Then once Earless Nick had finished his display, he fastidiously wiped his fingers on a proffered cloth and turned to Ned with that bright smile of his. “I take it, Red Ned, you know the game, Thirty One?”
“Of course Master Throckmore, I’ve played it often.” For the first time this evening Ned told the truth. It was a heady experience.
“Excellent. Well I’ve made a few minor improvements to liven up the game.”
Ned continued to respond politely as Nick outlined his changes and, damn, they were devilishly clever. In his version of Thirty One, the winner was not only the player whose cards added up to thirty one. Now, after one deal of five cards, you had the option of two exchanges of two cards, each of which you paid a penalty if you took an extra card rather than discard. Finally you kept two cards only and rolled a pair of dice to reach the magical number. Thus each play was a combination of two games of chance with the odds constantly shifting. That was bad enough. However with an added twist a player had to name how close he’d get with the roll. You could be one under of your proclaimed stake, but not over. A damned treacherous way to play. As if this game needed any further refinements in complication – only one Bedlamite mad would cross Hazard and Thirty One!
It took two fast games for Ned to get the hang of play, and each time he knew Nick was toying with him, Ned had noticed the way their host had almost perfectly predicted the fall of the dice. There was a trick to it, he knew. All he had to do was figure it out. At the start of the third game, the friendly banter moved up a notch. “So, Red Ned, how is my dear friend Canting Michael?”
Ned affected a casual wave of nonchalance and shifted his cards – a three of roses, a king, a queen and a pair of sevens coins and hearts. The royalty would stay and he’d toss the rest. “You know, Canting often asks me for a friendly game of bowls over in Southwark. I’m sure he’d appreciate your company, Red Ned. You know how affable he is.”
Ned gave what he hoped was an equivocal shrug and tried not to flinch at the suggestion. He knew it was code for Canting’s offer on his head. Nick was clearly suggesting a trade. The whole game was a charade and three items, at least, where being played for, the company of Meg Black being only the most visible. This fellow enjoyed games of double and triple bluff, with mirrors thrown in as well. In many ways Nick reminded Ned of a younger Duke of Norfolk. That lord’s schemes were so famously twisty, that a snake trying to follow them would be left in knots.
Nick, as expected, had drawn out the games, full of pleasant banter and clouded allusions. The Lord Chancellor’s recent troll through the Liberties, a hunting for heretics, was just one – though its relevance was unclear. Was this an offer of ‘protection’ or another threat? Thus they came to the last round of play. Ned had watched and watched and still he hadn’t caught it. What was the cony catchers trick?
Nick peered over at Ned’s revealed hand with a quiet smile. The knave and ace obviously were there on the table and even a fool knew they made twenty one. The Master of the Liberties’ own hand displayed a similar number, so on that they were equal. It now came down to the dice. Nick had predicted a combined roll of six. That was a low score to claim, though if Ned exceeded his ’stake’ he’d still lose. The dice were carved ivory, only the best and, following the German fashion, one was shaped as a naked woman, the other a man, both squatting hands on arse and complete in all detail. Nick had called them his lucky ducks and Ned knew they were as fixed as the crookedest fullans, but how? Maybe if he concentrated on how Nick held the dice? They were always in the cup and it was a standard horn beaker so that couldn’t be it. The cup was always in the right hand and in keeping with his fastidiousness, he wiped his hands on a clean cloth vigorously before each play. The fellow was obsessed with clean fingers!
Nick tapped the horn cup three times on the table and cast. The dice, obeying some hidden rule, spilled onto the table and came up six! At the conclusion of his play Ned’s opponent had the relaxed posture of a satisfied cony catcher. The self proclaimed Lord of the Liberties knew he had Red Ned boxed in, and he deeply enjoyed the entertainment of the struggle before the trap closed with an imaginary snap. Ned had been puzzling over Roger’s report of the sequence ever since the Red Boar and, damn it, he’d watched Earless Nick play the dice successfully four throws out of five. So how did he do it? How could the self proclaimed Lord of the Liberties know? Gruesome Roger’s advice on how Nick rigged his pair of ducks was unknown, though he said it was the same ritual every single time afore he threw them, and Nick always won whenever he chose. Though was it always one set of numbers? He’d forgotten to ask ‘Hawks’ that and it was too damned late now.
Desperately Ned prayed for guidance. It was a trick, a gambit, a sleight of hand, but in the open where only those with the same secret knowledge would understand. Before every throw Nick rubbed his hands on the silken cloth, afterward the dice was placed back into the cup. But what, what was different or the same?
And in a flash of inspiration Ned had it. Lady Fortuna was with him!
***
Chapter Eleven: The Nick
Such a simple trick – but only for the most learned. That was a damned clever ploy, Ned thought, no wonder no one twigged to it. Putting up a hand to stall his play, Ned reached around to his belt and slowly unbuckled his poniard, then placed it carefully down on the table.
This move clearly gave Earless Nick a moment of puzzlement, though that flicker had only been for a second. Then the Master of Liberties had relaxed with a happy smile. To him it must have seemed that the famous Red Ned was cracking under the strain and taking ‘foolish precautions’ like having a blade to hand.
“Master Throckmore…”
A languidly waved hand halted his words. “Oh no, Red Ned. Not so formal. You can call me Nick, as do my closest friends.”
Oh now that was a rich sop considering his ploys. “All right…Nick, you have been the most hospitable of hosts to Mistress Margaret and myself. However I feel that you have been too generous. Therefore, since we’ve been playing for mere tokens, I wish to pledge this blade as a wager for my hand.”
Those light blues eyes of Nick’s shone with a potent combination of avarice and anticipation. He lost all trace of his former ‘disinterest’ and bent over the table to inspect the poniard. “I am overcome Red Ned. It is a splendid piece. Is it perhaps…Spanish?”
With deliberately slow hands Ned took the hilt in his right hand, held the sheath in his left and pulled the blade out a few inches, then lent back. For the first time that night Earless Nick displayed his true emotions. He ran a light finger over the spine of the blade, tracing the engraved inscription. Lust was clearly written upon his face.
“Yes, Spanish craftsmanship – from Seville I think. Red Ned, that is a very fine wager.” Nick slapped the table and laughed clearly enjoying the theatre. Ned’s daemon warned him that whether the blade was seen as a bribe or ransom, Nick was certain it’d be his before the evening was over. “I accept Red Ned! In return I offer you one Liberties pardon.”
Keeping up the spirit of the occasion, Ned replied with his own gracious bow. So it was a deal. Honesty and trust were, however, still up for debate. Repositioning the poniard so that the hilt lay across the table on his right, Ned picked up the horn beaker. “So Nick, heard any word of this young lad, Walter?”
The Master of the Liberties pouted ever so slightly and shrugged. “Mayhap my pursuivants will report something. They sweep the Liberties each evening and bring me news of its doings and goings on by ten o’ the clock.”
Ned inclined his head as he tapped the beaker, once almost touching the poniard. So Nick was getting overconfident. He’d let slip that he’d reinforcements coming. “I do hope so, Nick. It must be so difficult for a lad lost and alone without a friend in the city.”
Earless Nick’s eyelids flickered and for an instant his eyes darted towards the stairway to his left. Ned gave the horn beaker another tap beside the blade. “So true Red Ned. The city can be a fe
arful place without a friend or patron.”
There it was again – Nick’s eyes returned to the stairway. “While a patron on the Privy Council can be real solace in these decayed times.”
Now it was Ned’s turn to blink. What was that? Where did it come from? Was it a hint or a threat? For the third time he tapped the beaker on the table then paused. “I call a roll of seven, a ‘nick’ I believe.” Then with the entire table watching with a hungry eagerness, Ned up ended the beaker, spilling the dice onto his cards. They rolled briefly and stopped, a five first then a moment later a two. He’d won and the silence was broken by a roar.
“WHA….!” Whatever Earless Nick meant to say was drowned out by a booming roar. Almost instantly the tavern’s common room was lit by a bright red flash and filled with boiling clouds of acrid smoke fountaining out of the fire place. Accompanying that confusion, a chorus of shrill screams echoed from up the stairway.
In the midst of this turmoil, Ned grabbed his blade from the table and joined Meg Black crouching underneath. He put his mouth close to her ear and whispered, though between the screams, curses and the thump and clatter of upturned benches, if the Last Trumpet sounded none would hear it. “Head for the stairs. That’s where Walter is being kept!”
Still on their knees Ned, his head down by the rush covered floor, pushed Meg Black forward through the stinging smoke. She’d warned him that her little surprise would cause consternation and panic, and had offhandedly hinted breathing may be strained. Right now however, Ned noted that her use of the truth was positively miserly. This place stank worse than a fart from Satan’s own arse. When Mistress Black, some two hours ago, had volunteered the use of her skills, Ned had first thought she was offering to reveal a generous spread of breasts and cleavage to help entice and distract Earless Nick. As with any healthy lad, this was too good an opportunity to miss, so he’d readily agreed. However what they got instead was a vivid example of alchemist’s tricks– red flame, smoke and a burning stench of hellfire, thick and acrid. So that’s why she’d needed the chair by the fire.
Well, he ruefully thought, it had worked, though his daemon did pose an interesting question. Why was Meg Black walking around the streets of London with a pouch of blinding pepper and a brimstone smoke incendiary? His better angel sensibly suggested that was a question that could wait until later. Despite having to hold the collar of his gown over his face and being almost blinded by the smoke, they made it to the foot of the stairs without incident. Most of Earless Nick’s men could be heard making their stumbling way to the front of the tavern, coughing and cursing. As for their leader, Ned had lost him in the fog of battle, though his distinctive accent wasn’t anywhere near, of that he was sure. At a guess Nick would have figured this whole visit was a trap, and so head for his nearest bolt hole.
At the lowest tread they encountered another problem. The smoke, as was its want, was funnelling upwards into the rooms above, from which sounded a cacophony of screams and shrieks. Even with Meg Black’s surprise they had to be fast. Whether Earless Nick was respected or not, the locals would react to the threat of fire as Londoners always had in the past. Soon dozens would emerge to battle the flames and protect their buildings.
Acting as rearguard, Ned shoved Meg up the stairs first and slowly climbed after her, squeezing his eyes tight to peer through the smoke behind him, dagger at the ready. As they reached the top, a howling figure burst through the billowing fumes. It looked the very image of a harpy, blood streaked breasts, eyes a glazed, brandishing a long dagger and wailing. “Nick! Nick! It’s Hawks. He’s got Walter an’ set th’ place afire!”
At the sudden appearance of this screaming apparition, Ned flinched and took a step backwards. Meg undaunted, surged forward almost running up the last three steps and ignoring the waving blade, backhanded the harpy across her face. Clearing his eyes of streaming tears, Ned could now see that their assailant had been Anthea, the punk from St Paul’s, though how she came to be half dressed with a torn bodice and bloody on the stairway was a riddle for later. No matter, Meg’s blow had knocked her out and her body was now slumped against the wall.
Pushing past that obstruction Ned now led the way, hurrying along the corridor, pulling each door open and calling out for the still missing Walter. Their only discovery was some dozen scantily clad girls and their patrons, whom lacking hose and breeches either scrambled urgently out the windows or were milling around in the confusion. Depending on circumstance, the girls alternated between screaming shrilly and calling for help. And still no Walter.
It was now that Ned cursed the efficiency of Meg’s little incendiary. It had been damned useful below, but up here the drifting smoke made the search dangerous. Several times he’d had to turn aside his blade as a charging figure through the smoke had resolved itself into a young girl clad only in a chemise. If only for a bit more light, Ned sighed. That last one looked really cute with those long shapely legs. An urgent thump from Meg Black brought him back to the here and now. A large figure was swimming through the grey light towards them from the glints ahead in the smokey fog they were armed. Ned pushed Meg behind him, and dagger out, took up a half crouch and calling out menacingly, “One more step and I’ll gut you!”
Rather than a challenge or a girlish scream, instead Ned gained a very familiar curse. “Damn y’ for sluggedly wastrel, Bedwell. About time y’ got here! I hope y’ caught him, that slippery little ferret!”
Ned relaxed as Gruesome Roger limped into view, his face the usual grim scowl, though he did dip his head slightly embarrassed when he saw Meg. Then the import of his word struck home and Ned thumped the wall and swore. “What! Damn yourself, Hawkins, you useless puttock! Do you mean you lost Walter?”
“You slovenly fool, Bedwell. While you where fiddling with your cards, I was up here fighting off that clawing bitch, Anthea and two of Earless’ men!”
Ned sucked in a breath for a fitting retort. That was a stupid move and he ended up rasping his throat with the brimstone. Before the discussion could digress any further, Meg pushed between them giving each a significant glare from smoke reddened eyes. “We don’t have time for this! Where did you last see him?”
Her question was accompanied by a cuff to each of them to emphasis her request for cooperation. “Three doors back when he pulled loose and kicked me.”
Ned raised an eyebrow. Walter tackled Gruesome Roger? By the saints, he wouldn’t have credited it. The meek lamb had grown horns! A quick stumble around the hallway gave them only one choice – a door wedged shut two along from where they stood. A joint effort, shoulders to its rough wood, had them soon through it, to reveal an empty room with a rope of sheets trailing out the open window. Walter had escaped again. Ned looked at Roger and both looked at Meg, who gave a frustrated sigh and bundled up her good dress. It seemed the chase was still on.
By chance or design, Walter had picked the best escape route. This window overlooked a small, quiet courtyard. Within minutes they’d dropped down, even Meg hindered as she was by her skirts. Ned tried to peer through the wintery gloom. This was impossible – it had started to snow again and visibility had closed down to bare yards. By statute, the citizens of London were required to have a small lantern outside their dwelling. It was to be lit at dusk, between the celebrations of Hallowtide and Candlemass. As he’d seen too often, decrees may be grandly proclaimed, but the population as a whole ignored it. If those goodly householders weren’t going to waste good tallow rushes then who could expect it of the Liberties?
So to Ned it seemed that they’d reached a dead end. How could they track Walter? It was as dark as a Blackamore’s soul! Roger though, proved more resourceful. The retainer wrenched a cresset off the nearby wall and stuffed part of their sheet rope into it as a wick. Ned gave shrug. He’d already thought of that and dismissed it. So what – it was useless without tallow or a flint. Knocking on a door around here to beg some wasn’t going get you anything other than cudgel around the ears and a boot to the backsid
e.
Damn! Ned thumped his thigh with a fist, and moving mainly by feel, slipped over to the narrow alley leading out of the court. Walter had to head this way, but left or right? One solution was to split up. They had a chance. However the menace of Earless Nick and his lads remained. They’d be recovering from Meg’s alchemist’s ploy, and he reckoned, keen for mischief and revenge. So separately they were vulnerable and no doubt Earless Nick knew the twists and turns of this patch better than the back of his hand. Ned returned the dozen or so paces to report his lack of discovery and beheld Mistress Black calmly digging into her hidden satchel. He let out an exasperated sigh – what was she doing? A smoke incendiary wasn’t any use here. Even flint and steel wasn’t going to light up that cloth, damp from the falling snow and sleet.
Ned huddled in the limited shelter of a projecting upper story and watched his partner in disaster fiddling around with another small flask. First she uncapped and poured some of its contents onto the bundled cloth in the improvised torch. Well he grudgingly conceded that may work. It smelled rank like the rock oil they used in liniments. The second though, had Ned amazed. This was a small mechanical tinder box. Meg wound a very small handle, then holding it close to the cresset, flicked a lever. Suddenly it shot out a small fountain of sparks and the cresset immediately lit up with a steady bluish flame. By the saints they had light! For the third time that evening, Ned seriously wondered what else the apothecary’s apprentice had stashed away, and as his daemon had asked, why?
The Lord Of Misrule Page 10
