matters held sway.
However the events of last night still held his thoughts in thrall, such as the manner of young Walter’s discovery at the Black Goat. According to Roger that room upstairs was packed with unclad girls all cavorting with the innocent lamb. Thus in one blow the tally of Walter’s codsmanship, stood at four or five, or even six. Well thankfully that evidence dismissed his prior suspicion of a prenuptial contract between Meg and Walter, so some good news after all.
Ned was about to head off when he heard a chorus of piteous cries. He stopped for a moment to locate the source and then he remembered where he was. That had to be the inmates of the Bread Street Compter. It was the common ward gaol, where debtors and law breakers were lodged. Those that could, begged through the barred windows. One wheedling voice in the cracked melody however sounded gratingly familiar. Ned’s eyes narrowed in concentration. Perhaps, perhaps Lady Fortuna had favoured him? Cautiously he edged along the wall closer to the gaol. Oh yes he recognised that voice! It was his dear friend and errant charge, Walter. Ned smiled.
He sat at the bench of the small ale house around the corner from the Compter and sipped the thin ale. Not what he was used to, but at least it was drinkable. With the most feral of grins, he studied the letters before him. It had been a simple task to acquire one of the street urchins to act as a messenger and fetcher for young Dellingham. Running errands for prisoners was how they earned their keep. It had been easy to supply paper, quill and ink from his own clerk’s satchel and have the finished correspondence returned to him. Walter had been a very,
very
busy young lad. For a simple fellow from Shropshire, he knew a fair number of merchants and goldsmiths, and if the requests were anything to go by, the meek and mild reformer had stashed away quite a sum. Seven pounds was not the kind of coin that jingled loose in the purse. His spree had been meticulously planned and the cajoling/blackmailing rescue letter to his ‘long time friend’ Earless Nick revealed more than was prudent to put on paper. Now it was just a matter of Ned taking advantage of this golden opportunity, but first to make a few preparations of his own…
***
Chapter Fourteen: Compter Caught
After some delay Warder Locksley shuffled into the room and plunked himself into a handy chair, sighing with the effort. Ned gave him a rapid inspection. The official was maybe five foot odd tall, had a portly appearance and short grey beard. His doublet and gown were of a decent quality cloth and cut, while his podgy fingers displayed a love of gold rings and ostentation. At a guess the warder extracted a goodly share of fees and gifts from his charges. Well Ned could work with that.
The Warder huffed a bit, unfolded a small letter and peered at it frowning. “So Master Bedwell, how can I be of service to Councillor Cromwell?”
Ned had found it convenient on more than one occasion to employ the name of his patron for smoother transactions. “My master requests that young Dellingham be released to my custody. It is a matter of concern to the Privy Council that he’s being unlawfully restrained here.”
The Warder puffed out his cheeks and tut–tutted as he pulled out a pile of what looked like writs. “I fear Master Bedwell, his detention at the Compter is entirely legal, as these will show.”
Ned picked them up and gave their contents a quick perusal. He bit his lip. Oh yes, they were undoubtedly legal. Despite the occasional wandering script, each was signed by justice of the peace. The names of the officials however gave him concern. In these dozen sheets you had as fine a selection of venial and corrupt Londoners as you could find. Ned didn’t have the luxury of playing the Courts so this had to be settled quickly and quietly. “I see, Warder Locksley. Hmm, Councillor Cromwell would prefer if this was dealt without fuss.”
Ned removed his leather glove and slipped off a gold ring set with a small amethyst and placed it on the table. Warder Locksley’s eye’s sparkled with interest as he picked up the ring and closely examined it. Ned, in the meantime, kept up his play of arrogant disdain, though inside he was cursing fiercely. That ring had been his one true extravagance with the reward of the Cardinals’ Angels. It hurt to let it go as a bribe for worthless Walter. The ring disappeared inside the Warder’s gown and a rumbling cough announced a resolution. “I understand the Councillor’s concern and it would be my pleasure sort out these, ahh…errors.”
At this concession, Ned returned the slightest nod.
“However I have another difficulty Master Bedwell.” The warder immediately produced yet a further sheaf of papers and began o read through them. “Young Master Dellingham also has a number of debts. This one is for three angels to Nick Throckmore at Tower Royal of St Paul’s yard. Another bill here charges a debt of ten shillings to the taverner of the Red Boar.”
The warder then plunked them in front of Ned. “Then these. Well it’d be quicker to tell you the total – three pounds, two shilling and eight pence. He is also charged with affray by the parish constable whom he assaulted. And of course his debt here so far is five shillings and four pence since he’s been our charge.”
Ned wearily rubbed his face. Walter had been a busy lost lamb. No, his splurge went past busy, frantic was a better description. Thus Ned’s conviction of being led into an elaborate cony trap hardened into a granite certainty. “That, Warder Locksley, is simply sorted out.” Ned flicked his finger over his shoulder and Rob stepped forward, and opening a leather satchel, spilled out a spray of coins onto the table.
The warder’s eye glowed and he returned a very ingratiating smile. “I can see, Master Bedwell, that you can be very persuasive.”
Ned kept a tight rein on his brewing anger and nodded politely in reply. Walter had better be worth all this damned trouble and expense. Or else.
Ned waited impatiently for the shambling warder to sort through his keys and unlock the last door. Locksley had correctly scented opportunity in the Dellingham lad and put him in private, shared cell rather than one of the larger rooms with the common lawbreakers and debtors. It had been a very well rewarded chance. Ned winced at how much he’d borrowed from his company of Christmas revellers – ruin wasn’t even a step away. The first part of his plan had succeeded. Now it depended on others to fulfil their parts. He’d sent out a flurry of messages all over the city, aimed at the unpredictable Meg Black, imploring her to delay Lady Dellingham’s progress. Rob’s postscript may help but he couldn’t depend on it. In the meantime he detailed his friend to keep a watch on the front of the goal. As for Warder Locksley, trust and chance only went so far.
Finally the correct key rattled in the stubborn lock and the door opened with a poorly oiled squeal. Ignoring the grumbling warder, Ned stepped inside. The cell held two occupants, a snoring cloak covered form in the corner and their missing lamb. Walter had been eagerly peering out of the barred open window, no doubt waiting for the return of his messages. At the grating squeal he looked around curiously at his visitor. Ned noticed a flash of expression. Whether it was curiosity, anger or surprise he wasn’t sure, but Walter quickly covered it with his accustomed sheepish mask and cried out. “Ned! Ned, I am so glad you’re here! I’ve prayed ceaselessly for succour from the good Lord and now a miracle!” The lad’s eyes instantly brimmed with tears and he threw himself at Ned, clutching at him like a drowning man.
Playing the concerned friend Ned sympathetically patted him on the shoulder. “Walter, Walter, we’ve been so worried. Where have you been?”
The Dellingham cony sniffed loudly and more tears flowed as he gasped out an explanation. “I’m afraid I must confess to imbibing too much sack the previous night. I fear I’m not used to it. After that…I…I don’t remember what happened. It all seems like a horrible nightmare and in my wanderings, the parish constables mistook me for a felon, and I fear, locked me in here.”
Ned put on his best solicitous lawyer’s face and slowly nodded at the tale. Walter was good. Maybe he should forget the Geneva venture and take up at the Inns of Court. With a play like this he’d have clients by the dozen, though his daemon noticed Walter’s failure to mention his flight at the Fleete Bridge. Evasion was for this lad as easy as breathing.
While Ned was comforting the new found lamb a thumping at the door drew his attention. Rob’s anxious face was on the other side. “Ned, Ned they’re here. Hurry up for god’s sake!”
Enough pandering. Ned grabbed the supposed cony by the doublet and pushed him up against the wall, thrusting his head forward until they were face to face. “Look Walter, I suggest we drop the mummer’s play. I’ve chased you all over London. I know where you’ve been and I know what you’ve done!”
Ned tilted his head in the direction of the gate. “Your mother is here, on the other side of the prison with Councillor Cromwell. I can leave you here to be discovered, or help you. What’s your choice?”
“Ahh…Ahh…Ahh!”
Ned gave the doublet an extra twist, cutting off Walter’s air supply. After the dice affair, the chase, Earless Nick’s game of
Thirty One
, the brawl and hanging over the manure choked Fleete Ditch, he wasn’t feeling
any
Christian charity. Even if it was Christmas!
“Arrgh…yes…yes!”
Ned dropped his errant charge, Walter crumpled against the wall gasping for breath.
“What…what can we do?” Walter appeared crushed and defeated by his recent ordeal, but Ned wasn’t so sure. Any fellow, who could dissemble so well before a gossip of lawyers during the several hour long game of
Hazard,
was as slippery as a greased weasel, and not even half as trustworthy.
For Ned it was time to apply the thumb screws of leverage. “Walter, by my calculation, you should have some forty angels you cozened out of that card play. Where is it?’
Walter’s eyes went all teary and he snivelled out a reply. “I spent it Ned. I’m sorry, it’s all gone! I’m a poor, miserable sinner who seeks forgiveness from the Almighty for my many grievous faults.” A trail of snot and tears ran down Walter’s face, making him look the most forlorn of coneys.
Ned gave a grin that was all teeth and once more thrust his face closer. “Oh no Walter. You can play the meek lamb with Meg Black, but I’m not so easily cony-catched.” Well not more than once, his daemon cautiously added.
“I’ve chased you all over the Liberties of London. For an
innocent
country lad you have a canny nose for the sites o’ mischief, and I’ve questioned all those you had a run in with, even Earless Nick. Now I know he still wants you which is why he had you cooling your heels here in Bread Street Compter on that false bill.”
Walter continued to whimper pitifully so Ned dropped him and walked for the door. “As you wish. I’ve got signed statements and writs from all your recent ‘friends’ so I wonder what your mother will think when she sees them?”
“Wait…wait Ned. I…I’ve got twenty five angels left!”
“Sorry, was that thirty five angels I heard?”
“Ahh…ahh…yes Ned, it was thirty five, on my oath.”
“Excellent Walter. See, that wasn’t too hard, was it? Now where did you hide it?”
“What? But I’ve pledged my word.”
“This may surprise you Walter, but my well of Christian forgiveness has run dry. Now where is it? Or do I leave you here?”
Walter dragged a dirty sleeve across his snot covered face and stared at Ned in a morose manner. “All right. It’s lodged at Herringwithe on Goldsmith’s Row.”
Ned nodded and gave a satisfied smile. Now, for the first time, that actually had the ring of truth about it. Herringwithe was one of the recipients of the intercepted pleading letters. Before the mood of honesty was lost, Ned whipped out a sheet of paper, along with a bronze quill and small inkhorn from his script, hanging by his sword. “Good. Now Walter, I’d like you to write out a draft for forty five angels, payable to me.”
“What! Why forty five? You said thirty five a moment ago!”
“Yes I did, but that was before you admitted cozening me, Walter. By the way, the longer you delay, the higher goes the fee.”
“This, this is extortion!”
“I doubt it. Look at it more as a fee for service. Anyway don’t whine. I suspect you still cleared some twenty angels according to my reports.”
Walter mumbled as he dipped the pen and hastily scratched away on the unfolded paper. Ned helpfully pointed out a few errors such as when poor Walter had accidentally written twenty five instead of forty five, and then added an addendum of four shillings fee for the bearer.
At the conclusion Ned stood up, thumped on the cell door, and called out through the grill. “Ho, bailiff. My friend here has recovered his memory. Tell Warder Locksley its settled.”
Instead of the pocked face of the grumbling warder, Rob’s worried features reappeared at the grill. “Ned, by the saints hurry up. Lady Dellingham and Cromwell have finished chatting with the Warder. I don’t think Meg can delay them any longer.”
Ned silently cursed. This was much sooner than he’d expected. Why couldn’t they have visited Newgate? There was no way to get Walter out of the Compter before her ladyship’s inspection – goals had only one gate for a reason. Damn, they were still trapped! How was he going to get out of this?
Providentially his daemon unfurled the tendril of a solution, and Ned considered it held a certain symmetry that even an astrologer would applaud. He pulled out another scrap of paper and furiously scribbled out a message. Then he dug into his purse and pulled out a handful of coins and thrust them at Rob along with the signed bill. “Get this note to Roger and beg him to deliver it to Reedman at the Spread Eagle. Then remind Warder Locksley of our agreement.”
Ned bent close to the grill and whispered intently. Rob’s face acquired a concerned expression and he shook his head doubtfully. “Ned, are you sure it’s going to work?”
Ned shrugged. They were out of options.
“I think that considering it’s the Christmas season, we should live in the confident hope of a miracle.”
***