The Lord Of Misrule

by House, Gregory

  Finally Cromwell put down the letter and swung his undivided attention at Ned. With a slightly impatient flick of his fingers, he indicated that Ned should rise from his bow. “Ahh, Master Bedwell. Your Christmas Revels are going well I trust?”

  This may have sounded like a pleasant question from his indulgent patron, but Ned knew that it wasn’t. Cromwell, as he was coming to understand, never indulged in idle conversation. Every word and nuance was weighed and measured for use, impact or return.

  Quietly and respectfully Ned answered. “As good Christians and gentlemen, Councillor, our ceremony is celebrated with proper reverence and due respect for the season.” Ned’s better angel tut–tutted reprovingly, as the memory of the carousing at the Sign of the Spread Eagle several hours earlier resurfaced. Ned kept a tight rein on his bland smile. Cromwell could read volumes in a single twitch.

  His lord and master paced over to the nearby table and tapped it with a single finger as he gave a very slow nod. “I see. I hope that it is exactly as you maintain, Master Bedwell. The good ‘health’ of young Walter is a matter dear to the King’s interests.”

  Ned didn’t have to translate that. The Dellingham scion was important to some scheme of Cromwell’s.

  His patron gave the slightest cough and continued. “Sir Martin Dellingham is an ardent reformer and as you’ve seen, is much influenced by the opinions of his good lady.”

  The sudden image of Sir Martin, ring through his nose like that of a bullock, and with tether grasped firmly by Lady Dellingham, was produced by his delighted daemon.

  “There are several matters currently before the Shropshire assizes that Sir Martin has offered his assistance in mediating with his neighbours. Since they are closely connected with His Majesty’s personal affairs, I do not need to spell them out.” Once more this wasn’t a question, though it sounded like one.

  Cromwell twisted a ring on his large hand and gave the slightest frown as he spoke. “So Master Bedwell, I’m sure I have made a wise choice in placing this unworldly young man into your charge?”

  “The care of Walter Dellingham is my watchword Councillor.”

  Cromwell turned his back to Ned and strolled over to the fire. Then after a minute’s silence Cromwell continued in almost a musing fashion. “You know Master Bedwell, the devil sets snares for us every day. Sin and temptation dog our footsteps. According to some learned men, it is how we grapple with these demon’s traps that gives us the chance of salvation. As we know, every man, even the veriest sinner can gain the grace of our loving God by their justification of faith.”

  Ned was somewhat lost. He didn’t have a clue what his patron was talking about. Salvation, sin he’d been dragged all the way across a bitterly chill London to hear cryptic homilies? To play safe he murmured profound agreement and humble thanks for the advice. After that and a longer silence, Ned was given a simple waved dismissal as Cromwell, staring out the window at the falling snow, ignored him. With a hopefully graceful half bow, Ned turned on his heel and exited the room. He once more pulled on his cap to ward against the chill of Westminster’s corridors. Damn, now he had to walk all the way back and the point of this summons was, well put simply, look after Walter. He shook his head and rubbed his face in exasperation. Damn, damn, damn! He had to trudge back all that way and it was snowing and for company he had the surly Gruesome Roger. So much for the pleasant idylls of the Christmas Revels!

  ***

  Chapter Six: Where’s Walter?

  “I’m telling you, he can’t be down there Rob!” He was sure the shout came out muffled, but Ned wasn’t going to remove the sack soaked kerchief from his face. The stench was strong enough to drop an ox. Only the Fleete Ditch would be worse. Instead Ned thumped Rob on the shoulder, then grabbing a handful of doublet, pulled him out of the room of easement. Both of them lent against the opposite wall and gulped in drafts of fresher air, less tainted by the fetid stench of the privy, as their breath steamed in the winter air.

  “But Ned, he as to be!” Rob sounded almost plaintive.

  Ned shook his head. No, it just wasn’t possible, even for a foolish lamb like Walter. His friend, however, kept on clutching a single shoe and peering fretfully into the dark recess below the four hole privy. While Ned had heard stories of the odd unfortunate who’d been so taken with drink that they’d tumbled into the privy pit and expired, that couldn’t have happened to Walter. Could it? The forlorn shoe in Rob’s hand hinted at the dreadful fate. Ned shivered as a chill breeze whistled under the tavern gate. It was freezing here and even his gloved hands felt frozen in the short time they’d spent in the tavern’s small courtyard. By the saints, what was Cromwell going to say? He’d just left him, swearing that the Dellingham lad was in safe hands. Christ on the Cross, it’d be a cruel turn of Fortuna’s wheel to have him drown in a privy. Ned stamped his feet on the frozen slush as his stomach complained of ill treatment. His unhappy daemon prodded his thoughts. This was a damned foolish task.

  “We’ll find nothing here. I’m going in for an ale!” So abruptly turning on his heel, Ned walked back down the narrow passage through the doorway into the cheery warmth of the common room of the Sign of the Spread Eagle. Rob lingered an extra few seconds and gave the privy a last quick inspection then promptly followed after.

  Plunking himself down on the bench, Ned wearily rubbed his aching forehead. All this damned excitement and racing around before breakfast. Damn Cromwell and Meg Black to the fiends of Hell. His Christmas Revels were being ruined. In the meantime various members of the Christmas Company drifted down stairs to sup on the morning offering. The tavern keeper had laid out small beer, fresh manchet loafs and a honey sweetened porridge. Ned eagerly broke off a piece of bread and dipped it in the steaming bowl. By the saints it tasted good. All the way to Westminster and back with a growling stomach, the sacrifices he made for duty and now this. Encouragingly he poured a horn cup of mulled ale and pushed it towards his large friend who’d finally appeared and signaling for him to sit at the bench. Rob, however, ignored the invitation and still stood there looking distinctly worried and twisting the single leather shoe in his callused hands.

  “Rob, we won’t solve this on an empty belly. Sit, eat, and tell me the tale from the beginning.” His daemon silently appended ‘again’ to the end of the sentence, but Ned ignored the slight. He’d arrived in the midst of chaos so charitably he allowed for misunderstanding. Reluctantly Rob folded himself onto the bench, though he didn’t let go of the shoe, and after tentative sip of his beer, slowly recounted the immediate past.

  “Well Ned, we didn’t know up till half an hour ago. Everything seemed fine, then…then…” Rob shook his head and his explanation stumbled to a halt.

  Ned finished his morsel of breakfast and waved his hands in a placating manner. This was going to be easier if everyone remained calm, especially his own impatiently demanding daemon. “All right Rob. Let’s take this a step at a time. What happened say an hour ago?”

  Rob gave a snuffling sniff and wiped his face with his sleeve. “The fellows from the Inns were still playing Hazard and Walter was the caster.”

  Ned blinked in amazement. What, Walter the innocent lamb was still at it the next day? A nagging reminder from his daemon said that this was old news. Rob had said similar before he’d hurried off to Cromwell. Ned ignored that and instead dwelt on all those damned hours wasted dealing with Meg Black and the useless summons to Westminster. All that time and he could have been siphoning Walter’s purse. Instead others had free rein. Curse his luck. “Ahh, how did he go?”

  It was Rob’s turn to look surprised. The young artificer gave a most perplexed frown and rubbed his chin. “Oh yes Walter… you see that’s were it went a bit strange, Ned.”

  “Really, how?”

  Rob gave an embarrassed cough and fidgeted with the lone shoe on the table. “I was watching him as you’d asked, and Walter appeared to be holding his own most of the night, winning and losing the same as the others. Then after y
ou left this morning, the game changed.”

  “How?” Ned’s daemon trembled in dread anticipation.

  “For one thing, Walter scooped the pot of six angels in a very fast set of games.”

  “What? Walter? Six angels?” Ned tried hard to credit the event, but that was impossible. Walter was the primmest, most succulent cony he’d ever seen, a born innocent ready for a fleecing and yet…he won a pool of six angels?

  Rob recognized his puzzlement and nodded.

  “Yeah, from two shillings to six angels all within a half hour.”

  It was Ned’s turn to shake his head in disbelief. How could that happen? Lady Fortuna was known to spread her favours widely but a gain of six angels? He’d never seen the like before. “So what happened then?”

  Rob gave one of his despairing shrugs. “As I said earlier, Walter claimed an urgent need for the privy and we thought nothing of it, until some half an hour had past. I went to look for him and found only this.” Rob pushed the forlorn shoe forward.

  Ned gave the piece of footwear a thoughtful tap. This situation was highly irregular.

  “Was Walter much taken in drink?” That was one possibility, though Ned considered you’d have to be spectacularly drunk to fall into a privy. His daemon appended that falling over tosspot drunks didn’t win six angels at Hazard.

  “No, no he wasn’t. I’d have said slightly tipsy, that’s all. Walter walked well enough.”

  Ned pinched a lip and cast a wary eye around the common room. The Sign of the Eagle was one of the more reputable taverns in this ward, which was why he’d chosen the place. Unlike some, it wasn’t a sink hole of depravity where masterless men gathered to plot mischief and felony. Their preferred prowling ground on this side of the river was over in the London Liberties past the Fleete Ditch. With Tam keeping an eye on proceedings upstairs and in the common room, it was unlikely any nips, foister or cross biters were in residence. So scratch the cony catchers and peddlers of cozenage, although, perhaps there was one possibility.

  Ned lent forward. “Rob, tell me, did Walter take his purse?”

  “Why no, no he didn’t. Walter left it with me.” Rob smiled and patted a lump in his doublet.

  That was usually a wise move. It was incredibly difficult to chase after a thieving nip with your hose around your ankles. Perhaps Ned should have blamed his daemon for the next thought. No matter. On a hunch Ned put out his hand and Rob, after the briefest hesitation, pulled out the missing lamb’s purse and placed it the offered palm. Now practice had made Ned a passable judge of coin and its weights. He hefted the small leather pouch. Hmm, six angels or more in shillings and pence: that should sound more tinkly and heavier like sweet silver.

  Cautiously Ned loosened the cords and poured out the winnings. A small stream of coin spilled on to the wooden table and lay there forlornly. Ned’s daemon screamed in outrage at the sight, while Rob, his eyes wide in shock, as he spluttered. “What! But it didn’t leave my doublet! Ned what’s going on?”

  Before them both was a very miserable collection of a dozen farthings and a liberal section of rough copper discs. Perhaps enough to pay for day’s food for a labourer, but a healthy spread of gold and silver coins totaling forty six shillings, it certainly wasn’t.

  Ned rubbed his face as he throttled the wild speculations of his daemon. “Hmm, well at a guess those six angels have disappeared – like our dear Walter.”

  “What do you mean Walter’s disappeared, Red Ned Bedwell?”

  As those familiar tones of disapproval rang out, Rob’s face turned pale. Ned didn’t have to look behind him to identify their latest visitor. He dropped his head into the cradle of his hand. Of all the cursed luck, who should turn up but that damned nosy herb dabbler!

  As expected, the usual accusations flew forth, that he was a miserable measle, a drunkard, a tosspot, a cozener of lewd inclinations and no doubt an imp of mischief and debauchery who did the devil’s work. That, at least, was the edited version. Ned had heard all this before. The lass had more inventive and colourful language than a fishwife, though this time, as far as his better angel was willing to swear, he wasn’t at fault. Well, not for all of it. The planning and intent of debauchery, in his mind, was a different order of sin to the act. Anyway lamb Walter may have baulked at the gate, so that one didn’t count.

  In the meantime Ned didn’t try any defense, just lowered his head and let it all flow over him. Eventually Meg Black’s fearsome temper would wind down. She’d gathered breath for a further volley including, as Ned suspected, physical missiles to add weight to her argument, when her brother Rob stood up to be the willing sacrifice. Shamefacedly, he volunteered that Walter’s lack of presence was his fault, since Ned had been called away. At the news Meg Black actually halted and swung her baleful gaze towards her brother. Ned could actually see her weighting the truth of his report. In the end a quick whisper from Gruesome Roger seemed to reinforce the current version of events and reluctantly Mistress Black took a seat and almost kindly asked Rob what had happened.

  That may have been a reprieve, except that Rob also faithfully reported the progress of the revels and Walter’s willing, and in fact eager, participation. As the tale unwound Ned fervently wished for his friend to acquire a modicum of discretion. He wasn’t sure whether Meg Black was going to erupt into another bout of anger when it came to the description of Hazard.

  Instead she seemed to satisfy her violent urge by instead refocusing her attention Ned–wards. “Bedwell, you measly lewdster! Is this the Christian care that you promised Lady Dellingham and Cromwell?”

  Now that was a very difficult accusation to answer, especially considering his plans, so instead he tried deflection. “May I remind you, Mistress Black, that twice I was called away, each time on urgent ‘business’ so it was nigh impossible to cater to those ‘demands’ and watch over Walter, unless I were suddenly to miraculously become TWINS!” The last part was in a deliberately louder volume since, by all the saints, he too could shout.

  Meg Black seemed on the verge of replying, probably in kind, until another quiet whisper from Gruesome Roger stalled her. And if looks could impart the fires of the netherworld, then Ned was sure he’d now be a well and truly scorched twig smoking pathetically on the ground. However drawing upon some hidden reserve, Meg visibly forced herself to calm and in an almost normal voice, asked “So if poor Walter hasn’t fallen into the ‘house of easement’, where is he?”

  Ned’s daemon waspishly remarked that some ten minutes ago he was at the same stage and if uninterrupted they’d be further ahead. As usual Ned ignored that remark. He’d found in past dealings with Meg Black the first ‘natural’ response only led to bitter dispute. Instead one had to sensitively walk around the problem and allow her to think she had equal input. “I don’t know Meg. I’ve only spent a few hours in his company.”

  That barbed reminder gained him a frown but that was all. His daemon hinted that Meg Black obliviously was saving her temper for a more impressive occasion; a hypothesis strongly disagreed with by his better angel, who spoke of Christian forbearance. Ned thought both were off target, but kept back his reasoning.

  After a minute of finger tapping silence, Meg Black finally came out with ‘her’ suggestion. “Do you think Walter was seized by More’s men?”

  He blinked in surprise. Ned hadn’t considered this unpleasant possibility. “I shouldn’t think so. This tavern hasn’t any reputation for ‘night schooling’ or else they’d have searched upstairs.”

  Where More’s pursuivants would have found the opposite of evangelical studies, his daemon reminded Ned, but this prompted further speculation. His mind slowly worked over the problem. He’d finally had some food so the ache in his gut was abated though the weariness from the night’s work still lingered. So it probably wasn’t Sir Thomas More. His secret pursuivants prowled all over London, but somehow it didn’t seem like the Lord Chancellor’s style to grab only one. They tended to like their victims in batches. It alw
ays looked more impressive as they were marched through the London streets. “Tell me Meg, does his family have any disputes lodged at the courts?”

  Now it was her turn to be surprised. “Why no, I don’t think so. The family isn’t staying until the law term. Remember Walter and his mother are leaving for Geneva after Twelfth Night.”

  To Ned that only meant they had no writs or actions pending. Still the concerns of last night worked upon his imagination. He hadn’t been followed, had he? Warily Ned inspected the fellow inhabitants of the tavern common room –some dozen Christmas company revelers, a few locals he’d seen before and them. None appeared to have the devious demeanor of pursuivants, but his daemon whispered that, with a really practiced pursuivant, how would you know?