Dangerous, subversive, damned heretical and corrosive of the soul! That was how Bishop Stokesley of London termed the flood of forbidden heretical books. Ned had to admit the Bishop could be right. Heretical books had changed his life though not just from their perusal. It was another stranger route that had snagged him.
No less an authority than Sir Thomas More claimed that the flood of ‘fetid filth spewing from the arse of Luther’ was dropped through open windows as baited traps for the innocent and unwary. The truth was somewhat different. It was smuggled into the country and snapped up by avid readers, ready to hand over a few shillings. And one of the main suppliers of this heretical trade was Mistress Meg Black, apprentice apothecary, the recent ruiner of his Christmas Revels, and current reluctant partner in the minding of young Walter Dellingham.
Ned still wasn’t sure how to describe their, what…friendship?…Acquaintance?… familiarity?…connection via his companionship with her brother Rob? Or perhaps it was the shared travails and threats of the Cardinals Angels? Maybe even a touch of gratitude for ministering to his injuries, even if one time it was with a white hot poker, though his better angel prodded him to reluctantly admit the wound had healed well. However his daemon had slyly suggested another reason. Since the College of Barber-Surgeons had essentially forbidden women, Meg Black would take her practice in surgeoning where she found it.
However neither gratitude nor connivance explained why Ned found his cods stirring alarmingly as Meg Black swayed past in a laced bodice and kirtle. She was fair enough at some five foot in height and he had to admit he liked the way her blue grey eyes sparkled with mischief. Or the tilt of her pert nose when she was amused and the manner in which she brushed her chestnut hair off her ears with a distracted flick while she puzzled through a problem. This allure though had its draw backs. In all of London he’d never met such a forward lass. Instead of the modest, respectful silence becoming to a young girl, as was proclaimed from the pulpit, Meg Black followed her own wilful customs and was never one to shy away from dispute or argument.
Actually the more he thought about it, the more Cromwell’s request of his involvement in this task of sheepish–reformer shepherding seemed somewhat strange. Why him? Surely Cromwell had several more qualified retainers, all hot for reform, with the status to show an impressionable country lad around the best reformist sites of the city. The short missive signed by his ‘good lord’ was as brief and cryptic as he was coming to expect. It charged him to ward and protect Walter Dellingham from the many perils that manifest in this city of London, and that was all. No further instructions, admonishments or recommendations. Considering the usual hedging and prevarication of his Uncle Richard, this instruction was briefer than a bishop’s penance. Ned gave Meg Black a covert glance. She seemed pleased with a faintly satisfied smile on her face, the one she usually had after successfully finishing a complicated remedy. His daemon noted that for a hot bible–smuggling reformist, Meg seemed extraordinarily pleased to be here. Odd that. Another suspicious thought bubbled up. She couldn’t have volunteered him, could she? His daemon suggested some devious motive, but his better angel vetoed it, instead raising the matter of Christian charity and fellowship. Of the two explanations, Ned tended towards the first.
A few more strange ideas collided in his imaginings. Those old chivalric tales, with the maiden a–sobbing and a–sighing, always had some manner of rivalry between two contenders for her attentions. Could that be it? Meg Black, the most practical of girls, hadn’t rigged this situation and dragged him away from his Christmas Revels, just to have him enact a storybook competition for the hand of the fair damsel. No, Ned shook his head. It couldn’t be so. After all she’d need another claimant, an opposing rival…and there was none.
Until Ned’s daemon pointed him to the right of Meg, at Walter. Once more Ned denied the path of his daemon’s snide whispers. Walter wasn’t even vaguely possible as a rival. The weedy lad was from a reform minded family true, but the fellow was humbler than a cony and according to his mother had a diet to match, happy to munch on lettuce and carrots. In spite of the ridiculousness of the suggestion, his daemon continued to niggle. Why not? Wasn’t this all too coincidental? Remember how after they’d been left with Walter, he’d cast his mournful gaze upon Meg and asked in that weak–kneed, wheedling voice if they could ‘please’ go to St Paul’s. Because, as he’d claimed, his family had railed so much against the Bishop of London, if they accompanied him then he’d feel brave enough to see the devil’s lair.
That was the reason they’d had to endure this two hour session instead of visiting secret bible study classes. Oh, on that point Ned’s recrimination shuddered to a halt. Meg had dragged him along to one, three weeks ago. It had been more of an ordeal than the Christmas Mass. They’d all been so secretively intense, asking him passionately if he’d been saved. No, Christmas Mass, for all its errors was preferable.
Though once more he bent his gaze Walter–wards, while previously he’d been almost nuzzling up to Meg, now their friend, the cony, was busy craning his neck over his shoulder, peering towards the shadowy back of the building. In the meantime his daemon ticked over a few plans. Kidnapping was out since Cromwell was involved. So was a duel. Public humiliation could work, hmm there was a possibility. His better angel roundly chastised him for the wicked thoughts. He had to agree. Humiliation could create sympathy. Everyone knew how flighty and unpredictable women were.
However his ever helpful daemon nudged one intriguing idea out into the light. Hmm. Ned gave their ‘guest’ a slit eyed inspection. Yes, yes that could work and would somehow be so appropriate. Ned pushed off from his place by the pillar, shifted towards his target and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Walter, my fine fellow. What say we leave this den of Satan’s imps and get some fresh air? I certainly feel the need to take a piss. My bladder’s fuller than a bishop’s cellar.”
With that Ned speedily levered his mark away from his fellow guardians and gave them a cheery wave. “Back soon. Let us know what happens at the end of the sermon!”
Both Gruesome Roger and Meg glared at him. One was puzzled, the other suspicious. Ned ignored them and quickly pushed the compliant Walter out the door.
Even in the heavy Christmas snow the daily affairs of London didn’t stop. Ned gave a quick glance around and spotted the prominent cluster of colour, sheltering under the eaves of a tavern across from the church. With a hefty grip on the shoulder of his charge, he steered him towards a nearby wall. “Walter my fine fellow, I take it you’ve never been to London before?”
“Ah… ah, no Master Bedwell. Never. My mother said it was a sink hole of depravity where harlots strutted openly on every street.”
Ned gave the gaudy gathering several yards away another rapid scan. Hmm, Lady Dellingham could have been right here. “Not so formal Walter. Call me Ned, or as my closest friends do, Red Ned.”
“Ahh…certainly Red, ahh, Ned.”
It was hesitant but at least a start. Ned took a position in front of a wall just up from the watching crowd and began to unlace his codpiece. “Around here there’s a lack of privies, so Walter my lad, its common practice to use a pissing wall.”
Actually Londoners also used the piss channel in the centre of the road that hopefully carried refuse to the river. With a relieved sigh, Ned performed the necessary function soon followed by a puzzled Walter. Taking his time despite the winter chill, Ned made sure the mounded snow steamed in a prominent display of capacity until he was certain of a result.
An approaching voice trilled suitable appreciation of his feat. “Ohh I’s says lads. Youse got a rit royal sceptre an’ orb ’ere. Fancy Anthea crowns ‘em fo’ a six pence?”
Ned finished relacing his cod piece and turned with a smile towards the first of the brightly arrayed girls strutting towards them. The punks of St Paul’s were a colourful bunch, proud of their gaudy plumage. As Ned knew, in the hierarchy of ‘street vendors’, they stood near the top of their free rang
ing sisterhood, only surpassed by the brothel mistresses in the various ‘nunneries’ scattered across the city’s Liberties. He was also aware of their forward and bold manner that had the preachers at St Paul’s vexed at the displays of open lewdness. For young Walter, he could think of none more suited for the poor mouse. Mistress Anthea had long blonde hair fluttering loose under a simple green cap. She was dressed in a lace fronted kirtle of worn scarlet and had her chemise pulled down around her neck, exposing an interesting amount of breast. A heavy dark cloak was looped through her arms. No doubt it nestled around her shoulders when trade was slower.
Ned doffed his own cap in a play at gallantry as the St Paul’s punks came closer. “Why thank you for the compliment, though I fear that I must decline your generous offer. However my friend here is new to the glories of London and may be interested.”
With a wave of his hand, Ned indicated the gawping Walter. At the invitation Mistress Anthea, the boldest of the punks, slipped between the two of them and wrapped an arm around Walter, pulling his face into a close inspection of her bulging bodice. Ned gave an amused chuckle at the sight. “So Walter, you asked to witness the wicked haunts of Babylon. Care to caress a set of devil’s dumplings?”
Obligingly Mistress Anthea wiggled her bodice and two rosy nipples popped out. Ned could tell how cold it was, for the nipples were as hard and pointy as a church steeple. Walter’s eyes locked on the sight and he swallowed with an audible gulp. “Oh Lord, save me from temptation!”
“Y’know what they say Walter? To conquer sin you must recognise it.”
Tentatively Walter the cony reached out and stroked the top of one breast with the back of his fingers. Mistress Anthea smiled encouragingly and caught up Walter’s hand, then looking the lad full in the eye, nibbled his fingers. Walter the cony gulped even louder and his breathing altering noticeably. Ned considered the situation. The education of Walter into the Ways of the World was looking good.
Unfortunately Lady Fortuna saw fit at the trembling cusp of temptation to spoil the proceedings. Meg Black chose that delicate moment to exit the cathedral and of course beheld the sight of Walter’s introduction to the city. Ned stifled a sigh of exasperation as she stormed over towards the colourful company, trailed by a worried Gruesome Roger. Ned cautiously took a sideways step as Meg Black, her face crimson with either cold or fury, strode up to Mistress Anthea and thrust a menacing finger at her. “You! Unhand him, you gutter punk!”
At this challenge Mistress Anthea locked her arm around that the now dazed Walter and snarled her defiance. “Is ‘e youse gentlem’n?”
“What? No!”
Ned shook his head at her automatic response. Oh no, that was the wrong answer. Surely Meg knew how possessive the St Paul’s punks were? His better angel scolded him for succumbing to temptation and jealousy. His daemon, however, recommended a more wait and see gambit.
In the meantime the competition escalated when Meg made a grab at Walter’s free arm, Mistress Anthea tightened her grip. “Well sod off sister! I’s saw ‘im first!”
Meg, still holding one of Walter’s arms, tried to haul him away. Instead this action backfired as several of the St Paul’s punks hurried over to support their companion. “Ned, Roger help me!”
At this summons what could he do? Reluctantly Ned grabbed hold of Walter’s arm along with the straining Meg Black. If the intention was to foil the attempt of Mistress Anthea it failed. Two of her sisters immediately joined in the tug of war. To Ned this turn of events didn’t bode well. He’d wanted Walter shocked, or perhaps pliantly compromised, but as a tug o’ war trophy betwixt Meg Black and the St Paul’s punks, this could become too public.
Ned repositioned his feet in the slippery snow and lent backwards, physically dragging Walter and the other team three paces along the street. However a further pair of punks joined the fray and he lost a pace.
“Roger? Roger!”
At the cry Ned risked a brief glance across to Meg Black’s usually looming minion. Gruesome Roger was standing to one side, chewing his lip, with a very strange expression on his face. If Ned didn’t know better he’d think it was fear. No, this couldn’t be right. Given the slightest excuse, Roger Hawkins was always ready to pull the iron shod cudgel from his belt and wade into the fray, though not this time. To Ned, the scar faced minion appeared almost reluctant, as if he wished himself elsewhere.
“Roger!”
Another more strident call finally galvanised him into action. The retainer roughly shoved himself next to his mistress and then, grabbing the confused Walter, hoisted their poor charge onto his shoulder. It was a good effort, though Anthea and her companions still kept their grip on a trailing arm.
“Oy. Don’t tak Walter. ‘e’s mine own lambkin, e’ is. Sweetkin’s don’t leave Anthea!”
The inclusion of Gruesome Roger made the contest easier. They gained four paces though the St Paul’s punks still struggled to hold on, their shoes treading the snow into a mushy slurry. One of the more enterprising girls scooped up a mixed handful of snow and threw it at them. It impacted on the back of Roger’s neck causing him to stagger in surprise and curse. “Oww! Leave off y’ slattern doxy!”
This however prompted Mistress Anthea to swap from Walter to Roger. She clutched at his doublet and dragged her head closer, peering intently at his turned away face. “Oy, I know’s ya. Yo’r Earless Nick’s man, Hawks. He’s been a askin’, after ya! Hawks, Hawks, you’ll let me ‘ave my little lambkin, won’t ya.”
Roger ignored the clinging punk’s claim of association and roughly shrugged her off. Mistress Anthea fell backwards, taking the rest of her tug o’ war team with her. They all landed in a sprawled heap on the fresh snow. A few of the more bold spectators to the affray urged them to go for a second round, while a tight cluster of merchant’s wives loudly complained of the shameful disorder on the streets.
Meg Black had won the tussle for Walter and quickly led him off, though not before the thwarted Mistress Anthea gave her own parting shots. “I’ll nay forget this Hawks, ya black hearted bastard! Ya can still get in sweet wit’ Earless if’n ya tells my sweetkins Anthea’ll be at the Sign o’ the Black Goat!”
To a continuing chorus of calls, they retreated towards the safety of Greyfriars and with every step Ned silently cursed the failure of his play. No doubt his chances of now separating Walter were ruined, though the poor little lamb kept on craning his head back over his shoulder watching, or so it seemed, the retreat from temptation with forlorn longing. So maybe not a total loss. However his daemon gleefully reminded him of one success, Gruesome Roger and Mistress Anthea. Ned was certain there was a story there and given the opportunity, he’d enjoy prying it out of the Black minion.
***
Chapter Four: A Doubtful Decision
Ned whistled a carefree tune as he took a place by the fire in the revels room of the Sign of the Spread Eagle. The day hadn’t turned out so bad after all. The church bells were ringing what he calculated to be five o’clock. Excellent, that meant an hour until the serving of the evening feasting, though there should be the odd pie or savoury tart to snack on till then. As for the St Paul’s affray, that had worked out for the best. The retreat to Greyfriars originally had him cursing, especially as Meg Black fussed over Walter, like a mother hen over a chick, so much so that Ned’s daemon was chiding him over the serious miscalculation. At this rate it had whispered, Walter and Meg would have a prenuptial contract before the week was out. The most that Ned had been able to do was absolve himself of the blame for the punks. Good old meek as a cony Walter had readily backed him up. He’d smiled at that performance. Oh the irony, being defended by poor little lamb Walter, when Ned been the one with mischief in mind. His daemon had chuckled over it for hours, though of course his better angel had disagreed, reminding him sternly of duty and Christian charity.
Then in the midst of the St Paul’s punks debacle, Meg Black had received an urgent plea for a list of medicines from one of the small ch
antry hospitals that the Guildhall sponsored. Since her twin cousins and uncle were elsewhere, that left her alone to mix up and prepare the requested remedies. Ned had offered, kindly he thought, to take Walter off her hands, since it was going to be both busy and boring here for some hours. To forestall Meg’s frowning hesitation, he also quietly reminded her of Lady Dellingham’s stricture regarding Walter’s ‘unbalanced humours’ not to mention his usual reaction to the presence of the infirmed. The possibility of having to deal with either a fainting or puking Walter could have been what swayed Meg’s decision. Or perhaps it was his solemn promise that her brother was as good a warden as she could find. Either way Walter was his for the night, a prospect that had him grinning in anticipation. Even better, Gruesome Roger was required as Meg Black’s escort, so he needn’t expect any more inconvenient summons. Yes!
The Lord Of Misrule Page 4
