The Fetter Lane Fleece

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The Wool’s Fleece Fetter Lane

Contents

The Wool’s Fleece Fetter Lane

Contents

Dramatis Personae

The Royal Court

Historical Note on Red Ned Tudor Mysteries

Tudor Names and Language

Map London and the Liberties

Prologue. Fleeing the Fleece

Chapter One A Festive Gathering, The Sixth Day of Christmas 1529

Chapter Two. Strange Tidings

Chapter Three. Memory Lane—Fetter Lane

Chapter Four. The Wool’s Fleece

Chapter Five. Flaunty Phil’s Friendship

Chapter Six. The Delights of Delphina

Chapter Seven. The Fleetest on Fleete Street.

Chapter Eight. An Unlikely Rescue

Chapter Nine. Reward?

Historical Note about Cosenage

Religion and spirituality in the Tudor Age as portrayed in the Red Ned Tudor Mysteries

Tudor Coinage and values

Common Tudor Terms

The Liberties of London, A Tudor Christmas Frolic

Prologue A Perilous Position

Chapter One: A Christmas Revel Christmas Eve London 1529

Dramatis Personae

Edward Bedwell
or as he prefers Red Ned—an apprentice lawyer at Gray’s Inn and organiser of the Christmas Revels.

Margaret or Meg Black
—apprentice apothecary, amateur surgeon and sometime smuggler of illicit literature. Suspected subverter of the Christmas Revels.

Robert Black
—older brother of Meg. Apprentice artificer and Ned’s partner in the Revels scheme.

Gruesome Roger—
retainer to the Black family. A fellow with secrets who likes to loom menacingly over Ned ruining his Christmas.

Richard Rich
—Commissioner of Sewers for London and uncle to Red Ned. A lawyer climbing the ladder of patronage, and a good friend of Thomas Cromwell

Canting Michael—
a gang lord of Southwark who would like Red Ned’s ‘company’ for an hour or two.

Earless Nick (Throckmore)
—self–proclaimed Master of Masterless men and Lord of the Liberties. Always ready for good company and a game.

Lady Dellingham
—an ardent church reformer and ally of Cromwell. She holds firm
views
on the performance of good works in the sinkholes of London. Soon to leave for Geneva, though probably now soon enough for Ned’s liking.

Walter Dellingham
—a young innocent reformist lad of interesting dispositions and talents, luckily soon to leave for Geneva.

John Reedman—
a legal clerk at Gray’s Inn cursed with foolish relations.

Richard Reedman
—a young country lad with a bad choice of companions.

Phil Flydman
—Flaunty Phil to his drinking friends and fellow dicemen.

Delphina
—a redheaded punk of the Liberties, of flaming red hair, emerald green eyes and,
ahem,
other attractions.

As well as
a host of revelling clerks, apprentice lawyers and assorted punks, minions and rogues of the Liberties and the City of London

The
Royal Court

King Henry VIII
—a sovereign in desperate need of a male heir.

Katherine of Aragon—
Queen of England, at least for now.

Lady Anne Boleyn
—a Howard niece and supporter of Lutherans who the King wants to marry.

Thomas Cromwell
—former secretary to Cardinal Wolsey now serving the King on the Privy Council.

Sir Thomas More
—Lord Chancellor of England and pursuer of heretics. Formerly the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster.

Cardinal Thomas Wolsey
—disgraced former Lord Chancellor now living in exile from the Royal Court.

Historical Note
on Red Ned Tudor Mysteries

The Fetter Lane Fleece
is a work of fiction. However most of the main points of the story are based around historical Tudor London of 1529–30 and the setting is derived from period documents and accounts. I have endeavoured to give contemporary readers a window into the daily thoughts, and attitudes of the people in their positions in the Tudor hierarchy. All the main characters of this work are fictional, though as much as research allows, they do express the mood, passions and concerns of the time. These views or actions do not necessarily represent those of the author.

Tudor Names and Language

To all my readers. As a writer of historical fiction, I strive to bring forth a contemporary and understandable view of the Tudor Age during the reign of Henry VIII. The English language of the Tudor period is both maddeningly close and at the same time frustratingly different to our modern usages. For instance a number of placenames, titles and phrases may appear differently since they’ve been written in their earlier Tudor forms. To aid the story flow and provide a period flavour I’ve made some efforts which to render dialects and phrasing into more modern standards to take account of the many regional and class differences in accent and pronunciation. Hopefully this will give the reader a taste of Tudor English without sounding like a player at a Ren Fair. In Ned’s time there was nothing like standard English in either speech or spelling. This idea only gained prominence in the 1800’s after universal education and dictionaries. For anyone who would like to look a little deeper into where our language came from I can highly recommend Bill Bryson’s
The Mother Tongue
, an extremely amusing account of accent, eccentricity and English. Finally, apart from a good tale of adventure, as a historian and researcher I’m trying to give the reader as accurate a portrayal of Tudor life, culture and attitudes as possible based on the surviving records and accounts.

Regards

Gregory House

Map London and the Liberties

Prologue. Fleeing the Fleece

The snow covered mound on the rough cobbles crunched with the solid impact of his body and Ned whimpered as he rolled. Oh Christ that…that stung! The icy crystals set the skin of his bare back aflame, especially the long bloody scratches from that cursed sign. Well he hoped it was only the shock of the snow and ice that aggravated his current condition. It didn’t pay to investigate too closely what lay under the few inches of snow in a Liberties street. Dead dogs, piles of mouldering rushes and steaming kitchen waste where amongst the lesser ills. At least, remarked his daemon, it wasn’t the Fleete Ditch, a river of turds and tanner’s discharge. He’d dangled over that last week, seemingly for hours, on the brink of imminent death by drowning, as had Earless Nick’s luckless minion. No, no fear of that fate tonight. Instead he only had to worry about daggers, swords, cudgels, a butcher’s cleaver or two and the savage fury of an irate punk. See, said his daemon, nothing to worry about.

Rolling with the momentum of his sudden exit Ned staggered to his feet, and rendered slightly unsteady by his too solid landing, began to stagger off down Fetter Lane towards Fleete Street. A loud chorus of howls and curses from the Wool’s Fleece informed him that his solo sojourn was going to be of a very short duration. Damn. Ned hopped on one foot as he tried to continue his forward passage while at the same time attempting to pull on his left shoe. As for the rest of his clothes, his better angel may scold him for looking more naked than the wild Irish or bare breeched Scots, but unlike them he did have the ability to cloth his present nakedness. Just not now, thank the blessed saints for the shroud of night, even if the extra cold was shrinking his cods and setting his skin a prickle with goose bumps. If he continued much further in this ‘exposed condition’, his bollocks would be lumps either side of his neck and not even an hours delightful cajoling by Mistress Adeline could draw his pizzle out from its hiding spot.

Oh by the blessed saints why did the Twelve days of Christmas have to be so damnedly cold? Or Reedman’s brother, the stupid measle, so bereft of brains or commonsense?

Ned’s foot stamped down upon a thin layer of ice instantly breaking through the crust and he sank knee deep into the resulting pothole. Oh Christ! Oh Christ! Oh…Of a sudden his mind froze over in white pain as the water and muddy ice, chilled by weeks of Lord Frost’s breath, fountained up drenching his not so dangling nearest and dearest cods. The world around him blurred and he tried to draw breath to scream. Richard Reedman, you miserable bastard! If his cods were damaged or blighted the fool was going to suffer.

An angry cry from behind told Ned he didn’t have time to cater for clutching his frosty manhood. He needed to move, or else. The motivation of a prime kicking and thumping plus sundry assaults with cudgels and knives prompted his flagging efforts, and shivering as if he had the ague, Ned pushed on. The cries though increased in volume as the foisters of the Fleece rallied for a chase. Damn, damn, damn! This plan looked so good back at the Sign of the Spread Eagle. His angel remarked waspishly that it was warm in there by the blazing fire and he’d a full tankard of Rhenish in hand, so...

“Ere’s t’ stinking measle who ‘it me!” the fair Delphina screeched.

“A shillin’ ta the one what brings ‘im down!” The slightly muffled nasally voice of Flaunty Phil added. A hand over his broken nose may have hindered his speech, though an eager roar and cheer still answered the call.

Ned ignored his other shoe, gave up any further attempt at pulling on his shirt, doublet and hose and instead found a new burst of speed. Damn this! He just had to stop this dreadful habit of helping out friends with their Liberties follies. It was proving to be dangerous to his health, and by Satan’s great black hairy balls, so perishingly
cold
!

Chapter One. A Festive Gathering, The Sixth Day of Christmas 1529

As the icy spray of Lord Frost’s breath made manifest the chill toll of the winter season, hope and joy warmed the heart in the Christian domain of England. It was the very centre of the Twelve days of Christmas and a time of solemn celebration in church, as families and local guilds gave thanks for the birth of the Saviour. However not all were inclined to the gravitas of the season. The twelve days heralded the triumph of a more mischievous spirit as well, one enthroned on an ale barrel, cloaked in gaudy rags and tinsel with a wooden spoon as a sceptre. For this was the reign of the Lord of Misrule, where apprentices could act as their masters and the solemnity of the church was ridiculed, its faults, greed and hypocrisy exposed. The normal rules of position and privilege that tightly bound the obedience of the Tudor kingdom for a brief span of time were set aside. On the whole the gentry accepted the jibes and bestowed the traditional festival rewards, smiling at the ribald humour of the plays and japes. After all it was only for twelve days.

In the cheery warmth of a private room at the Sign of the Spread Eagle tavern in Wood Street such concerns about the brevity of Misrule’s reign were banished amongst the joys and pleasures of the Christmas Revels. The snow may have been falling steadily outside, shrouding the rutted city street and the higgledy piggledy line of the thatch and tile roofs in a mantle of velvet white, but as picturesque a scene as it was to set any poet to a sighing and a scribbling of its pristine beauty, the company present cared not a fart. Nor did they spare much consideration for the religious and symbolic meaning of the festivities. No. The twenty odd apprentice clerks and lawyers from the Inns of Court were solely focused on the trays of freshly baked and steaming mutton pies and the jugs of mulled Rhenish at hand, that was except for a cluster at the gaming table or the two fellows lost in sighing admiration of the trio of diaphanously clad maidens singing sweetly of Maying time pleasures.

In the feast’s chair of state at the head of the main table was Red Ned Bedwell, apprentice lawyer, and as he would have his fellows believe, a very successful aspiring gentleman on the rise. He was feeling very relaxed not to mention pleased at the course of his Christmas Revels. Though there were some who’d reckon Ned was in manner and habits closer to a measly rogue, a common foister or tosspotting dice man. Luckily for Ned the main prompter of these views and arch disrupter of his ‘ahem’ plans, Mistress Meg Black, wasn’t invited to the Revels. A good thing too whispered Ned’s daemon as he noticed the ready and very attractive smile of the scantily clad harpist in the corner. It was such a very enticing smile, the rosy lips and dark fluttering eyelashes full of promise. Ned felt his cods become somewhat restricted in accommodation as the harpist winked slowly at him.

A sudden and heavy wallop temporarily distracted the direction of his thoughts and brought Ned, cods and all, abruptly back to the Revels. “Ned, this is as fine a feast as those at the Guildhall. You certainly have a gift.”

The large hand of his friend Rob Black gripped Ned’s shoulder with almost eye–watering strength. Good fortune or timing favoured Ned, for this was perhaps the only time that evening he was not holding the pewter cup of sweet sack, and so it didn’t drench his neighbour in an inopportune spray of wine. Wincing slightly Ned thanked his feasting companion for his compliments. As he’d found last year the apprentice smith and foundry man was an excellent lad to have at one’s side in a brawl, for all his brotherly relationship to the indomitable and suspicious minded Meg. However working amongst other fellows of equal breadth and stature, Rob frequently forgot the effect of his size and strength on mere mortals. Ned boasted some six feet in height with as he thought decent shoulders and fine legs thanks to the rigorous training provided Master Sylver, and in his own mind felt himself the epitome of manly physic. When Rob clapped a heavy hand on his back Ned felt as weak as any hunch–shouldered, crab–fisted clerk of his Uncle Richard’s at Middle Temple Inns. It was a humbling reminder that despite brawl, affray and a handy need for speed from irate swains or outraged husbands, he just wasn’t going to be able to wrestle a recalcitrant carthorse like Rob.

Ned smiled and with a shrug eased his sore shoulder. Hanging from the Fleete Bridge the other night had strained a muscle or two. They still ached when he stretched to roll the dice. At his visible wince during yesterday’s Dellingham sojourn the keen eyed Mistress Black had quickly whipped out some gooey, stinking ointment from that bottomless magickal apothecary’s satchel she perpetually hauled about wherever she ventured. Ned wasn’t sure if it worked or not, but damn hadn’t the stuff burned like the wind from Satan’s arse when he’d rubbed it in.

Even in the midst of the celebration as the aromatic pies approached, at the reminder of yesterday’s jaunt Ned quickly glanced over at their own guest and captive. Hmm yes, ‘lamb’ Walter was safely shadowed by his fair escort over at the gaming table, so at least for tonight there was little likelihood of mischief. Ned dismissed any forebodings, and exchanging a jest with John Reedman set to this latest serving for the revels. His daemon purred that this was his most excellent scheme—good wine, good company, attractively and scantily dressed musicians, and the satisfied jingle of a full purse. If this was the life of a gentleman then he could get used to it. Not even the waspish warning of his better angel diminished his warm glow of triumph and adulation of the companies cheers. Damn but this was a fine Revel!

As if summoned by the ill chanced wish or the dark herald of Christmas Repentance, a loud knocking sounded at the door, seeking entrance to blight Ned’s latest pleasure.

Chapter Two. Strange Tidings

Ned relaxed back into his chair with a dramatic sigh of relief as the thumping of his heart wound back from the frantic beat of alarum to its more measured pace. By the blessed saints and Lady Fortuna it was just some scruffy urchin bearing a message for one of their company. For a moment there he’d thought the Revels were going to be raided by Sir Thomas More’s pursuivants and wouldn’t that have been ironic. While there was probably an abundance of evangelical sympathisers in the room, with the Revels in full flood none would’ve shown the least interest in reading the latest serving of heretical literature—a fact which if she’d known would have set Mistress Meg Black a frowning and a cursing at the missed opportunity of ‘religious improvement’ amongst the fellows of the Inns of Court. Whether the Lord Chancellor’s men would have bothered with the niceties of inquiry was another question. Ned had crossed their path last year when Sir Thomas was just the relatively lowly Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster responsible for, amongst his other duties, the repair of Fleete Ditch bridge, and which to Ned’s personal testament was the shoddiest of jobs, almost costing this aspiring gentlemen and apprentice lawyer a fatal tumble into the icy turd–choked depths.

Anyway, overtly heretic free or not, More’s men had a nasty habit of proclaiming any gathering they found infested with lovers of Luther. Unless of course they were convinced of the company’s undoubted respect for His Sovereign Majesty the Lord Chancellor and the Church via a discrete transfer of silver,—four shillings from the tattling Ned had heard last week.

If not More’s men there had been another dreadful possibility. Yet one more supposedly urgent demand from Mistress Black. Damn her for an interfering shrew! The last ‘loving missives’ had summoned Ned to a cascading series of disasters that ended up with him hanging from the Fleete Ditch Bridge. That wasn’t an occasion a young lad was likely to forget any time soon. Even worse they’d been delivered by that haughtily sneering retainer of hers, Gruesome Roger Hawkins. Now there was a fellow who deserved a hanging or flogging—and twice over! During the most recent occasion the scarred retainer’s surly manner towards him had precipitated a challenge from Ned to ‘have it out’. And to heap degradation upon insult Gruesome Roger had turned away with his usual sneer and refused! Ned was still nonplussed at that gross behaviour. After all how could you refuse to defend your honour? His daemon had assured him that the fellow was no doubt afear’d of being on the wrong end of a thrashing delivered by his mistress’s ‘friend’. His better angel had dismissed this dissemblance, labelling it a fantasy worthy of Sir Thomas More’s
Utopia
. Rather it blithely suggested Gruesome Roger declined due to common sense. After all it wouldn’t look very good reporting back to Mistress Black covered in bloody splatter from beating her ‘friend’ into several reddish colours of snot.

But this latest interruption didn’t concern him and this Christmas tide he was clear of duties, worthless charges and dubious enterprises. In celebration and to shake off the taste of ill musings and unpleasant reminders of those few days past, Ned poured himself a generous serving of the Rhenish slowly letting the reviving liquor slide down his throat. Ah that taste of red velvet with just a hint of orange! This Revel was proving a real success. His fortune and reputation for the next few months were made. No fellow clerk at the Inns would sneer at him for being the bastard nephew of Richard Rich, and on another front his status with Meg Black was bound to improve. There were a few lads who now owed Ned Bedwell a favour or two. All he had to do was arrange a little incident, of course somewhere free of Gruesome Roger’s baleful presence, where Ned could step in and, ‘ahem’, save the day thus putting Meg Black in a suitably grateful frame of mind. For all her forward nature she did possess the most beguiling grey blue eyes and when she moved, ah yes, the sway of her hips was wont to have the most constricting effect on his cod piece.

“Ahh Ned, Ned! Could I have a private word with you?” The urgent whisper of John Reedman brought him back to earth from an exceedingly pleasant reverie.

Bending close the law clerk and appointed ‘master’ of the Revels games placed a hand on his arm. The fellow looked deeply disturbed, a heavy frown settling over his dark eyes, his lips clenched tight in dismay. Curious as to the request Ned nodded his acquiescence and seizing one parting bite from the mutton pie followed the law clerk into the adjoining private room. On this occasion the large bed against the wall was vacant since all the Revellers as well as Walter were at the feast. All to the good. A private meeting didn’t need an attentive audience a puffing and moaning behind the drawn bed curtains.

Reedman walked over to the small diamond–paned glass window and peered out westwards. The wintery sun was setting and its last gleam could be seen giving a brief and pallid wash of colour to the white humps of the city roofs. His clenched left hand smote the wall in a solid blow in what Ned knew was a display of suppressed anger. Then as if gaining strength from the Christmas scene Reedman drew a long breath, regaining his composure and turned to face his curious fellow clerk. “Ned, I’ve a damnable problem and…and I’ve none else in the city to turn to for this cursed difficulty.” It had come out in a frantic gasped rush as if escaping clenched teeth.

Still unsure of the situation Ned spread his hands apart and gave an encouraging shrug.

Reedman rubbed at the solid planes of his face with a free hand as if trying to massage away an unpleasant reminder. “Ned I’ve just received this cursed letter!”

The previously hidden right hand now appeared and in its tight grasp were the remnants of a letter, thread and seal dandling like the neck of a dead capon at a butchers stall, the broken seal the very imitation of a cocks comb. In a clerk’s line of work letters were as life’s blood, ranging from demands, petitions and requests to bearers of grimmer tidings. That this scrap of paper impelled the normally steady and dependable Reedman to such a fit of choleric temper boded ill news.

Suddenly alarmed Ned blurted the first thought that came to mind. “By the blessed saints John, it isn’t your family! Not…not the sweats or the
plague
?” This last word came out as a strangled gasp. These days urgent letters in the night often presaged one or more sudden deaths in the family. Summer usually brought with it the first signs of pestilence, but as Ned had seen, the Sweats could sweep through a community at anytime. Worst still you could be fine in the morning, come down with a headache around midday and dead at sunset.

Reedman forced a wry smile but shook his head. “Hmm, what? No…no, it is to do with my family but not illness…unless one counts
stupidity
as a disrupter of good physick!”

Ah now that made sense. Stupidity begot so many fruitful problems for clerks and lawyers. Ned attempted what he hoped came across as an commiserating shrug at the foolishness of relatives. This was a tempting opportunity—a problem the respected Reedman couldn’t solve and he’d asked an esteemed friend with a growing reputation for aid. Hmm, why not help a fellow clerk? He’d solved the most complex problems and conundrums for Councillor Cromwell and Meg Black and how likely was it that whatever ailed Reedman was anywhere near as labyrinthine—or dangerous.

Ned’s silent display of understanding seemed to calm Reedman who after a few low muttered curses continued his explanation. “I’ve three brothers y’see. The oldest of us has a printing press over on Fleete Street with Pynson. That’s Robert. He’s a decent sort. Prints a lot of law manuals and texts plus the usual religious work like
The Pylgrimage of Perfection
by Bonde for Archbishop Fischer. I...I shouldn’t blame Robert. He does what he can and its hardly his fault, but by all the corrupted devils and monks, he should‘ve known!”

“Known what? What’s the problem John?”

“Tis that fool Richard!” Reedman snarled and again smote the wall, this time with fist clenched, clearly still angered by the recitation of family problems.

Ned just nodded. He well understood the myriad difficulties of relatives particularly the cross he had to bear that was Uncle Richard. “Who’s he?”

“My stupid measle–brained brother, the youngest in our family. The lackwit’s been here less than a fortnight and he’s got himself grabbed by those foisters and rogues at the Wool’s Fleece in Fetter Lane!”

“Ahh, I see.” And to be honest Ned did. At the mention of the Wool’s Fleece the whole situation was darkly illuminated. The tavern was as fine a haunt of rogues, foisters, nips and dicemen as you could find anywhere in the Liberties, excepting of course the lair of Earless Nick at the Black Goat.

His daemon growled at the name while his better angel quailed. The Wool’s Fleece, now didn’t that bring back memories, and none, not a one of them pleasant. Ned leant against the wall, arms crossed and eyes alight with the potential of mischief…and revenge. “Why John, if you’ve a problem at the Fleece needing sorting why don’t you tell me all about it?”

Chapter Three. Memory Lane—Fetter Lane

It was dark out here, and bitterly cold. Leading the way ahead of Ned by three paces was his friend Rob holding out the small flaring link light, its flame sputtering with the occasional snowflake. For once their evening passage through the city had been reasonably well lit. Perhaps it was all the festivities. Most of the doorways they’d passed had been festooned with arches of holly and ivy. In the midst of winter the vivid green was a cheering sight, especially in the warm golden spill of householders’ small lanterns. Now however they’d crossed the Fleete Ditch bridge, and apart from a wintery chill–induced shiver, Ned felt all the hairs at the back of his head rise in remembered terror of his almost turd–choked doom. A dozen paces later they were past striding along Fleete Street, though his spirit didn’t lift that much as he left the ill omened bridge behind.

So here they were, fully in the Liberties, the debatable lands of fair London City—a crowded patch, packed to the rafters with thousands in rough tenements, cobbled together from crumbling buildings such as decayed monasteries or the tumbled ruins of fallen lords who’d lost all in the bloody strivings of York and Lancaster. The sad remnants of glories past, broken stonework and carving that spoke eloquent if mutely of battle, death and execution. Though southwards in the open spaces closer to the river, away from the jostling road, stood the proud towers and gleaming plastered walls of present splendour. Fronting the river were the rows of great houses and palaces such as His Sovereign Majesty’s Bridewell Palace—a beautiful building some four stories high, its corners flanked by turreted domed towers with its central squares of gardens. Further along still lay the riverside Inns of Court such as Inner Temple and Middle Temple, each well appointed with secluded courtyards and orchards for the contemplation of weighty matters of law, or an opportune tumble in the grass with a willing punk. The latter also housed the chambers of that most formidable Autumn Reader, the distinguished Richard Rich, his uncle, wherein he practiced a successful if rather ‘unique’ and probably twisty style of law.

However Ned wasn’t in those blessed isles of law and tranquillity. No, he was trudging along perhaps the worst stretch of Fleete Street and it was dark. The residents of the Liberties possessed a frankly dismissive attitude to city statues. In theory by law, of an evening between the feasts of Hallowtide and Candlemass, the citizens of London were required to have a small lantern outside their dwelling to be lit after dusk. Ha! This was the Liberties—as if! Any lantern left unattended was pinched and offered for sale in a tumble down alehouse before the rush light had the chance to grow cold. It was Ned’s well founded suspicion that the tallow was more likely to be used as a sop for coarse ravel bread than for lighting. The Liberties had that kind of desperate reputation. That was probably the reason Westminster was shielded from its pernicious influence by the steady and prosperous row of the Inns of Court. After all it wouldn’t do for mere royal clerks and servants to pick up the bad habits of forgers, nips, foisters and punks. No, not when they could be put to better use by a better class of rogue arrayed in dark gowns and with a more thorough knowledge of the ins and outs of the Law.

At this particular moment of more urgent concern to Ned than the habits of petty thievery and lawyers was that the Liberties was also the haunt of Earless Nick, the self proclaimed Lord of the Masterless men of the Liberties—a somewhat genteel and grossly erroneous description for this collection of scabby rogues, nips, foisters and beggars that plagued the honest citizens of London. As of a few days ago Red Ned Bedwell had come to the negative attention of Earless Nick due to circumstances surrounding that damned evangelical ‘lamb’, Walter Dellingham. So there no small need for circumspection in this matter. As a precaution and to hopefully prevent recognition the normally strutting Red Ned, aspiring lawyer and potential gentleman had drawn upon the classical tale of Ulysses and opted for disguise. He’d felt himself rather inventive. The beaver’s pelt of a beard and the padded hunchback were dismissed out of hand back as worse than useless. Instead he had reasoned that the simplest of disguises usually proved to be the best, and thus he had put this problem to the assembled Revellers. In the main their suggestions had been sound, that was all except Radford who’d sniggered that Ned needed a kirtle, a dress and a french hood to truly be hidden from view. That drunkard’s delusion had been ignored. Instead they’d pooled a collection from several of the lads at the Revels who were newly come to the Inns this last law term. For a couple of flagons of Rhenish and the sly whisper of a play at cozenage in the Liberties they’d been more than keen to lend their older garb.

Thus here he was clumsily strutting down Fleete Street in an ill fitting gown, doublet, cap and to Ned’s present irritation, a ‘borrowed’ codpiece that required constant scratching thanks to fleas and other bedfellows. Hence the clumsy walk as he constantly sought to apprehend or smite the minuscule foe. So to the casual observer or not so casual beggar, Ned presented the very image of an ill tutored and gawky country lad on his first visit to the city.

The risk of identification having been dealt with, this only left one other potential difficulty, and as his daemon and angel whispered in unison, it was perhaps the most fraught with peril. The Wool’s Fleece in Fetter Lane had an unsavoury reputation. It was indeed a sink hole of depravity and vice, full of the boldest rogues and dice men well skilled in fleecing innocent lads such as the youngest of the Reedman brothers. Yes damn them—the patrons of the Fleece were very well practiced. They’d even caught out the renowned Red Ned Bedwell, though as his better angel consoled at that time he was but a callow youth, barely a week in the city. The humiliation still rankled, a shameful mark on his reputation, he all too easy cozenage of young Ned. By all the rutting devils of Satan’s merry hell, didn’t that remembered shame stoke a fierce anger fuelling his present lust for retribution! Ned presented an unpleasant smile to the dark of the night. Maybe young Reedman was an excuse, but damn him, the opportunity to ‘fleece’ The Fleece was too good an opportunity to refuse. And as his daemon counselled, always give in to
Temptation
for in these perilous times one never knew when it would come one’s way again.

Chapter Four
. The Wool’s Fleece

Standing in the lee of a projecting upper storey, Ned pretended to lean against the wall and clean frozen street muck off his shoe, while his servant still holding the sputtering link light stood out in the lane. Pretty standard behaviour for most gentlemen—they’d shelter in comfort awaiting while the minions suffered the cold and the rain. As a piece of scene setting Ned thought it perfect even though Rob had voiced a pointed reminder of the perishing cold. He needed to watch the tavern for a few minutes before putting his cozenage into play. There was the usual beggar huddled under a half collapsed lean–to across the lane. That was to be expected in the Liberties, no doubt another pair of hired ‘eyes’ for Earless Nick. Most establishments under his ‘patronage’ had at least one nearby to report the comings and goings so as to speedily informing their lord and master on the departure of any likely targets for ‘tithing’.

Apart from the defacto gateman The Wool’s Fleece looked pretty much the same as it had two years ago. Now wasn’t that a warning in itself considering this tavern sat almost equidistance from the prestigious Clifford Inn, Rolls House and Ned’s usual place of supervision at Gray’s Inn. But no it was still a shabby wattle and daub timber frame building some three storey’s high, pocked with crumbling gaps which the patches of whitewash and the large piles of mounded snow didn’t hide. The roof was the common thick straw thatch popular outside the city boundaries and cheaper than tiles or split shingles. Several shuttered windows, neither evenly spaced nor level, punctured the walls at each level. From memory they’d be simple timber shutters. No chance of lead framed glass at The Fleece. Over the front door swung the worn painted sign of a suspended sheep. It was fastened to a pair of rusty iron chains pinned by rough staples to a projecting beam off the second storey.

As dilapidated as it was in his eyes, Ned couldn’t understand what had been its allure. His daemon happily supplied the ‘reason’. Ahh the innocent flaws of youthful memories. Deception, shame and humiliation all proved a useful spur for his play this night. Looking back on it Ned couldn’t believe he’d ever been that naive, a real country dolt, and by Satan’s singed arsehole, it was even after a year of university. But no, chided his daemon, the first day at Gray’s Inn and he’d fallen for the cosenage play of that sanctimonious swine, Gylberte Fowlke, senior apprentice lawyer. The best tavern with the fairest dice game from Westminster to London Wall, Fowlke had claimed, and embraced by the arm of friendship young Ned, wide eyed and keen to impress, had been led to a damned thorough fleecing. And that wasn’t all. After his trouncing at dice, flushed with shame and raged he’d challenged the dice master. By all the saints that act of insanity and bravado had almost earned him a shroudless grave tumbled in a ditch. Only the intercession of Lady Fortuna in the form of Mistress Adeline had saved him from his first almost terminal lesson in the ways of the Liberties. Master Fowlke the treacherous measley weasel would get his comeuppance later. This day though was the turn of that pack of roguish fleecers laired at The Wool’s Fleece.

Ned straightened up and sauntered over to Rob. “All right this is just a simple play at cozenage. Remember to call me master or my lord and back my calls. We lead them on until we find out where they’ve stashed Richard.”

Rob gave a short nod of almost reluctant agreement. Ned could see by the set of his shoulders that his friend was unhappy with the arrangement. “But Ned…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t mean any disrespect to our Revel companions, but are you sure we can depend on them to play their parts? Wouldn’t it be easier to call Meg and Roger for assistance? I’m sure the…”

Ned made an abrupt cutting gesture with his hand at the suggestion and Rob’s words shuddered to a halt. “No! Not Meg.” He rubbed his hand over a very cold nose and shook his head.

“Now Rob, your sister has many admirable qualities and I’ll admit she’s proved herself, ahh, inventive over this last week. But we’ve no heretics or secret night schools here. This play of the coney catcher’s game is one of mine own skills on mine own turf.”

All that was true. This was his field and he’d be thrice damned as a measle tosspotting fool if he let Meg Black stick her nose in any of it.

Rob appeared to accept this or at least he shrugged in resignation.

“Look, as John explained, some punk and her apple squire have played a right piece on young Richard. The simple country cousin must have let out he was to be married soon and they seized him up for a pre–contract cozen. They’ll have a friar on hand and some petty lawyer to draft the instant marriage contract and as witness. If we don’t spring the idiot he’ll have to pay three pounds to escape the false bond.”

Rob mulled that part over. Three pounds was a hefty amount of gilt. A family could live well for months on such a sum. Ned didn’t have much idea regarding the wealth of Reedman or his brother’s prospective bride, but if these rogues thought they could lever more coin, not much could be done. Any
decent
citizen of standing would instantly cry loudly and summon the Liberties Watch. Oh by the saints, wouldn’t that solve all the problems! Ned knew the Liberties Common Watch, almost as well as their cousins in villainy, the Southwark Watch. As any
sensible
citizen should expect, they were a similar set of scoundrels and sheep fondlers, excelling at the skill of not arriving at an affray until too late or the rogues were long gone. So that only left petitioning some Royal official or lord for assistance, it’d be cheaper and faster to pay the ransom.

Having quelled that minor rebellion Ned tugged his doublet and cloak into a clumsy attempt at rakish style and strode towards the tavern. Rob, playing his servant, doused the link light at the tavern entrance and pushed open the door.

Chapter Five
. Flaunty Phil’s Friendship

Ned strode in with a jaunty step and stopped hand on hips, legs spread wide in a poorly executed attempt to copy a lord’s manner. As expected the company of the common room gave him a thorough review from head to toe. This was fine since in between knocking the snow off his borrowed cloak and vainly trying to reset the splay of crow feathers in his cap, he was doing the same. Having given the audience a chance to weigh up their visitor Ned strode over to the taverner’s bench and thumped a groat on the scarred timber. “A flagon o’ yer best wine.”

The taverner, a small wizened man overwhelmed by a black beard reaching down to his waist, picked up the coin and scowled at it before turning away without a reply.

Appearing nonplussed Ned looked bemusedly around the common room searching for a clear table. One tallish fellow, possessed of a short trimmed beard and a fine long nose, got up from the table and sauntered over. In the fashionable London how one dressed proclaimed the status and position of the wearer. It was a fact of life which is why Ned had chosen the selection of homespun and older fashioned apparel befitting a country yeoman.

He'd heard one poetic comparison
—like
the vivid hues of a spring flower drew a bee to taste its nectar
—as if. Ned thought this an insipid simile and not at all fitting the present moment, far more like a wasp on its way to pillage the beeskep. A fitting label since this ‘Fleecer’ was dressed in the puffed and slashed gaudy colours favoured by German soldiers serving Emperor Charles. They were called Landsknechts, and held the reputation as being ready for a fight or wanton pillage, whichever came first. Their fame had peaked with the capture of the King of France at Pavia back in ‘twenty five’ but a brace of years ago. It had plummeted again when the Imperial army sacked Rome and held the Pope captive. Ned had seen this fashion displayed at Court by the younger outré members of the court. It was frowned upon by the Master of Apprentices at the Inns as too prideful, lacking the gravitas and dignity of black. Where he could Ned skirted the statues like many of his other apprentice lawyers.

This fellow though was as colourful as any peacock and twice as bold as he walked over and leant beside the bench giving a friendly, welcoming smile and slapping down his own coin. “Dickon, yea lazy measle! A jug of brandy wine for our newcomers on this frosty night.”

Ned returned the smile and gave a jerky nod in the direction of his newly acquired companion. “Why thank ye master, that’s indeed generous for mere strangers.”

Their colourful host waved the thanks away with an open handed gesture and his puffed and slashed sleeve rippled black and vivid yellow. “Think naught of it friend. Tis the time of our saviour’s birth when all good Christians should show each other kindness and good will. Anyway Master, you look worn down by this foul weather’s chill. Care to share my table by the fire?”

As if momentarily stunned by such generosity Ned paused, but a smile and a gentle tug on his sleeve drew him easily along. Rob of course trailed dejectedly after, and not offered a seat squatted by the wall, the very picture of a dejected and none too bright servant waiting for the next shouted command to stir him into laggardly action. Ned though was treated with uncommon courtesy and took the honoured seat by the fire readily accepting a fully charged horn cup of brandy wine. To those uninitiated in the ways of the Liberties it all looked so cheery and friendly, smiles and a Wassail cup. What more could a weary traveller fresh from the country ask for?

“Welcome to the merry company at the Wool’s Fleece. I’m Phil Flydman, a fellow of some note hereabouts.”

Ned gulped the proffered drink and didn’t have to simulate the eye watering cough. Damn but this stuff was fiery and coarse! It felt like his throat was being stripped by liquid dragon’s fire. As for his newly introduced host, Ned already knew his name and dress by reputation and as his daemon reminded him also by ‘that’ prior meeting. The fellow was Flaunty Phil, a known rogue moderately skilled at the substitution of the false fullans and gourds in dice play, though Ned hadn’t heard if Phil now moved into other areas of roguery and cozenage. Thus it was prudent to play the easy country fool, the veriest coney of the coney catcher’s game.

Ned coughed and choked, thumping his chest before wheezing out a stifled reply. “By…by Christ’s bones, that’s…that’s a powerful drink Master Flydman. My thanks for your generosity. I’m Will Paston fro’ Branfield.”

His host nodded with keen interest and bid Ned take another sip. “Really. Where be that Master Paston?”

“Half a day’s ride north of Chelmsford on the road to Thyckfield. Tis a grand place, the largest village for a day’s ride. We’ve fifty houses and two mills.”

Flaunty Phil leant back his hand striking flat on the table his eyes wide with astonishment. “Why I’s never! Such luck! It can only be by the Good Lord’s will. Mine own uncle, Thomas Smyth, is from near Chelmsford around those parts!”

Ned pretended to be startled. “Well, well who’d chance a kinsman of mine own countryman, here in this big city.”

Flaunty Phil for his part gave Ned’s shoulder a good natured buffet and called out. “Ho taverner, a jug of your best for His Majesty’s worthy and loyal subject, this good Essex man, Will Paston!”

As if on cue the rest of the tavern commons gave a hearty cheer. Ned pretended embarrassment at the praise as a third jug rapidly arrived at the table, and then of course another toast, this time to the stout lads and buxom lasses of Essex. Ned playing cautious endeavoured to spill a fair bit before it reached his lips.

On the third round of toasts, this time to His Sovereign Majesty, his new best friend Phil leant closer. “Tell me countryman, what brings you to London?”

Ned clumsily rubbing his face bent forward and dropped his voice. “Why Master Phil, I’m here to sort out a few legal matters afore my marriage.”

“Really? So this does call for celebration. Another drink!”

Once more the cups rose up in a hearty toast and once more Ned took less than a mouthful then conspiratorially bent his head a lot closer to his host and attempted a soft voice. He made an effort to slur words as if he really had just downed four beakers of eye wateringly strong brandy wine. “No, no not so loud Master Phil. I’m to be married next week but in the meantime I’ve to see a lawyer about the transfer of the lands from the dowry.”

“Ho, ho, a lass of property! You lucky fellow Will!”

Another not so discrete round of toasts to celebrate his ‘good fortune’, then a fifth after Ned gave the value as three farms worth and an oast house. After which Ned shook his head at the sixth round of pledges. “Nay friend Flid…Flydman. Any more of this fiery drink an’ I fears I’ll be over borne. I’m here on a most’s important duty.”

Ned slipped little on the table and blinked his eyes a few times as if the scene was blurring, made a clumsy effort to tap his nose in a knowing fashion and tried to look around in a sly wary manner then whispered. “The law clerk at Gray’s said here was a fine house where a gentleman could have some personal ahh instruction in the art o’ spurring. Cause, cause…”

Ned trailed off lamely though Flaunty Phil’s previous smile expanded to display a number of broken teeth. The fellow may have thought it friendly but for Ned it was the sly grin of a fox to a foolish duck. “Why Will, I’d have thought you the very cockerel of Branfield.”

Ned puffed up his chest and endeavoured to look like he was the most popular and skilled of swains. “Ahh, ahh y’see the village milk maids calls me the Bull o’ Branfield,” said Ned with all the sincerity of a lad hoping a wild boast would soon match reality.

Flaunty Phil took it all in his stride giving his own conspiratorial tap of the nose and a practiced wink. “I’m sure you’re the greatest Codsman and pizzle jouster of punks o’ Branfield, but I can sees that a countryman the likes of you wants a woman who has all the skill to bring a fellow to the mastery o’ ‘es talents.”

Ned blushed at the suggestion, not that hard an accomplishment considering the potency of the brandywine.

His host nodded slowly with what only could be called lewdly sly leer. “So Will my friend, all’s I can say is that yea came to the right place. I know’s just the
lady
that’ll do yea a treat, a woman of skill and renown in these parts o’ London.”

Flaunty Phil nudged one of the non-descript loungers on a nearby bench who slouched off, heading for the stairs leading to the upper storey. In the meantime Flaunty Phil hunched over in a conspiratorial manner and put a hand on Ned’s shoulder. “Delphina, friend Will, is a pearl amongst the punks of the city, a rare beauty whom even engaged the interest of that known courtly lecher, Sir Francis Bryan. In fact that most famous ‘codsman’ trained Delphina in all the lewdest arts from Paris and Rome that can please a man for hours.”

Ned nodded, not so much salivating in anticipation, but at least trying to look as if he were. “Really, by Christ’s bones um, um that’s the kind of fire I’s want ta quench!”

Then as if his own keenness was suddenly damped Ned hesitated and looked guiltily around clutching at his purse. “Is, is, is she pricy?” Ned managed to squeak out this question nervously. It was a slight problem that by this point his daemon had lost track of the ‘plot’ and was giving him an imagined review of the delights of fair Delphina.

Flaunty Phil’s smile twitched at the impulsive movement and his eyes noted the apparently bulging purse with solicitous interest. “Nay lad. Since it is the days of Christmas, and for mine own countryman, I’ll arrange for her to see yea as a favour to me, an it’ll not even cost yea a bent groat.”

“Why Phil, yer a boon, a boon friend!” Ned slurred that slightly and made a clumsy grasp at Phil’s arm.

The cozener’s smile flickered into a flashing grin of predatory triumph, and as if on cue Phil raised his arm and pointed to the stairs. “Ere she is, beauty enthroned!”

Thus Ned’s head was jerked around by the ringing summons to behold the entrance of Delphina. A chorus of sighs and whimpers accompanied her stately steps down the stairs, and the vision in a long red dress and matching fiery hair drifted over to their bench. Her sweet tones tickled every fibre in his body sending a jolt to his previously ignored cods. “Master Flydman, ye called me fo’ to see to this fine gentleman?”

Ned didn’t have to simulate a befuddled gulp, nor did his daemon. Now just as his better angel warned, this part of the plan was going to need some very careful footwork.

Chapter Six. The Delights of Delphina

On his last visit to The Wool’s Fleece Ned hadn’t made it up the stairs, having been easily stripped of assets in the common room below. This time though, being lead up the treads by Delphina’s warm and delicate hand, it was as if he were transported to the realm of the gods and goddesses climbing the path towards blessed Olympus. His angel waspishly chided his classical allusions and at the same time sharply reminded him to concentrate on the stern duty ahead. If only it was so easy. Apart from a cascading flow of red gold hair, Delphina possessed a pair of entrancing light emerald eyes that sparkled deeply of her promise in the bed chamber. Even her softly sharp lavender scent tickled his nose setting off alarming conniptions in his cod piece. His wicked daemon, spurred more by lust than reason was in the saddle and it exulted at the wonderful opportunity this presented. To be rewarded for rescuing Richard Reedman and enjoy an hour or so of Delphina’s delights—how lucky could a lad be at Christmas?

Almost in a daze no doubt attributed to that doubly strong brandywine, Ned reached the top of the first flight of stairs and the delicious Delphina drew him along the half lit corridor with a ready teasing smile. Halfway along on the left lounged an ill favoured rogue, cudgel thrust in his ample belt. It seemed to Ned that this ‘Fleecers’ close set beady eyes watched his passage with a leery, knowing smirk of anticipation and whatever the allure of Delphina’s charms that sight served as a splash of ice water to his overcharged condition. Ned gave the watcher a dopey nod as if to a fellow engager in the carnal pleasures of the Wool’s Fleece. His better angel noted the slide bar of an outer timber door latch by the fellow’s hand. At first sight it seemed the only one and therefore a rather odd arrangement. Most rooms in taverns possessed the lightest of inside latches to at least give a semblance of security against the intrusion of common rogues and thieves. But to have one outside, well, that was a little different. There were rumours that some foully reputed stews over Southwark way weren’t that opposed to the seizing of girls newly come to the city for, ahem, ‘training’ as punks. While Ned wasn’t naive enough to tut tut or to swear an oath as a Christian that such scandalous practices were limited to the heathen Turk, to his Liberties tuned ear that practice was possible, but probably uncommon. Here a barred and guarded door strongly spoke of similar nefarious uses—secreting a reluctant guest mayhap?

This bout of speculation regarding room assignments took barely a moment in Ned’s passage to promised delights. Whether his guide Delphina dipped a head or fluttered eyelashes at the guard he couldn’t tell, lost as he was in her scent and the alluring sight of smooth, creamy skin at neck and shoulder. With practiced ease Delphina pushed open a door and in the manner of one receiving a lordly guest, curtsied him in.

Ned didn’t need to fain surprise. His mouth gaped open quite naturally. The room of promised delights was indeed quite a transformation from the rough and common space below. The walls where covered in panels of painted canvas, each one depicting in a classical manner a number of most lascivious scenes between, ah well, shepherds and shepherdesses. For purely ascetic reasons Ned tilted his head sideways to gain a fuller appreciation of one particularly scene involving several cavorting participants in a variety of positions. The painter had an excellent eye for detail and Ned’s daemon wondered if the fellow could supply a list of the female models and their ‘places of engagement’. But for all its opulent and distracting scenery the main difference between this bedchamber and that of any other discerning punk was the structure sitting in the centre of the space.

In Ned’s experience most ‘bed chambers’ contained a bed of some varying quality, at the lowest end a rough pallet stuffed with straw, while in houses of quality the bed often was an enormous structure several feet tall with a canopy and curtains of richly worked cloth. Here they’d taken classical allusions to a new level. There wasn’t a bed at all. Instead the room contained a large open bath full of steaming water. By the saints a real Roman bath! Ned’s ‘scholarly’ interest stirred. He’d read enough Roman writers including the much passed around and dog eared
Metamorphoses of Apuleius
or as St Augustine sneeringly referred to it as Asinus Aureus,
The Golden Ass.
It certainly helped a young scholar gain a new and different insight to the manners of the antique Romans and many of his fellow scholars at the university had ‘discussed’ the many intriguing and diverting uses of a
roman bath
for um, oh yes for ‘philosophical debate’. He also knew of several houses of lewdness that claimed to specialise in ‘bathing’ though as yet he’d not had the chance to ‘wash’. This rescue was looking better and better, a real Christmas treat! Somewhat pleasantly startled Ned allowed himself to be led towards the bath.

He’d have expected the room to be rather chill but a decent fire blazed in the nearby hearth over which was suspended a steaming caldron, no doubt for recharging the bath. Delphina gave him a smile full of the promise of seduction and began to help unbuckle his belt and doublet. As if struck by a fit of mortified embarrassment Ned clutched at his cod piece. “Ahh nay Mistress. Could yea please latch the doors. I’ve a mortal fear of chills and agues.”

As if this was the most natural request Delphina shrugged with a slight moue of those pouting lips and drifted easily to the door. The latch locked with a satisfying click and Ned breathed a sigh of relief. The punk swung gracefully around and loosening the ties of her kirtle slipped her dress off those alabaster white shoulders exposing the tops of her rounded breasts. For what seemed like an eternity Ned was struck as mute as any beast in the field, though his daemon may have given a small whimper before fainting. The sight before him blanked out all thought and speculation. His angel may have tried to remind him of his friend Rob alone in the Fleece common room prey to all manner of cosenage but Ned was deaf to appeals of duty not to mention any and all details of the plan. Delphina’s pale skin was as smooth as silken velvet and just as beautiful as he’d imagined.

“Now Master Paston let us to delights.” And those sparkling green eyes advanced filling his view with their promise of pleasures to come.

Ned wasn’t quite sure how she did it, maybe some secret of the art of punkery, but he found himself stripped of all apparel—hose, shirt and especially codpiece. For a lad of not a little experience this was somewhat disconcerting. He’d failed to recall the sequence or particulars of the disrobing. Instead the low pleasant voice of his new mistress brought Ned back from whatever land of dreams he inhabited with a gentle request. “M’lord would you care for a hippocras of mine own devising?”

The half undressed Delphina approached a much blushing Ned with a gilt cup held in front of those magnificent breasts. She’d half shrugged out of her kirtle which settled in a skin tight fashion over the smooth skin of her stomach. Ned very loudly swallowed at the sight, not having to fake the amazement of a rough country yeoman. He was damned sure his blush extended from head to toes, and as his angel sharply reminded, without even a codpiece for modesty!

“M’lord, I was given this mixture by a Moorish astrologer retained for his skill in blending potions of love by Sir Francis Bryan. It contains the rarest of ingredients—the powdered horn of the unicorn, crystallised tears of a lion and the crushed stones of a Spanish bull.”

Ned took the proffered cup, looked into its crimson depths and drew in a deep breath. It may indeed have contained all those exotic ingredients, cinnamon and cloves for sure, as well as the sharp aroma of honey. Cautiously he tilted the cup and pretended to swallow deeply and greedily while rolling a few drops over his tongue contemplating its taste.

It was just the smallest flaw in this play of cozenage that began Delphina’s sudden dramatic plummet from grace and perfection. Memory finally spurred Ned’s flagging resolve as he inhaled the sweet aroma. Yes there it was, sugar and honey to mask the tang of the poppy juice. This familiar taste brought to mind another lass, somewhat more fully clothed, wielding not the tools of desire but rather the hot iron of the barber surgeon to cauterise his wound. Once tasted the poppy juice was never forgotten.

Unbidden another fragment of classical learning surfaced. Oh yes, this was exactly like Ulysses and the Lotus eaters, thus would Delphina ease her new swains into the bath, and to keep the theme, all too soon they’d be the arms of Morpheas.

Ned languidly dropped the large gilt cup from his lips and wiping off the residue with the back of his hand glanced at the waiting and attentive Delphina. For once it wasn’t the rosy nipples that held his attention. No indeed. Instead there was the smallest hint of a gloating half smile and the keen watchfulness of her eyes.

Her fine boned hand reached forward, and stroking his, gently but firmly pushed the cup back for another quaffing. “M’lord, the Moor always advised that for fullest effect it be taken in one long draught.”

Her teasing voice alone would bring the withered dead back to life. And with those remarkable emerald eyes urging a fellow on to do the deed how could any eager lad refuse? The fact that the tip of his tongue went numb was but the last clue to the play and despite the urging of his cods washed away any remaining entanglements of the enchantment.

“Oh by Christ bones what a sweet flavour this ‘as.” Ned folded his other hand over hers. Underneath his fingers her hand quivered with eagerness for him to take the draft. Resisting the pressure Ned paused with the drugged chalice partway to his lips. “Oh yes sweetest Delphina. I’s one question I’s been meaning to ask yea?”

His half–clad host appeared to still a slight frown and once more unveiled that radiant smile. “Why of course Master Paston, whatever may please y’.”

“I’s thank yea mistress for yea indulgence, but I needs t’ know, kinda private like…” Ned pulled the cup down and her hand with it while he moved his head closer as if to shyly whisper. “Yea see…I’d…I’d…I’d like to know where you stashed Richard Reedman!”

Delphina once brilliant gaze froze and her head swung briefly over her left shoulder. Then she reacted to the import. “Yea! Y’re no yeoman!”

Ned may have been unclothed but he wasn’t standing on ceremony. He dashed the hippocras lees into Delphina’s face, and using her trailing sleeves as leverage, flung her away from him. The deceiving punk slammed into a large cabinet and dropped stunned to the floor. However that brought only an all too brief respite. In less time than it took for him to scoop up his bundle of clothes, a loud hammering beat upon the door. Oh what a pity, sniggered his daemon back from its transport of delights. Perhaps Delphina shouldn’t have pulled the sturdy timber latch across to calm the nervous country lad. Damn but they were fast—her fellow rogues and cozeners must have been huddled outside the door awaiting for her signal.

As the timber door cracked and strained at the assault Ned searched frantically for an avenue of escape. A large robing cabinet stood to one side as did a coffer chest but only a drink sodden fool would consider hiding in either of them. As for the traditional spot for secreting cuckolds of under the bed, well there wasn’t one. The thudding increased in tempo and impact. Perhaps Delphina’s loud moans of regained consciousness spurred on the effort. In the meantime if he wanted to live, Ned had to get out of there.

A familiar and now angry face thrust itself through the splintered gap in the door, and beheld the fair Delphina stretched out on the floor. “Yea stinking piss channel maggot! I’ll gut yea for this, Paston!”

Ned thought Flaunty Phil’s dire threat a trifle overblown. However since the opportunity presented itself he scooped up a wooden bucket and flung it at the protruding face. A bellow of pain told him that Flaunty Phil was all too keen on threats over precautions. Ned suspected the diceman’s features had been a little dented especially his fine nose.

However as satisfying as that was it didn’t get him out of the room. Unwittingly Ned found himself at the closed shuttered boards of the window. This wasn’t an option any naked lad would readily consider. Well not until the door and frame gave way with a final screech of splintered timber and a loud cry of triumph. Given the impetus Ned kicked open the shutters and briefly peered out into the chillingly cold dark of the Fetter Lane night. Ready or not, clothed or not, if he wanted to live Ned Bedwell had to chance it. Clutching his clothes bundle he leapt for the swaying sign of the Wools Fleece below him and prayed for a nice soft mound of…snow?

Chapter Seven. The Fleetest on Fleete Street.

His gasped breath plumed white clouds into the chill night as Ned staggered into Fleete Street. By Christ and all his saints he’d made it out of Fetter Lane alive! It was a miracle—Lady Fortuna must be guiding his steps. His finely tuned ears told him that by yell and scream there must be over a dozen or even a hundred after him, all keen for Bedwell blood and to claim Flaunty Phil’s bounty. As for his feet he couldn’t feel them. His daemon did suggest that at this particular moment that was for the best, though it did commend him on his turn of speed not to mention ignoring all those bruising frozen ruts and broken cobbles on the road. In the normal course of life they’d be damned painful if you kicked them with even a shoe clad foot. If Ned had time for reflection he’d have reminded himself that one foot did have a shoe and ask why was it as numb as the other?

He didn’t’ though, still focused on the three or so paces to his front as he wove from one dim spill of pallid illumination to another. Curse the former Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster for a stuck up measle! First Ned experienced the sloppy work on the Fleete Bridge and now he found that More didn’t even bother to enforce the lantern regulations and so close to the Inns of Court as well. What, sneered his daemon. Didn’t the famous heretic hunter want the good citizens to notice his rag tag of slinking pursuivants slouching on the corners a spying on good citizens—for shame, what an excuse for a Christian man.

Out of the deep gloom of a winter’s night came a small wavy glow heading towards him and then suddenly a pair of iron shod staves pointing ominously at his exposed mid–section “Alt. I says, ‘alt!” sounded a gruff voice from Ned’s front.

Precipitously he thudded both feet down into the skidding snow and the twin blunt ends thumped painfully into his wadded padding, setting him back a few paces and threatening to tumble him into a very chilly looking mound of snow.

“Ere. Wot y’ doin wit ut y’ clothes on? Dun cha know it’s not May Day?” growled the voice that had commanded him to stop.

A lantern waved towards Ned’s face and he blinked at the apparitions before him. Taking a completely wild guess from the lantern, staves and stupid questions it had to be the infamous Common Watch of the Liberties Ward of Farrington Without. As fine a body of stout yeoman as you could find shovelling turds from a jakes, so long as there was someone not too dim to show them how to use a shovel, particularly which end to hold.

“I’m…I’m being pursued by roisters and thieves from Fetter Lane!” Ned managed to gasp out in between shivers and gulps of air.

“Oh yeah, so y’ say?” drawled the larger and more suspicious watchman. He had a long scraggly beard and his single eye glowed yellow like a cats in the lantern light.

“Ow d’we know’s yea ain’t hooked ‘em. Yea could be a cursed curber?”

The smaller of the two poked Ned’s clutched bundle suspiciously, as the second larger watchman rubbed a rough bristled chin peering closer with his one eye. “Looks suspicious t’ me Rolf. He could ‘ave nicked them from a stew.”

“Oh yeah, Bottoph. It could be. There’s been a lot a thievery o’ late. They’s even stole ol’ Jim’s cod stuffing when the manky old beggar was a humping that mistress o’ the game by Fend alley yester eve.”

Rolf, the larger watchman, gave a braying laugh. “By St James’s bones ye ‘ave to ‘ave no nose ta get that close to ol’ Jimmy. He stinks worsen than the Fleete.”

His companion nodded eagerly still trying to get a look at Ned’s tight clutched clothes then spat a brownish gob into the darkness and scratched his bristly chin in contemplation.

“Y’knows Bottoph, I reckons they’s could have been lifted. I reckons we take ‘im ta Justice Smyth’s fo’ a check o’ the bills an warrants.”

Ned stepped back a pace and clutched his bundle tighter. “No, no. These are my clothes I tell you. If they’re taken what will I wear?”

The smaller one, Bottoph by name, seemed unperturbed by Ned’s exclamation and waved a lantern closer in front of Ned’s face. “Rolf ain’t this the ruffian we’s were supposed ta look out fo’?”

“Aye. He has the look o’ a rogue fo’ all his blue colour an’ he’s runnin around with’ut his clothes. Must be some heathen musslemen or wild Irish. I hear’s they do ‘ave strange habits.”

Ned for all his shivering was getting distinctly nervous about this pair of watchman. “I am a clerk at Gray’s Inn, you measle brained tosspots. As I said I’m escaping from a pack of rogues and roisters in Fetter Lane. They tried to rob me!”

Ned kept it simple and left out the seduction by Delphina and the cozenage by Flaunty Phil. These were watchmen after all and not overly burdened with the blessing of learning or other cognitive talents. Though now he’d stopped for moment his head cleared enough for just a few coherent thoughts to trickle through the fog of panicked flight and the first item on the list was a question. If he was frantically running down Fleete Street bereft of clothes with a pack howling after him, where the damned hell was Rob Black? Or his backup rescuing Revellers?

“Oh so yea says, but ‘ow do we know?” The iron shod stave once more poked him in the padding.

Ned’s more lawyerly instincts finally made their presence known and he gave what he hoped as an innocent smile. “Look, ah Master Bottoph and Master Rolf, I see we’ve got off to a poor start. Why don’t I pay you to escort me to Newgate?”

The two watchmen stopped for a moment and the situation relaxed a trifle. “Ho Master Bare Buttock is that so? `ow much?”

Ned straightened up and tried to appear generous of purse, though only moderately prosperous and not quite as desperate as he appeared. His daemon thought this a forlorn hope considering the evilly speculative grins on the faces of his two potential saviours. “Well good fellows I’d say an easy…”

“CHRIST’S BLOOD, WHERE IS HE? TWO ANGELS, TWO ANGELS I’LL PAY FOR THAT BARE ARSED BASTARD!” The loud scream of frustrated rage punctured the night followed by what seemed like a hundred baying voices all eager for a bare buttocked Bedwell.

Abruptly negotiations shuddered to a halt as the pair of watchmen swivelled their beetled eyed stare towards the source of the sound. “Ere, where did y’ say y’ came from?” the one called Bottoph asked cautiously.

“I said Flaunty Phil and his pack of roisters at the Wools Fleece are after me!”

The two watchmen gave each other a significant look and edged back half a pace and the taller of the pair, Rolf, coughed almost apologetically and spewed out another slimy gob. “Harrumph. Facing Flaunty ain’t even worth a dozen angels! Anyways that’s Harris an’ Semple’s patch. Nowt ta do wit’ us. We’ve an affray to deal wit’ down at the Swan’s Nick ‘aven’t we Bottoph?”

“Oh, err…yeah.”

Without even a farewell or a wish of ‘better you than me mate’, the lantern, staves and watchmen rapidly vanished into the shroud of the night as if they’d never been there.

Ned gave a bemused shake of his head and swivelling around tried to figure out where the Wool’s Fleece pack was. The untimely obstruction by the Common Watch had left him a little disorientated. To make it even more confusing it had also started snowing again. The flakes burned ice cold on his shoulders. Ned spun slowly around looking for a familiar landmark or shop sign. The swirls of snow closed in his view enshrouding him and dimming the few pallid lanterns. This wasn’t the way he’d thought this day would end. May the vengeful Lord God visit the pizzle rot on that damned measle–brained, codpiece fondler Richard Reedman!

Chapter Eight. An Unlikely Rescue

Taking the loudness of the angry cries and the approaching pools of bobbing light as a good measure of peril, Ned increased his stumbling pace. He could swear that he’d just passed Salisbury Court on his right so if memory served him the Fleete Ditch Bridge was maybe a hundred paces ahead. Anyway he desperately hoped it was the well know landmark. The dark of the night and the snow made this a treacherous game of Blindman’s Bluff. One wrong turn and he’d find himself face to face with Flaunty Phil and the irate Delphina, not to mention their rowdy flock of Fleecers and so far no help in sight.

As an added complication his shivering was getting worse. The numbness was travelling up his legs. His feet felt like frozen lumps of…of, well nothing. Since he spent a considerable time shuffling between Gray’s Inn, Middle Temple Inn and St Lawrence Poor Jewry in the city Ned’s knowledge of the layout of this Liberties was pretty good. As an apprentice lawyer and aspiring rogue it was always handy to have a comprehensive knowledge of shortcuts not to mention potential escape routes in case of ‘difficulties’. Tapping into his instinctive memory Ned knew that once past that bridge of recent ill repute there were a dozen small alleys off Ludgate Hill. It would be a simple matter of a moment to duck into a hidden corner and gain some breathing space to re–don his apparel. After that a few twisty turns and he was slipping down London Wall via Blackfriars and then an easy stroll along the broad path of frozen Thames to regain the safety of the city and the comfort of the Revels.

Ahh the Revels. His angel was most pleased he’d brought up that vexing subject. What about Richard Reedman, the fellow he was supposed to be rescuing rather than cavorting in the snow, it asked pointedly? If he’d had the energy Ned would have blushed with embarrassment. How was he to slip out of this ticklish situation? And then there was explaining to Meg just what had happed to Rob. The lad wasn’t a fool and when last seen had been fairly sober, so his chances should be good. However when that door had crashed open revealing an irate Flaunty Phil, sword in hand, Reedman problems and Rob’s whereabouts had plummeted drastically in the hierarchy of priorities. A rapid and as it turned out painful exit via the window had topped the list.

***

However all that was for later. At the present, as his daemon reminded him, any future without a serious kicking and side dish of swords and cudgels wasn’t a betting prospect. As a gaming fellow with skill at the baiting pits he wouldn’t put much more than a clipped groat on his current prospects. Then as if conjured by the thought his chances plunged lower than a chipped farthing. A piece of broken cobble thumped in the snow beside him and Ned jumped in fright. This single stone was only a precursor to a barrage that thudded around him, clattering off walls and sending up small spurts of ice on their impact, that was except for the three that smacked him painfully in the back of the legs. Ned stumbled into the snow and gasped in pain as he once more rolled over onto his bruised back and sore shoulder. That cursed sign! How typical of the Wool’s Fleece—the decayed iron chains holding the tavern’s sign had snapped under only the slightest strain. It was another cursed humiliation to add to the tavern’s long list. Damn Delphina for a conniving doxy!

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 encouraging 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.

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