The cries grew closer and at their urgent prodding, instinct once more came to the fore, pushing Ned up to hobble towards the beckoning twin lanterns of the bridge.
If he’d breath to spare, he’d curse Lady Fortuna as well for being a treacherous deceiving mistress. A few days ago he was hanging off this cursed bridge in imminent peril of plunging to a disgusting and disgraceful end. It was sublimely ridiculous that he should be facing the fate again so soon. His daemon’s frantic warning cajoled him to take a step, then another. The rain of missiles continued as did the angry cries calling the pace of the hunt. A few more struck him glancing blows on the shoulder and back, but Ned just winced and gritted his teeth. He wasn’t that lost to the cold and fear that he’d cry out now. Flaunty Phil and his fellow rogues were close and gaining on their quarry. The shrill scream of Delphina was an incentive he didn’t need.
***
A strange apparition seemed materialise in front of him. Ned shook his head and cleared away the snow and ice building up on his eyelashes. Since he couldn’t make the bridge, it appeared that it was coming to him. Oh Lady Fortuna, such a worker of miracles!
As Ned limped along the light grew clearer and closer revealing a potential new problem. The lights weren’t the Fleete Ditch Bridge but instead a small group of sojourners challenging the winter dark. Ned’s spirit quailed. Knowing his fellow Londoners this could be a company of carousers in which case he may be saved, and that was a slim ‘may be’, or a pack of Liberties roisters which meant freezing to death would be a blessing and a kindness. Ned hesitated. What was he going to do? He could sit down and try to pull on some clothes. As far as his angel was concerned that would at least be a start. His daemon counselled otherwise—chance it. Did he really want to be remembered for freezing in the snow whimpering and mewling? Wasn’t he a man of parts? Red Ned Bedwell, the scourge of the Southwark baiting pits, bane of both Earless Nick and Canting Michael, gang lords of the Liberties. By Satan’s black arsehole he was!
Bravely inspired or foolishly led Ned staggered upright and waving a fist charged towards the coming lights. “Yaaaaw—I’ll not go down like a mongrel cur, you cursed Liberties whelps!”
Ned assumed that’s what he yelled. It was what he meant to say and inside his imaginings it sounded superb—stirring, strident and strong. Well yes, perhaps in his mind that’s how it was, but to the clutch of lanterns it probably wasn’t so impressive…or coherent.
“Eerk. A Bedlamite! And he’s naked!”
“Master Hawkins, save us from this dreadful rogue!”
“Keep yer distance Beatrice. He may have the foaming sickness.”
“The poor soul! Shouldn’t we help?”
All of these shouts and screams slowly penetrated Ned’s fog of bravado or maybe cold–induced stupidity. It dawned upon him that the group he was attacking might not be roisters or revellers—too many long skirts and kirtles for one. However what really got through was the solid punch in his guts from a swung cudgel.
“Tis alright Mistress Black. Just some naked loon lost to drink or madness. I’ll see him off.”
Ned doubled over and wheezed from the blow. Blessed saints, he knew that thrice damned voice. It was Meg Black’s faithful and sordid shadow, Gruesome Bloody Roger.
“Arrgh…Sod you for a piss channel turd, Hawkins!” Ned cursed in frustration as he dropped to his knees and all of sudden had a really close look at the stitching on the worn toe of Gruesome Roger’s boot. It was in mid move, pulling back to remove the naked loon–shaped obstruction from the path of these worthy evangelicals. Then it abruptly halted.
A hand reached down grasping Ned’s hair with little care and dragged his head upwards into the lantern light. “What…Bedwell? Bedwell! Y’ stupid tosspotting measle, y’ drunk again. Why ain’t y’got y’clothes on?”
Ned felt like spitting in the face of the despised minion or gutting him with a blunt edged dagger. Instead he chose calm restraint. “You louse–borne piece of maggot’s vomit, let me go!”
Gruesome Roger did—eventually—but only after he’d rubbed Ned’s face back in the snow twice making sure he got a good mouthful of the Fleete Street’s finest chilled muck. Then the fiend bent down for a very quiet and personal chat. “Listen Bedwell. y’ prattling lewdster, Mistress Black an’ her friends, y’ know her special friends are behind me. So shut yer filthy mouth an’ for the love of God put some clothes on. Yer scaring the maids.”
Ned spat out the frozen slush and shook his head. Sometime soon he and Gruesome Roger were going to have a very private ‘talk’ regarding this latest insult. However, as his daemon urged, not today, and certainly not here. Listening to reason instead of his burning anger Ned shook himself free of the Black retainer’s grip and glared at his impromptu rescuers. Oh yes he recognised this lot, one of Meg Black’s secret night schools, where free–thinking and questioning citizens gathered to study heretical literature such as the bible written in English. Oh damn! Why did it have to be them? At least he could have bribed another party of the Common Watch as a distraction. But this lot, by the saints there was nary a one amongst who could hold a cudgel without trembling.
“Listen ‘Hawks’, my lambkin, any moment Flaunty Phil and a dozen of his roisters will come storming through the snow looking for revenge because Rob and I ruined his play at cosenage in rescuing a special friend.”
Finally that got Hawkins’ attention. He straightened up with a growled curse and disappeared behind a wall of very curious and hovering kirtles. Hmm, purred Ned’s daemon, those girls didn’t seem so scared. His angel though had a few issues to raise about his very abbreviated and much edited report. While the inclusion of Rob was in its own way the truth, his phrasing concerning that prized idiot, Richard Reedman, was flexibly broad. The older Reedman had helped out earlier with the Dellingham problem, so quid pro quo as lawyers would say.
“Ned what the He…! Where are your clothes?”
The familiar and sharp voice of Meg Black pulled Ned back from his probably chill–induced daydreaming and he rapidly repositioned his errant bundle. “Look Meg we haven’t time for this. A pack of roisters will be here any moment. Do you have any of your usual tricks in that magickal satchel of yours?”
A couple of rocks rattled off a wall to the left and some of the party squealed with real fright. Oh Christ’s blood, what a bucket of turds to be dropped into. This bunch was pathetic! Ignoring the audience and Meg’s strident questions Ned struggled to his feet and shrugged on his borrowed gown then pulled the long belt tight. He still couldn’t feel his feet, but did it matter? Not now. He finished his preparation by winding his shirt, doublet and hose around his left arm as padding and drew his dagger. The time for running was over and Flaunty Phil was in for a real surprise.
“Hold up Bedwell.” A tall glowering shadow stepped up beside him, a long blade shimmering in the lantern light. So he was going to have company after all.
Ned gave a sneer towards his companion in this affray. Conversationally and to distract from the shivering, he idly threw out a fragment of his superior learning. “You know our ancestors the Ancient Britons used to charge into battle armoured in naught but courage and blue woad.”
Gruesome Roger gave him a sideways glare and shook his head. “Well Bedwell, y’ the arse is the right colour. I’m sure the lasses will appreciate the view.”
Ned had no time for a snappy and scathing reply. The ‘Fleecers’ had arrived.
***
The charge was good, exhilarating and dare he admit it, as terrifying as he would have imagined, at least for him. Phil and Delphina probably would even agree—if you could catch up to them. For all the fear and gibbering terror he’d suffered for the past half an hour, the affray such as it was, turned out to be extremely brief. Ned credited that to his undoubted maniacal appearance, howling and a screaming like the very legions of Satan’s demons and as decently clad. He was actually rather stunned and little mortified the prospect of battle had a somewhat encour
aging and dramatic effect on his lower regions. So his sudden appearance charging forward, blade out stretched, set several of the ‘Fleecers’ fleeing. Flaunty Phil even appeared somewhat dismayed, flinching back a pace at Ned’s startling appearance, even more so after a solid kick in the codpiece set him a whimpering and hunched over. So are all served who threaten the Bedwell honour, gloated his daemon.
As for the delightful Delphina, Ned could smile at her dose of retribution. The vengeful vixen copped a grenado in the head which knocked her down. Ah yes, Mistress Black had come through with her bag of tricks. Several grenadoes, if he recalled the term aright, rained upon the foe smiting them hip and thigh, as the translated version of the Bible had it. In a spirit of generosity he was even prepared to concede that their precipitous arrival in the battle, exploding and gouting blasts of sulphurous fumes, may have added the rout—well perhaps a smidgin.
But back to the not so delightful Delphina. The missile that felled her of course burst into a fine flame, a spluttering and bellowing stinking fumes, which was the nature of Mistress Black’s infernal device. The stunned punk had by chance fallen next to this and as a consequence her long red gold hair was a frizzling aflame. Ned had watched for a satisfied minute or so then helpfully shoved her head repeatedly into a handy bank of snow. Well considering this was Fleete Street, by the stinking Fleete Ditch it was mostly snow, ah maybe some snow of a peculiar colour and consistency, but the flame definitely was out. After that he’d staggered back ready to receive the justly deserved hero’s laurels.
Or not.
Meg Black apparently wasn’t impressed by the gallant rescue from the foul and loathsome Fleecers. Instead she stood there in toe–tapping impatience, giving him a long measured survey from unclad foot to ahh mostly clad torso. At least after that burst of exercise Ned felt warm…well that was most of him.
“Y’know Ned, running around without clothes in this weather is perilous. You could get frostbite, and the only cure for that is chopping off the frost blighted parts.” Gruesome Roger, who’d worst luck survived the affray unscathed, gave the most evil grin and made energetic slicing motions with his dagger, while the dozen odd members of the ‘night school’ tittered and blushed at the suggestion.
Ned though was aghast and pulled his gown protectively over his most treasured possessions. “What! You mean like cut…off?”
“Why yes Ned, severed. Tis the only remedy once the black rot strikes or else you die of the spreading canker.”
Oh no this was a grim prognosis. His daemon gibbered wildly in panic at the prospective loss of privileges and usual pleasures. His angel though sternly rallied him with the advice that many a saint or worthy scholar had lost their manly attributes, for instance the famous Abelard. That reminder of the French scholar and lover of Heloise didn’t help at all. Ned winced and turned desperately to Meg, almost dropping to his knees in the snow. “Please Meg, for all the regard you may have for me, PLEASE HELP ME!”
Mistress Black regarded his kneeling and humble plea with what some would have described as a very evil glint in her eye. Smiling she patted him on the head as one would a child. “There is one remedy, but it has its…complications.”
“Yes, yes anything! Whatever it is I’ll pay the price no matter how steep, wear a duck on my head or chew leeches, whatever, but please save me!”
Meg’s smile didn’t waver. She just nodded her head in what he dimly perceived through his haze of sudden terror as… as satisfaction. “Y’know Ned, I believe for the cure I’ll hold you to that promise.”
Ned didn’t whimper or cry. His daemon was quite busy doing it for him.
Chapter Nine. Reward?
Ned huddled deeper into the mound of gowns, coverlets and cloaks, sipping the steaming posset, and luxuriating in the spreading warmth. Oh this was much better than running down Fetter and Fleete stark bollock naked, feeling his treasured assets growing numb-er by the moment as if covered inches deep in ice and hoarfrost. The fire in the private room had been stoked up with a fresh faggot and he was even beginning to sweat from the radiant heat. After the last few hours he didn’t care if this was the very image of Hell. Better the hot abysmal plains packed shoulder to shoulder with demons than the ice. Another sip of the hot spiced wine slid down his throat and Ned’s thoughts slowly stirred assembling the disparate and chaotic scenes and images into a recognisable pattern of the evening’s events.
Now he’d rescued the measle–brained Richard from his false pre–contract, that was all to the good and a fine success. His better angel interposed a rather arch comment on that regard, about how Rob had actually done the deed while Master Bedwell was pelting down Fetter Lane as bare buttocked as a wild Aethope of Affryca. Ned winced at the reminder. Well yes that did sort of happen, but in his preferred version of events, he had bravely drawn off the denizens of the Fleece with nary a thought to his own safety thus giving Rob the opportunity. That justification made Ned feel so much better. The only difficulty was that the rescue was supposed to have been by several lads from the Revels hiding out by the Wool’s Fleece privy.
Quite obviously that part of the plan hadn’t eventuated. According to a slurred and mumbled explanation by Will Davison, good intentions and firm leadership had got them to the corner of Fetter and Fleete where a stiff blast of icy winds had prompted an urgent retreat to cover. Ned had nodded in agreement about this night’s chilly conditions. However the assault might have pushed on if they hadn’t succumbed to a discussion of remedies for the cold. Damn lawyerly democracy! They voted to seek shelter for a few minutes till the winds lessened in the Red Boar. Ned had sighed over that reluctant and sheepish revelation—one draught of mulled wine by the fire so easily multiplied. Thus by fate, chance and warm spiced Rhenish was his rescue party so easily waylaid. Ahh the fortunes of war, he was sure Caesar didn’t have this problem when he was fighting the Gauls or crossing the Rubicon. He really couldn’t see some scarred veteran centurion sheepishly sidling up to Julius Caesar and with an unsteady salute pronouncing Ave Caesar. Sorry the XIV legio didn’t show up for the flanking attack, but yea we found this really wonderful taverna with the best Falerian you’ve ever tasted…and the lads they reckoned you’d be fine so… Decimation for such a dereliction would have been the least punishment from the Master of Rome.
However Ned wasn’t the Divine Julius. Nor could one equate this collection of drunken clerks and law apprentices to the steady dependable legionaries of Imperial Rome. So he’d offered the survivors the promised pence and praised their commitment if not their acts. His daemon though noted the most taken in drink for a later round of dice or cards.
That failure had of course led to his ahh very delicate situation with Mistress Delphina of the once flowing red hair and his sudden and precipitous exit out the window into the cold, cold night. And as he’d already discovered this worked wonderfully as a distraction. However, and damn but those ‘howevers’ slipped in so easily, his ‘rescue’ from the pursuing Fleece roisters had been somewhat humiliating and it didn’t matter how that was dressed up by his daemon it didn’t change one very simple fact. After his merry band of revellers became ‘distracted’ that left Mistress Damn her Black and her miserable minion Roger as his sole and unexpected source of salvation. Ned chewed over that very disagreeable memory. Given the chance she’d pulled another trick from her satchel and between that sulphurous stench and Gruesome Roger’s cudgel, the Fleece roisters had fled. That was bad enough to suffer but to there had been further humiliation to come in the shape of Meg’s amused laugh as she surveyed his mostly unclothed condition and instantly came up with a number of practical and dire problems that he was due to endure unless Master Bedwell immediately followed her strict regime of remedies.
A very diffident knock drew his attention to the doorway, and Rob cracked open the door sufficient to poke through his head. The sounds of feasting and carousing surged past reminding Ned all too fully of what he was missing. Rob made a series of lip chewing faces and
Ned held up a hand and sighed deeply. “Yes Rob, I know, I know—it must be time. All right, bring them in.”
Several slightly unsteady revellers filed into the room all possessing that silly expression informing the observer that they were about to partake in the most amusing of larks.
Ned pulled up his heaped cloaks and gowns and stretched out his legs. “How much longer?” he asked.
At the clearly bitter tone of the question Rob’s face continued through a brief spasm of embarrassed contortions and the apprentice smith’s hands twisted his grasped cloth cap almost fit to tear. “Ahh Ned, I’m sorry but…but Meg said it was a sovereign remedy for this affliction. I mean its better this than calling in a doctor of physick.”
Ned scowled at the answer. He didn’t want to think about what a doctor’s cure would be, or how painful and expensive—if it worked. “All right, all right. We’ll bow to her superior knowledge of practical physick and hedge potions.”
Rob looked relieved and gathering the inebriated band in a circle around Ned then unfastening their codpieces with those dopey grinning expressions of the drunkenly amused they began Meg’s sovereign remedy. Sweet Adeline of the interesting pleasures once said there were gentlemen at the Biddle who paid handsomely for this as a diversion. As far as Ned was concerned those gentlemen were welcome to it. As the treatment began and the resulting flow of ‘liquid’ glowed red gold in the light of the fire, Ned loudly cursed Meg Black, Flaunty Phil, Delphina the vixen, the Wool’s Fleece and that stupid measle Richard Reedman!
The Fetter Lane Fleece (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries) Page 5
