The Lord Of Misrule

by House, Gregory

  Lurkers in the shadows? No, he firmly thought to himself, he had enough problems to worry about without his imagination supplying more. The question of Walter’s disappearance had to have a simple answer. “What do you know of Cromwell’s interest in the Dellinghams?”

  This elicited an interesting reaction. Ned could have sworn that, for one moment, Meg Black had blanched, and he thought he detected a hint of either anger or maybe fear. “I know no more then you Ned. I received the summons from Ralph Sadler and a note from my uncle.”

  At that answer his nascent lawyer’s instincts tingled. He’d stake silver on the fact that Mistress Black was lying, what about Ned wasn’t sure, but somehow he suspected it involved his presence in this scheme.

  All of a sudden Meg Black, the most practical of apothecary apprentices, gave a loud sniff and burst in to tears. “Oh poor Walter – the poor lost lamb! I’m sure he’s been led astray! Oh, Walter – lost and alone in London!”

  At this suddenly distraught scene Ned was at a loss. He’d only ever seen Meg cry once, and that was when recounting the death of her parents. To shed such prodigious tears for Walter, a mere stranger, set loose a veritable host of suspicions. The first and foremost of the pack was the prospect of a secret marriage contract between a reformist apothecary and a lad who was training to be a leading reformer. Not that he had any right to complain. Well not really…but…but he damned well didn’t like to be manipulated! So if that was the game, as his daemon whispered, Ned had a few ready plans for some revenge. He thumped the table with a fist. “By all the saints, stop your wailing. Trust me. Walter’s not that much of a lost lamb,” Ned replied bitterly.

  The crying halted with a shocked sniff and Meg Black dabbed at her tear–stained cheeks with a linen kerchief and glared at him. “Why not? Have you no shame, Ned Bedwell! Poor Walter, lost, alone and bewildered in the city, at risk of every foister, nip or lewd punk!”

  “Ahh…I think not.”

  “What?” At this denial, Meg Black lost the last of any desire for weeping. Instead she surged up to a full, angry five foot and balled her fists as if to lay a blow. Roger, still with that amused smile on his scarred face, edged closer to intercept. As for Ned, it was purely an instinctive reaction that made him flinch.

  Quickly he summed up his reasoning, or at least his daemon’s suspicions. “No, no. It’s not what you think! ‘Innocent lamb’ Walter took my lads from the Chancery for some six angels this morning at Hazard. Then he supposedly left Rob here with his purse.” Ned indicted the forlorn pile of scrap on the table. “That much nerve and skill takes a canny player of cozenage.”

  Meg Black’s hands remained clenched and her words were still bitingly bitter. “What are you implying, Ned Bedwell, you cozening swaggerer?”

  Ned could see he still had a long way to go before his own play was set, and spread his hands wide in the most innocent of expressions. “Just the facts Meg. For an innocent lad fresh from the country, lambkin Walter has already used two old cony–catcher’s tricks, and played them damned well. You’ve got to ask how many more does he know?”

  Ned noticed Meg’s fingers unclenched slightly and, with just the barest margin of belief, before she shot back a suspicion tinted question. “So where is he then?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know. We’re the only ones he’s seen in the city except for that blonde punk at St Paul’s.”

  Oh no, that was definitely the wrong thing to say. Doubt and mistrust flooded back into Meg Black’s face as she lent forward, now quivering with menace. “Yes…St Paul’s. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that Ned. Thank you for reminding me.”

  Unless he thought quickly he was done for. Instantly his daemon reminded him of an old score. Ned put his hand over his heart and tried his best to appear both hurt and offended. “Me? Why, I had nothing to do with those punks. I don’t know them, despite what some may claim. However, perhaps we should ask someone who does, ehh Hawks?”

  Three sets of eyes immediate swung towards the previously amused Roger Hawkins. He didn’t look so happy now and Ned, leaning forward on the table with a quiet smile, fired off the first question. “So Hawks, how do you know Anthea?”

  ***

  Chapter Seven: A Lost Lamb or Loose in the Liberties

  Ned stomped grumpily along the snow covered streets. Damn this stupid task and damn to the seventh level of hell that impudent, opinionated and foolishly stubborn Meg Black! At this time of the day he should be sitting down to haunch of mutton, spit roasted with wine, goose fat and rosemary basting. But no, instead he was out here in the freezing cold on a fruitless search for a lost lamb and to make a poor situation even worse, his two arch–ruiners of Christmas were right beside him. While he already knew one of them wouldn’t listen – she never did – the other however wouldn’t speak and Ned was certain that the solution still lay in Roger Hawkins murky past.

  “Look, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “Shut up Bedwell and keep walking. We’ve got four more of your measly haunts to check out.”

  Ned shrugged. Well he’d tried. That tactic of shifting to Gruesome Roger’s acquaintance with Anthea back at the Sign of the Spread Eagle had really looked like a winner. He’d followed his daemon’s whispering and slung the mud around at the nearest possible target. It had been a masterful effort. Ned had alluded to an unknown past, doubtful associations and the claims of Anthea, a dubious witness, true, but it had been in his best lawyerly style and…nothing. Mistress, damn her stubbornness, Black didn’t believe any of it, not a pinch. His complaints had been to no avail. Mistress Black, avoiding the inconvenient truth of the false purse and her brother’s duping, focused rather on the Bedwell part of the problem. She’d ‘decided’ that it was still all his fault. It must have been his intemperance, or boasting that was at fault. In her warped interpretation, the story went thus wise;

  At the evening feasting (at the mention of which Meg Black once more looked like she was thinking of using a hot iron), Red Ned Bedwell, arch–lewdster had freely boasted of his accomplishments through the Liberties of London. Then during the dicing, (Ned could see that at this section Meg was contemplating on how glowing white that iron of hers could get), Ned Bedwell, the archfiend’s willing minion, had once more led the impressionable and innocent Walter astray with his tales of success at the dicing dens of the Liberties and the stews of Southwark.

  You know, said his daemon, as she recounted it, Ned by implication, could have been the worst rogue in all of London, a master of the gaming table and devoted swain to half the punks in the city. Then his daemon had sighed. If only it was true. Ned had been forced to temporise. Ambitions were one thing, reality another. Any fellow foolish enough to live up to this overblown reputation would be dead of the pox or a gaming dispute before the week was out.

  That didn’t matter, which was why they were now tramping the streets of London. So far he’d taken the merry band of seekers to a small ale house he sometimes used at St Lawrence Poor Jewry, opposite the parish church. Apart from a scattering of drunken apprentices it proved, as he’d predicted, empty of Walter. Nor did the alewife recognise the lost lamb as a recent customer. Then he had been forced to traipse eastwards over to Monte Jovis Inn on Fenchurch Street, which he felt was particularly unjust, since he was sure Meg Black knew he only came here with Rob to sample the ale and listen to their gleeman.

  Once more a waste of an hour, and here they were in Petty Wales on the riverside, eastwards of Smart’s Quay, another region on Meg Black’s little list, though to be honest, it was only an area he sought out when it was too risky to cross over to Southwark. Mind you, one heard damned good tales in the dockside taverns from men who’d travelled to the Western Indies and who’d seen the blood soaked golden idols of the Aztecs. Or sailed around southern most Africa to the fabulously rich Spice Islands where barrels of pepper could be had for a groat.

  Ned was dragged out of his speculation by a thump. “What about that one?’ Meg
Black waved a hand towards the carved sign of a goat’s head, suspended above the tavern doorway.

  Ned gave a visible shudder and shook his head. “The Goats Head, are you mad? Only the riversiders and wharf men drink there!”

  Meg stood there, hands on hips, and gave him a sneer. “What’s this? Is the famous Red Ned Bedwell afraid to go in?”

  Ned straightened up and brushed off an imaginary piece of dirt from his fur edged gown and gave the impudent Mistress Black the kind of disdainful glare she deserved. “Head strong I may be, Mistress Herb Dabbler, but foolish I am not. They’re a clannish lot around the riverside. If I strut in like this, I’ll be rolled, robbed and beaten up in a trice.”

  Meg Black sneered at his more than reasonable response, and he could have sworn she muttered something that sounded like ‘when you need a lion you get a mouse’. Despite the slur, Ned crossed his arms and refused to be baited. After a final glare she turned a stiff shoulder and marched towards the door. Roger, who’d once more been hugely amused at the interplay and was leaning against a wall snickering, had to hastily scramble after his precocious mistress. He didn’t look so amused now, rather more nervously sallow. Ned gave a wicked grin. It seemed that Roger had also heard of the Goat’s Head. Now wasn’t that a surprise, his daemon nastily commented. In the meanwhile Ned took up his own post, leaning against a timber wall opposite the tavern. If there were to be any fireworks from her presumptuous entrance, he didn’t want to miss them.

  Perhaps his eyes drifted closed for a minute or so. After all the running around he was damned tired and it was perishingly cold even in his over mantle and padded doublet. At an instant, however, his attention was sudden engaged and his eyes snapped open, fingers were lightly teasing the hair by his ear. “Oi Ned, ‘ow is y’ this day?” An inviting voice cooed into his ear.

  With great deal of reluctance, he carefully untangled the fingers playing with his collar, took a half step back and gave a slight bow while guarding his purse with his right hand. “Oh, good day to you, Mistress Adeline. How are you this fine, if crisp afternoon?”

  The lass he addressed gave a slight giggle and took another step closer, now running her fingers down the fur collar of his over mantle. Ned returned a smile and trapped the wandering fingers giving them a light kiss.

  “Oi Ned y’ rogue. So gallant these days an’ such fine clothes. Why haven’t y’ been to see me?”

  Once more Ned politely seized a drifting hand before it deftly slipped into his doublet. Mistress Adeline made a small mew of regret and her dark eyes twinkled with mischief and calculation. Ned continued to smile.

  He knew Adeline of old. She was a free ranging punk and had the manners and moods of the feline on her silver brooch. Adeline had an established reputation of being playful and moody, like her proclaimed symbol, with a strange reputation for games of chance…and pain.

  He’d come across her last year in the outer Liberties by Temple Bar, where she was known to frequent a small gaming house at the Red Boar tavern. It was her long, raven black hair that had first drew his interest, soon followed by her sharply edged sense of capricious humour. Her full figure and open bodice no doubt helped engage his interest. She had the smoothest, palest skin and the reddest nipples, almost strawberries in shape and colour. However some instinct, prompted by his better angel, had sternly warned Ned not to step beyond the bounds of teasing dalliance. He suspected that any man drawn closer by her fascinating allure would find themselves as crisped as a moth by a candle flame. “I fear Adeline, I am a slave to duty. My master and my patron have had me running all over the city these past weeks, but all the while my heart has wept at your absence and my own soul is a withered flower in the desert, without your tender grace.”

  Mistress Adeline fluttered her fingers coquettishly over her pale throat, and gave a most provocative sigh. Ned’s cods, in sheer rebellion, stirred alarmingly. “Oi Ned, my sweet, y’r still my dearest swain and y’r poetry sets my soul all a quiver.”

  His daemon sounded the trumpet, while his better angel bade him stand firm against her wiles, warning not to trust any soft sighing flattery. “I fear beloved Adeline, that duty still forbids me from rendering unto you the devotion that you deserve.”

  Those delightful fingers reached out and lightly stroked his face. Ned’s skin quivered at the feather–light touch. Adeline was a sore temptation to refuse. “Oi my poor Ned. What terrible task keeps y’ from my arms?”

  “I’m searching for some one – a country lad lost in the city.”

  “Oi, what a sorry duty, when we could be enjoying a private Christmas pageant.”

  Ned kept up his smile and let out his own forlorn sigh. Whether it was for the reminder of what he was missing or the strong pull of Adeline the temptress, he wasn’t sure. His cods may have been certain but tonight they weren’t voting. “Dear Adeline, you haven’t seen any new lads in your daily travels?”

  “I might have. I’ve bin so bored this past day. None have wanted to play with me. Will y’ play with me Ned?”

  At the invitation his cods led a determined mutiny. There was a problem with indulging, well actually several. However the main one was, no matter how tempting or preferable, Adeline’s ‘games’ and ‘diversions’ weren’t something to dive into unprepared. Damn this duty of Cromwell’s! After a strong inner tussle, Ned regained his concentration. He shoved his whispering daemon aside and instead focused on the here and now. No Walter, no Christmas revels, then no extra angels to ‘play’ with Adeline.

  Oh yes Adeline. There were some aspects of her answer that put him in mind of her previous ploys. Ned scented an evasion. Well he could at least play one game. Reaching into an inner hidden pocket in his doublet, Ned pulled out a single angel and trailed the coin down the line of her nose. Like a kitten and a piece of yarn, it held her single minded attention.

  “Now Adeline,” Ned bent closer and whispered. “Who have we seen today? A new face flashing coin and skilled at Hazard?”

  Adeline, her eyes glittering with deep interest, made a grab at the coin. Ned snatched it away and held it in a closed hand. At the lost prize her pout returned. “Could be I saw a young lad, lucky at dice by three angels at the Red Boar an hour ago.”

  Her open hand teased him encouragingly. Ned, still smiling, shook his head. You never yielded to easily to Adeline. “This lucky lad, what did he look like?”

  Adeline’s soft warm cheek rubbed the back of his hand and Ned’s knees trembled. “Oi ‘e was slight and wore fine black like Satan’s imps and had butter coloured hair, lank and dull.”

  Ned held tight to the coin and his urges, a little bit more teasingly. “What colour were his eyes, my beloved?’

  “They was grey, grey and bulging eyes, like a dead fish. I didn’t like ‘im. They didn’t glow with the light o’ love, such as y’rs, Ned.”

  Got him! Ned released the coin and spun it high in the air. Before it had completed its arc, slim fingers snatched it and she darted away. “My thanks my love, it’ll be a cheery Christmas.”

  It may be so with that reward. Ned knew Adeline led a strange, precarious existence, what with her games and pleasures. But it was Christmas and, in her fashion, she was an unpredictable if loyal friend. Concern stirred his better angel. “Where are you going this night, Adeline?”

  With very feline grace, she spun around and called out. “A gentleman in Caesar’s Tower ‘as called for me.”

  Ned shivered at the mention. The city fortress sometimes had a chancy reputation for well kept secrets. He hoped that Adeline remembered discretion. “If you have any problems, you can find me at the Sign of the Spread Eagle in Wood Street till Twelfth Night. Ask for Tam and use my name.”

  Her hair fluttered as she skipped down the street, her dress held high, revealing a very nice pair of legs. Briefly she turned, blew him a kiss and laughed. Ned slumped against the wall and exhaled a bent up breath. Thank the saints she’d left. That girl made Meg Black look as predicable as the tides. Adeline w
as definitely an acquired taste, and an expensive one.

  As Ned mopped his brow, a frowning Mistress Black exited from the Goat’s Head tavern. As expected she didn’t look happy. Pre–empting her scolding, he abruptly turned and walked off.

  “Ned Bedwell, where do you think you’re going?”

  Ned gave an insolent flick of his fingers. “Why, to find Walter of course.”

  “But we have three more places on my list to check.”

  “Ignore them,” he called back, heading off tauntingly.

  “What? Why should I do that?” By the tone of her voice, Meg Black was puzzled by his behaviour.

  That contributed to his gloating satisfaction. “Because, Mistress Black, I know where he is.”

  Whether she fumed and stamped her foot, Ned didn’t turn to see, but a moment later her clearly angry footsteps paced close behind him. Excellent, now for a change, he was in charge.

  ***

  Chapter Eight: The Devil’s Delights