The Lord of Misrule (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries)

by Gregory House

  This grudgingly revealed information though, caused its own concerns. Earless Nick’s luring of Walter was some months old. The self proclaimed Master of Masterless men had spent a considerable amount of time first courting, then tempting and training Walter. Ned was forced to question, why so much effort? Was the return really worth the investment, or did Nick Throckmore move at another’s behest as he may have hinted? Ned put that from his present thoughts. This was the Christmas season. For at least a week he’d like a break from the rigours of treachery, betrayal and the conspiring of the Court.

  There was also one minor but urgent detail to arrange on the morrow. He had to give Joseph, the tavern pot boy, three shillings. The lad had played his part well, though until Walter’s vessel actually sailed, it would be prudent to line up several more ‘agents’ for his reluctant charge to bribe. Ned had some dozen rasps and files at hand, and the coin made useful wagering in his card games with Walter. Now if only Lady Fortuna would grant him similar luck with Mistress Black. Ned gave another sigh and settled into the warm bed and smiled. There was still all winter to pursue that quarry. After all, she had to give up on revenge sometime…didn’t she?

  ***

  Tudor Pastimes

  A number of games that the people of the Tudor period played would be very familiar to us. Hazard was a very common dicing game and some historians believe it is the origin of the phrase ‘To Chance a Hazard’ which comes down to us as meaning to undertake a risky venture. The following section on dicing and the card game Ruff and Honour was sent to me by my old friend, and historical consultant, the Very Reverend Robinson, Witch finder General and Corporal of Pike for The Green Regiment of the London Trayned Bandes www.theroutiers.org

  Having played this for years, at the Routier’s taverns and events, it can quite challenging though a lot of fun, however according to hardened tosspots and tavern measles,its recommend you keep the stakes modest or else you’ll loose your purse to more skilful (or sober) players.

  Rules for Hazard (Dicing)

  The players of Hazard placed side bets amongst themselves, "laying" and "taking" the odds as to whether the "caster's" or "fader's" point would be thrown first. Since the odds against a 6 being thrown first before a 5 are different from those of a 5 being thrown before a 7 or a 9 before a 10, etc. Therefore the expert Hazard player had to have a remarkable memory and a very clear head. This fact, along with the action of the game, shows that it was a fast paced game.

  All bets, whether with the "caster" (thrower), are to be placed upon the playing area within a circle designated for that purpose. After this is done, if the "caster" agrees to it, he knocks the box that contains the dice upon the table at the person's money with whom he intends to bet (or if no box is used he simply mentions at whose money he is going to throw.) Modern craps players will note that this is just the opposite of what is now done in craps.

  The player who takes the box and dice must throw either:

  a) 5, 6, 7, 8, or 9

  b) If he failed to do so on the first "cast", he had to continue "casting" until it did appear.

  c) Once one of those numbers came up, it became the "fader's" point.

  If, when trying to throw a point for himself, the "caster" threw either:

  a) 2 or 3, no matter what the "fader's" point was

  b) 11 when the "fader's" point was 5, 6, 7, or 9

  c) 12 when the "fader's" point was 5, 7, or 9

  These were called "outs" (called craps today), and the "caster" lost his stakes.

  If, when trying to throw for their own point, the "caster" threw either:

  a) The "fader's" point

  b) 12 when the "fader's" point was 6 or 8

  c) 11 when the "fader's" point was 7

  It was called a "nick" (called a natural today), and the "caster" won.

  If, when trying to make his point, the "caster" did not throw either a "nick" or an "out" (natural or crap), the number thrown became the "caster's" point. The "caster" then continued to throw until he either threw his own point, which won for him, or until he threw the "fader's" point, which lost for the shooter.

  ‘Honours’ or Ruff and Honours

  This game was first mentioned in 1522 in a sermon as a game of the devil leading to sin and debauchery, which considering its complexity and popularity amongst the denizens of gaming houses, stews and gatherings of ‘gentlemen’ is probably a fair assessment. However like Hazard it is not a game for simpletons, drunkards and the numerically challenged, any player who wanted to win or at least leave with his shirt had to keep track of cards and odds.

  Objective

  Four players play the game. Scoring is one point for every trick taken over six tricks. At least two hands must be played to win the game since the most points that may be scored in a single hand is eight. Play proceeds until nine points are scored by a team.

  Starting

  The two games are played in a similar fashion: for Ruff & Honours, 52 cards are used, with 12 cards being dealt to each player. The top card of the remaining four is turned over to determine the trump suit. In Honours, 48 cards are used; all twos are discarded. The final card dealt to the dealer is turned over to determine trump.

  Play

  The player with the ace of trump declares "I have the honour" and then asks her/his partner "Have ye?" If the team has three of the four honour cards (ace, king, queen, jack) they score one point. If they have all four they score 2 points.

  Play begins with the person to the dealers left. The player leads a card and all other players follow suit if possible. A player who cannot follow suit may play any card. The trick is won by the highest played card (trump or highest played in suit lead).

  The winner of each trick leads the next.

  The Fetter Lane Fleece,

  Prologue. Fleeing the Fleece

  The snow covered mound on the rough cobbles crunched with the solid impact of his body and Ned whimpered as he rolled. Oh Christ that…that stung! The icy crystals set the skin of his bare back aflame, especially the long bloody scratches from that cursed sign. Well he hoped it was only the shock of the snow and ice that aggravated his current condition. It didn’t pay to investigate too closely what lay under the few inches of snow in a Liberties street. Dead dogs, piles of mouldering rushes and steaming kitchen waste where amongst the lesser ills. At least, remarked his daemon, it wasn’t the Fleete Ditch, a river of turds and tanner’s discharge. He’d dangled over that last week, seemingly for hours, on the brink of imminent death by drowning, as had Earless Nick’s luckless minion. No, no fear of that fate tonight. Instead he only had to worry about daggers, swords, cudgels, a butcher’s cleaver or two and the savage fury of an irate punk. See, said his daemon, nothing to worry about.

  Rolling with the momentum of his sudden exit Ned staggered to his feet, and rendered slightly unsteady by his too solid landing, began to stagger off down Fetter Lane towards Fleete Street. A loud chorus of howls and curses from the Wool’s Fleece informed him that his solo sojourn was going to be of a very short duration. Damn. Ned hopped on one foot as he tried to continue his forward passage while at the same time attempting to pull on his left shoe. As for the rest of his clothes, his better angel may scold him for looking more naked than the wild Irish or bare breeched Scots, but unlike them he did have the ability to cloth his present nakedness. Just not now, thank the blessed saints for the shroud of night, even if the extra cold was shrinking his cods and setting his skin a prickle with goose bumps. If he continued much further in this ‘exposed condition’, his bollocks would be lumps either side of his neck and not even an hours delightful cajoling by Mistress Adeline could draw his pizzle out from its hiding spot.

  Oh by the blessed saints why did the Twelve days of Christmas have to be so damnedly cold? Or Reedman’s brother, the stupid measle, so bereft of brains or commonsense?

  Ned’s foot stamped down upon a thin layer of ice instantly breaking through the crust and he sank knee deep into the resulting pothol
e. Oh Christ! Oh Christ! Oh…Of a sudden his mind froze over in white pain as the water and muddy ice, chilled by weeks of Lord Frost’s breath, fountained up drenching his not so dangling nearest and dearest cods. The world around him blurred and he tried to draw breath to scream. Richard Reedman, you miserable bastard! If his cods were damaged or blighted the fool was going to suffer.

  An angry cry from behind told Ned he didn’t have time to cater for his frosty manhood. He needed to move, or else. The motivation of a prime kicking and thumping plus sundry assaults with cudgels and knives prompted his flagging efforts, and shivering as if he had the ague, Ned pushed on. The cries though increased in volume as the foisters of the Fleece rallied for a chase. Damn, damn, damn! This plan looked so good back at the Sign of the Spread Eagle. His angel remarked waspishly that it was warm in there by the blazing fire and he’d a full tankard of Rhenish in hand, so...

  “Ere’s t’ stinking measle who ‘it me!” the fair Delphina screeched.

  “A shillin’ ta the one what brings ‘im down!” The slightly muffled nasally voice of Flaunty Phil added. A hand over his broken nose may have hindered his speech, though an eager roar and cheer still answered the call.

  Ned ignored his other shoe, gave up any further attempt at pulling on his shirt, doublet and hose and instead found a new burst of speed. Damn this! He just had to stop this dreadful habit of helping out friends with their Liberties follies. It was proving to be dangerous to his health, and by Satan’s great black hairy balls, so perishingly cold!

  Chapter One. A Festive Gathering, The Sixth Day of Christmas 1529

  As the icy spray of Lord Frost’s breath made manifest the chill toll of the winter season, hope and joy warmed the heart in the Christian domain of England. It was the very centre of the Twelve days of Christmas and a time of solemn celebration in church, as families and local guilds gave thanks for the birth of the Saviour. However not all were inclined to the gravitas of the season. The twelve days heralded the triumph of a more mischievous spirit as well, one enthroned on an ale barrel, cloaked in gaudy rags and tinsel with a wooden spoon as a sceptre. For this was the reign of the Lord of Misrule, where apprentices could act as their masters and the solemnity of the church was ridiculed, its faults, greed and hypocrisy exposed. The normal rules of position and privilege that tightly bound the obedience of the Tudor kingdom for a brief span of time were set aside. On the whole the gentry accepted the jibes and bestowed the traditional festival rewards, smiling at the ribald humour of the plays and japes. After all it was only for twelve days.

  In the cheery warmth of a private room at the Sign of the Spread Eagle tavern in Wood Street such concerns about the brevity of Misrule’s reign were banished amongst the joys and pleasures of the Christmas Revels. The snow may have been falling steadily outside, shrouding the rutted city street and the higgledy piggledy line of the thatch and tile roofs in a mantle of velvet white, but as picturesque a scene as it was to set any poet to a sighing and a scribbling of its pristine beauty, the company present cared not a fart. Nor did they spare much consideration for the religious and symbolic meaning of the festivities. No. The twenty odd apprentice clerks and lawyers from the Inns of Court were solely focused on the trays of freshly baked and steaming mutton pies and the jugs of mulled Rhenish at hand, that was except for a cluster at the gaming table or the two fellows lost in sighing admiration of the trio of diaphanously clad maidens singing sweetly of Maying time pleasures.

  In the feast’s chair of state at the head of the main table was Red Ned Bedwell, apprentice lawyer, and as he would have his fellows believe, a very successful aspiring gentleman on the rise. He was feeling very relaxed not to mention pleased at the course of his Christmas Revels. Though there were some who’d reckon Ned was in manner and habits closer to a measly rogue, a common foister or toss-potting dice man. Luckily for Ned the main prompter of these views and arch disrupter of his ‘ahem’ plans, Mistress Meg Black, wasn’t invited to the Revels. A good thing too whispered Ned’s daemon as he noticed the ready and very attractive smile of the scantily clad harpist in the corner. It was such a very enticing smile, the rosy lips and dark fluttering eyelashes full of promise. Ned felt his cods become somewhat restricted in accommodation as the harpist winked slowly at him.

  A sudden and heavy wallop temporarily distracted the direction of his thoughts and brought Ned, cods and all, abruptly back to the Revels. “Ned, this is as fine a feast as those at the Guildhall. You certainly have a gift.”

  The large hand of his friend Rob Black gripped Ned’s shoulder with almost eye–watering strength. Good fortune or timing favoured Ned, for this was perhaps the only time that evening he was not holding the pewter cup of sweet sack, and so it didn’t drench his neighbour in an inopportune spray of wine. Wincing slightly Ned thanked his feasting companion for his compliments. As he’d found last year the apprentice smith and foundry man was an excellent lad to have at one’s side in a brawl, for all his brotherly relationship to the indomitable and suspicious minded Meg. However working amongst other fellows of equal breadth and stature, Rob frequently forgot the effect of his size and strength on mere mortals. Ned boasted some six feet in height with as he thought decent shoulders and fine legs thanks to the rigorous training provided Master Sylver, and in his own mind felt himself the epitome of manly physic. When Rob clapped a heavy hand on his back Ned felt as weak as any hunch–shouldered, crab–fisted clerk of his Uncle Richard’s at Middle Temple Inns. It was a humbling reminder that despite brawl, affray and a handy need for speed from irate swains or outraged husbands, he just wasn’t going to be able to wrestle a recalcitrant carthorse like Rob.

  Ned smiled and with a shrug eased his sore shoulder. Hanging from the Fleete Bridge the other night had strained a muscle or two. They still ached when he stretched to roll the dice. At his visible wince during yesterday’s Dellingham sojourn at the chantry hospital the keen eyed Mistress Black had quickly whipped out some gooey, stinking ointment from that bottomless magickal apothecary’s satchel she perpetually hauled about wherever she ventured. Ned wasn’t sure if it worked or not, but damn hadn’t the stuff burned like the wind from Satan’s arse when he’d rubbed it in.

  Even in the midst of the celebration as the aromatic pies approached, at the reminder of yesterday’s jaunt Ned quickly glanced over at their own guest and captive. Hmm yes, ‘lamb’ Walter was safely shadowed by his fair escort over at the gaming table, so at least for tonight there was little likelihood of mischief. Ned dismissed any forebodings, and exchanging a jest with John Reedman set to this latest serving for the revels. His daemon purred that this was his most excellent scheme—good wine, good company, attractively and scantily dressed musicians, and the satisfied jingle of a full purse. If this was the life of a gentleman then he could get used to it. Not even the waspish warning of his better angel diminished his warm glow of triumph and adulation of the companies cheers. Damn but this was a fine Revel!

  As if summoned by the ill chanced wish or the dark herald of Christmas Repentance, a loud knocking sounded at the door, seeking entrance to blight Ned’s latest pleasure.

  Chapter Two. Strange Tidings

  Ned relaxed back into his chair with a dramatic sigh of relief as the thumping of his heart wound back from the frantic beat of alarum to its more measured pace. By the blessed saints and Lady Fortuna it was just some scruffy urchin bearing a message for one of their company. For a moment there he’d thought the Revels were going to be raided by Sir Thomas More’s pursuivants and wouldn’t that have been ironic. While there was probably an abundance of evangelical sympathisers in the room, with the Revels in full flood none would’ve shown the least interest in reading the latest serving of heretical literature—a fact which if she’d known would have set Mistress Meg Black a frowning and a cursing at the missed opportunity of ‘religious improvement’ amongst the fellows of the Inns of Court. Whether the Lord Chancellor’s men would have bothered with the niceties of inquiry was another question. Ned h
ad crossed their path last year when Sir Thomas was just the relatively lowly Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster responsible for, amongst his other duties, the repair of Fleete Ditch bridge, and which to Ned’s personal testament was the shoddiest of jobs, almost costing this aspiring gentlemen and apprentice lawyer a fatal tumble into the icy turd–choked depths.

  Anyway, overtly heretic free or not, More’s men had a nasty habit of proclaiming any gathering they found infested with lovers of Luther. Unless of course they were convinced of the company’s undoubted respect for His Sovereign Majesty the Lord Chancellor and the Church via a discrete transfer of silver,—four shillings from the tattling Ned had heard last week.