In the midst of all this chill, cheerless Christmas, John heard singing, and from the vocals, it was neither angelic nor a wayward choir. No Christmas carolling this, unless it was the style that went on in the many ‘Liberties Nunneries’. As the off tune song warbled closer, John gave a gloating smile. Oh yes, this was a cursed sight more earthly. Most hymns he’d heard didn’t extol the warmth and charity of an abbess’s cony, or the abbot’s fondness for its soft pelt. Now, that was a carolling he could get used to. A fine voice, if somewhat slurred. As the singer wavered into view, John could make out a well dressed gentleman staggering down the lane, giving out his all with a few country ballads. He easily recognised Cakes and Ale.
“I give ‘er sack, I gave ‘er ale, I gave er cake, I gave ‘er gold.
“I kiss’t ‘er wonce, an’ kiss’t ‘er twice, an’….an’…an’, oh yes, she gaven me all!”
“Opppp! Ahhhhhhh!” “God’s blud! Ahhhhhh! By the Devil’s ‘own arse, better ‘ut than in!”
John blessed his patron saint for putting him on duty. This was a true Christmas gift, a tosspot ready for rolling. Eagerly he stepped out into the lantern’s light. “Ho good clerk, where are y’ bound this cruel night?”
“What? What? Where are ye, varlet? Can ye tell where…Ahhhhhh! By t’ Devil’s own cod’s, a veritable trumpet! A trumpet I says. What says ye, sirrah?”
John had stepped forward to catch the unsteady figure, when the gentleman let out a monster of a belch, and he’d been forced to lean back as the wave of consumed brandy wine rolled over him. His grin widened like a shark. This was going to be so easy. The fellow could hardly stand. Having been a nip as a lad, he could still lift a coin or two with practiced ease.
“What say ye sirrah? Where do I fin’ t’ Bludy Goat?”
John easily slipped an arm under the swaying figure. This was the best Christmas ever! This tosspot actually wanted to go to the Black Goat. Damn him for a sack soaked fool, Earless Nick would fleece him in a trice and best of all, that were a very, very fine, thick gown the belcher had on, just right for a winter evening on guard.
“Why, Sir Clerk, lean on me, an I’ll take y’ there, a warm fire and the best sack in all the Liberties.” John chuckled with not so false glee.
Then five paces from the door, his charge stumbled and dropped towards the snow. John, with his heavy build, steadied the poor drunken cony and reached down to check the purse. As he did so his victim twisted suddenly and a strange puff of dust flew into his face as he breathed in. For an instant he was puzzled, then…then the burning pain clawed up his nose and down his throat. His eyes streamed with tears and all three felt like they’d been scalded with burning ashes. With his hands clutched to his fiery throat, John dropped to the snow desperately pushing his face into the soothing chill. That’s why he didn’t notice his former charge straighten up, though he did feel the boot to the skull…well at least briefly.
Ned looked down on the fallen guard and shook his head. Pepper, by the saints, pepper, and some heathenish concoction. Just was well Meg Black warned him not to breathe when he cast it out. As he had found himself thinking on more than one occasion in the past, he’d have to watch that girl. For a sweet Christian lass, she had a very evil and vindictive turn. Ned grabbed a hand full of fresh snow and rubbed his gloves and the collar of his overmantle. Cleaning could happen later, but he’d be damned to have any of that hot spice powder on him. He’d seen that fellow’s face–red and suffused, gasping for air. Ned gave a small wave and two figures moved out from the deeper shadows. Time to pay Earless Nick a visit.
***
Chapter Ten: A Knave
The tavern door was too heavy to kick open so Ned instead shoved it with a shoulder, weight and its momentum did the rest. The door thumped loudly into the wall with a hollow boom and every eye in the place automatically snapped around to see who’d dared disturb the lair of Earless Nick. Ned strode arrogantly in with Meg Black on his arm, looking as if they were parading down the long gallery in Westminster, and made straight for the tavern keeper’s bench.
“Ho, where’s the sluggedly measle who serves here?” Ned slapped his palm flat on the table. If the door boomed like a great gonne, this snapped through the common room like a shot from a harquebus, sharp and threatening.
A fellow, large in bulk if not muscles, with a long black beard, pushed himself reluctantly up from the dicing table and waddled slowly over, pausing for a leisurely gob into the fire. Finally he arrived and stood arms on hips in front of Ned with a sneering scowl and projected another green ball of slime at the floor rushes by Ned’s boot. “Wot y’ want! This ‘ere tavern’s only fo’ Lord Nick an’ his men.”
Ned was ready for this. The taverner keeper should’ve been as well – his assumption of arrogance and security let him down. Ned took a leisurely pace forward and shot out a boot, catching the large man in the side of the knee. Still, with tree trunks for legs he may have still stood, like an ancient oak, but Ned moved faster than his opponent’s startled reaction. In a move he’d learnt from a master of defence, Ned stepped in close to the angry taverner, grabbing his approaching hands and tugged them outward. As the finale to his welcome, his left knee shot up and impacted solidly with the taverner’s cods. For a moment the man’s eyes crossed with puzzlement as the hefty blow to his nearest and dearest fired up to the brain. Finally, the message received, the groaning man crumpled forward, collapsing on the floor, both hands clutching his bruised cods whimpering small squeals of pain.
As a conclusion Ned whipped out his poniard, placed it across the base of the taverner’s nose and twitched slightly. A few drops of blood stained the rushes. “No man speaks to Red Ned and his lady without respect, you lard–tubbed, pizzle shrivelled measle!”
At the sudden prospect of blood, the tavern common room went quiet. If this had been the Gryne Dragone in Southwark, whosoever had been foolish enough to pull this stunt would have been punctured or hacked by enough ironware to fill a Ward Muster armoury.
Here it was different. This was the still quiet of fear and hungry anticipation. The crowd in the Black Goat were waiting, for what Ned wasn’t sure, until a voice called out in the lazy affected tones of the Cambridge graduate. “Leave him. Bottoph is a lazy, surly slug and losing a nose would no doubt improve his looks. However he’s already broken into my habits and it would be an inconvenience to train another taverner.”
Still with his blade in place, Ned tilted his head up and scanned the audience for the speaker. Several tavern patrons instinctively shifted, creating a clear corridor of sight towards the table nearest the fire. At one end sat a well dressed gentleman. Like Ned he was wearing a heavy over mantle gown, though this one was half shrugged off the shoulders to reveal a shot silk doublet. That, in the sign language of presentation in this modern age, spoke of affluence and status. If Ned had any doubts, a heavy gilt chain circled the fine cambric linen collar, framing the face above. Ah yes. Ned dropped the whimpering taverner and stood up straight. The face, that…that was interesting. The speaker possessed the kind of features that would have made an angel weep, while his hair casually spilled from beneath a velvet cap in a wavy flow like sun tinted gold to his broad shoulders. Ned instantly felt a wash of jealousy, especially as he noticed the sharply indrawn breath of Meg Black. No doubt about it, Earless Nick was surely the handsomest rogue in all of London.
Casually he slipped the poniard back into its sheath and fixed the speaker with an arrogant stare, hand deliberately resting on his sword hilt. “Who are you to request a favour of Red Ned Bedwell?”
“Oh I plead your forgiveness for my lack of manners, Red… ahh, Ned.”
As he should have expected, the words had the right sound and manner, but as for deeper meaning, Ned knew this fellow never ever begged anyone’s forgiveness. The lazily indulgent tones continued with a small flick of a very clean hand at the surroundings. “I am Nicolas Throckmore, master of this humble abode, and I invite you and your beauteous lady to sh
are a glass of Bordeaux sack.”
Ned inclined his head in a respectful nod as to an equal. Another casual wave of Master Throckmore’s fingers had three of his retinue hurriedly scattering and scurrying. Two hauled up a pair of carved chairs that would have more suited a noble’s parlour rather than a tavern, while the third bustled behind the taverner’s bench, searching out the requested wine. As for the moaning taverner still lying on the floor, not a man moved to aid him. So command here was absolute. Ned’s daemon quivered in fear. Earless Nick demanded respect.
Putting out his arm, Meg Black automatically placed her hand on it and allowed him to escort her to the table. Making a show of the placement of her dress, she took the chair closest to the fire, the position of respect and honour. Without a further glance towards her, Ned took his own seat and assumed a stance of benign indifference, as recommended by the masters of manners at the Inns. It gave him a chance to quietly survey the room as they waited for the proffered refreshment.
Overall it was a generous space, larger than the Red Boar, with a decent sized stone faced fireplace. Some five tables filled the area and lighting was provided by tallow candles in wall sconces. That alone spoke of modest expense. However to Ned’s eye, there were several more telling examples of wealth. At Nick’s right hand was a multi branched gilt candle stick and it burned five new candles, from where the sweet aroma of fresh beeswax spread its perfume. If all this weren’t enough, the walls were covered in large painted canvas panels, mostly highlighting feats of heroes. On the left was King Arthur, while opposite, Hector fought Achilles. Many a gentleman’s house couldn’t boast as many.
All the while, Nick smiled indulgently, as the Master of the Liberties watched Ned review all ‘his’ many trappings of nobility. Where you stood in this society was all about display – your silverware, hangings, tapestries, clothes and jewellery, and most of all, how you stood your ‘place’. Ned’s better angel may complain about how savagely and cruelly he’d treated the taverner, but without that display of power and status, they’d have been rolled bare minutes after walking through the door.
Finally a tray arrived and Nick’s ragged retainer made a good effort at the proper etiquette for serving. The wine was poured from a silver ewer into a matched set of three Venetian glasses. The first was presented to Meg, then the second to him while the third, with a touch more deference, to their host. Ned wasn’t a fool. He waited for Nick to drink, which he did with evident pleasure. Meg Black had grilled her repentant retainer over Nick’s favoured cozenage gambits. Luckily drugged or poisoned wine wasn’t one of them. Raising a toast to their very generous host, Ned sipped the sweet sack. He politely tipped his head in appreciation. It was strong and significantly better than the one he’d acquired for the Christmas Revels. His daemon promptly suggested a reason – ‘connections’ to the Royal cellar.
Having observed the social niceties, Nick lent forward, eyes twinkling with, well what? Pleasure, anticipation, curiosity? Ned didn’t know but he was instantly on his guard. “Pray tell me, Red Ned, how has my humble tavern gained the pleasure of your lady’s presence?”
Meg Black had been mostly silent. Apart from a few murmurs of thanks, she’d played the demure lady perfectly. What’s more, on some quarter hour’s notice, she’d found a nearby friend and borrowed a swag of gilt – including gold earrings, a silver chain necklace inset with an amethyst, and another of those pearl studded french hoods that all the best reformist girls so adored. Now she played her part. “Good Master Throckmore, Red Ned trespasses on your domain on my petition.”
Earless Nick’s smile widened to show a perfect smile. Ned tried not to feel any more resentful, thinking of his chipped and not so pristine front teeth. “Is that so my lady? Well for one so fair, I must forgive the transgression and instead give thanks for your visit.”
Meg played up to the compliment and returned her own generous smile at the gallantry. Ned kept up his own hooded smile, but by the saints he’d enjoy throttling this slippery weasel. “I fear, good sir, I have mislaid something and Red Ned kindly offered to help me find it.”
The beaming smile shifted to Ned and he bathed in its warm glow. Pity it didn’t reach Earless Nick’s eyes – they still glittered, but more with speculation than friendship. “Why Red Ned, the actions of a true knight, straight out of the tales of Mallory or the ballads of de Troyes. I commend any man of honour!”
Ned returned a bow for the flattery. It paid to keep to conventions since they had naught else. Earless Nick, still polite and chatty, must be wondering how they’d passed his guard unchallenged. However none of the motley collection at the other tables had moved to investigate. So Ned’s surmise was that Master Throckmore was deeply curious at their arrival and assumed a retinue waiting outside in the lane. So Nick would string them along with the hail fellow well met play, and keep his lads close.
“So my lady…?” Nick switched back to Meg with a hanging question.
She played it well by pretending to be pleasantly startled, with a hand up to her mouth, and a further look of embarrassed surprise. Well Ned’s evil little daemon hoped she was pretending. “Oh forgive me Master Throckmore for my rudeness. I am Mistress Margaret Black.”
At that Nick’s light blue eyes sparkled with delight and maybe something deeper. Ned strained to keep a pleasant smile on his face. “Why Mistress Margaret, how can I be of assistance?”
“I am afraid I was entrusted with the charge of a cousin of mine from the country, an innocent lad named Walter Dellingham. Unfortunately this morning he went astray in the city and I fear sir, he’s been taken by varlets and rogues!” Meg had dropped her eyes and blushed deeply, as if shamed into confession.
“I see, that is terrible, the poor lad.” Nick had reached across the table with the finest kerchief Ned had seen outside the Royal courts and offered it to the clearly upset Meg. As far as Ned was concerned the weasel’s hand had lingered too long in the exchange.
Meg gave a delicate sniff and a sad smile and waved the tightly clutched piece of linen towards Ned. “Yes sir, it is a sorry tale and Red Ned here suggested I come to ask the Lord of the Liberties for his aid.”
Once more Nick reached across and patted Meg on the hand, his fingers, to Ned’s jaundiced eye, again appeared to hover overly long.
“My aunt would be distraught if she heard that anything happened to Walter and her health, well sir… it is so frail.” A single tear trickled down her cheek, lightly dabbed by Nick’s linen kerchief. “I’ve heard such terrible stories of what happens to innocent lads in London! If you could help us, I can give a reward of ten angels for his safe return.”
That was good enough to stimulate real interest, though not too much so that they’d think of ransom. Nick however waved the offer away as if it were of no concern. “To dry a sweet lady’s tears I wouldn’t think of taking any coin. Though…?” The question was let hang in the air as a floating offer.
Meg eagerly pushed forward now clutching the crumpled linen in her hand. “Yes, Master Throckmore. What is it?”
“Well if I may so bold, if Red Ned here would play me a round of cards for the pleasure of your company, I would be honoured to help.” Oh that was an excellent play crooned Ned’s daemon, what a brilliant switch.
Meg, hope all over her face turned to him and grabbed his sleeve eagerly. “Oh Ned, Ned, please accept. Think of poor Walter all lost and alone! He may even be hurt! Oh I beg you, accept!”
For a moment he played at considering, and then patting her hand, Ned consented with a gracious nod.
If anything, Nick’s smile edged towards the predatory and his eyes sparked with dangerous amusement. Then their host clapped his hands and ordered the table cleared. The candle stick was moved to the centre and a pack of cards laid out with a simple flick of Nick’s hand. Ned knew the trick – flash the fingers fast and confuse the coney. The said fingers were covered in rings. The ones on his right hand were wide and covered most of the bottom segment of the digit from
index to pinkie. They were the strangest he’d ever seen, rough, heavy and battered, covered in a worn layer of silver gilt, though grey iron patches could be seen in the parts where the gilt had flaked off. For a man so concerned with appearance that was odd.
The Lord Of Misrule Page 9
