The Liberties of London (4 page)
Read The Liberties of London Online
Authors: Gregory House
Unfortunately Lady Fortuna saw fit at the trembling cusp of temptation to spoil the proceedings. Meg Black chose that delicate moment to exit the cathedral and of course beheld the sight of Walter’s introduction to the city. Ned stifled a sigh of exasperation as she stormed over towards the colourful company, trailed by a worried Gruesome Roger. Ned cautiously took a sideways step as Meg Black, her face crimson with either cold or fury, strode up to Mistress Anthea and thrust a menacing finger at her. “You! Unhand him, you gutter punk!”
At this challenge Mistress Anthea locked her arm around that the now dazed Walter and snarled her defiance. “Is ‘e youse gentlem’n?”
“What? No!”
Ned shook his head at her automatic response. Oh no, that was the wrong answer. Surely Meg knew how possessive the St Paul’s punks were? His better angel scolded him for succumbing to temptation and jealousy. His daemon, however, recommended a more wait and see gambit.
In the meantime the competition escalated when Meg made a grab at Walter’s free arm, Mistress Anthea tightened her grip. “Well sod off sister! I’s saw ‘im first!”
Meg, still holding one of Walter’s arms, tried to haul him away. Instead this action backfired as several of the St Paul’s punks hurried over to support their companion. “Ned, Roger help me!”
At this summons what could he do? Reluctantly Ned grabbed hold of Walter’s arm along with the straining Meg Black. If the intention was to foil the attempt of Mistress Anthea it failed. Two of her sisters immediately joined in the tug of war. To Ned this turn of events didn’t bode well. He’d wanted Walter shocked, or perhaps pliantly compromised, but as a tug o’ war trophy betwixt Meg Black and the St Paul’s punks, this could become too public.
Ned repositioned his feet in the slippery snow and lent backwards, physically dragging Walter and the other team three paces along the street. However another pair of punks joined the fray and he lost a pace.
“Roger? Roger!”
At the cry Ned risked a brief glance across to Meg Black’s usually looming minion. Gruesome Roger was standing to one side, chewing his lip, with a very strange expression on his face. If Ned didn’t know better he’d think it was fear. No, this couldn’t be right. Given the slightest excuse, Roger Hawkins was always ready to pull the iron shod cudgel from his belt and wade into the fray, though not this time. To Ned, the scar faced minion appeared almost reluctant, as if he wished himself elsewhere.
“Roger!”
Another more strident call finally galvanised him into action. The retainer roughly shoved himself next to his mistress and then, grabbing the confused Walter, hoisted their poor charge onto his shoulder. It was a good effort, though Anthea and her companions still kept their grip on a trailing arm.
“Oy. Don’t tak Walter. ‘e’s mine own lambkin, e’ is. Sweetkin’s don’t leave Anthea!”
The inclusion of Gruesome Roger made the contest easier. They gained four paces though the St Paul’s punks still struggled to hold on, their shoes treading the snow into a mushy slurry. One of the more enterprising girls scooped up a mixed handful of snow and threw it at them. It impacted on the back of Roger’s neck causing him to stagger in surprise and curse. “Oww! Leave off y’ slattern doxy!”
This however prompted Mistress Anthea to swap from Walter to Roger. She clutched at his doublet and dragged her head closer, peering intently at his turned away face. “Oy, I know’s ya. Yo’r Earless Nick’s man, Hawks. He’s been a askin’, after ya! Hawks, Hawks, you’ll let me ‘ave my little lambkin, won’t ya.”
Roger ignored the clinging punk’s claim of association and roughly shrugged her off. Mistress Anthea fell backwards, taking the rest of her tug o’ war team with her. They all landed in a sprawled heap on the fresh snow. A few of the more bold spectators to the affray urged them to go for a second round, while a tight cluster of merchant’s wives loudly complained of the shameful disorder on the streets.
Meg Black had won the tussle for Walter and quickly led him off, though not before the thwarted Mistress Anthea gave her own parting shots. “I’ll nay forget this Hawks, ya black hearted bastard! Ya can still get in sweet wit’ Earless if’n ya tells my sweetkins Anthea’ll be at the Sign o’ the Black Goat!”
To a continuing chorus of calls, they retreated towards the safety of Greyfriars and with every step Ned silently cursed the failure of his play. No doubt his chances of now separating Walter were ruined, though the poor little lamb kept on craning his head back over his shoulder watching, or so it seemed, the retreat from temptation with forlorn longing. So maybe not a total loss. However his daemon gleefully reminded him of one success, Gruesome Roger and Mistress Anthea. Ned was certain there was a story there and given the opportunity, he’d enjoy prying it out of the Black minion.
***
Chapter Four: A Doubtful Decision
Then in the midst of the St Paul’s punks debacle, Meg Black had received an urgent plea for a list of medicines from one of the small chantry hospitals that the Guildhall sponsored. Since her twin cousins and uncle were elsewhere, that left her alone to mix up and prepare the requested remedies. Ned had offered, kindly he thought, to take Walter off her hands, since it was going to be both busy and boring here for some hours. To forestall Meg’s frowning hesitation, he also quietly reminded her of Lady Dellingham’s stricture regarding Walter’s ‘unbalanced humours’ not to mention his usual reaction to the presence of the infirmed. The possibility of having to deal with either a fainting or puking Walter could have been what swayed Meg’s decision. Or perhaps it was his solemn promise that her brother was as good a warden as she could find. Either way Walter was his for the night, a prospect that had him grinning in anticipation. Even better, Gruesome Roger was required as Meg Black’s escort, so he needn’t expect any more inconvenient summons. Yes!
Walter’s introduction to the Christmas Company had gone down well, especially when Ned had mentioned that the lad’s family were acquainted with Councillor Cromwell. You could accuse the juniors at the Inns of many failings, but their take up on court associations was phenomenal, even after hours of carousing. After an initial response of eye bulging amazement, four generous tankards of sack helped Walter the cony to fit right in. Thus, after the travails of the day, Ned had a chance to relax and enjoy the celebrations. He leant back against the panelled wall and took a deep draught from his pewter cup. As promised, the sack was indeed a good drop-sweet, strong and brimming with flavour. That had been a damn fine piece of work hitting Ralph Sadler for the name of a reputable merchant in the wine trade. Councillor Cromwell’s secretary certainly had his ear to the ground, though as Ned had discovered, any man working for the newest Privy Councillor had best ensure that their master was well supplied with only the finest. Cromwell had worked in both law and trade before Cardinal Wolsey had snapped him up as a secretary, so the man knew all the ins and outs of the merchant’s game.
Ned also had no doubt that Councillor Cromwell also brought this same degree of thoroughness to his Royal service. He, himself, had been tasked with several assignments already. Nothing extensive or risky just simple checking up on a number of past members of Parliament regarding their properties, business dealings and marriage relations, more or less the common tasks of the menial apprentice lawyer or clerk in any matter that came before the courts. As to why, well Ned wasn’t stupid enough to ask. He was vulnerable enough without playing the nosy pursuivant.
He nibbled on a sugared plum and surveyed the room. As requested they had two large rooms with an adjoining door. The larger main room had a large table flanked by benches where the company sat for the feasting. The north end held a pair of smaller tables each with a spray of stools. On one of these, Reedman had set up his chess board and was challenging all comers at a shilling bet a game. The other, at present, had a two fellows competing over a game of backgammon. It was a casual game so the stakes were usually only a penny. To avoid problems Ned had imposed a set of rules on all games. Firstly he supplied the cards and dice to avoid the possibility of any
fullans
; dice with lead weighting or
gourds
which were slightly irregular and tended to come up with the same number when rolled by a skilled cony catcher. On the whole, Ned was trusted as honest, mainly because he was known around the Inns as the most knowledgeable when it came to the cony tricks of crossbiters and diceman in Southwark. Perhaps a left handed compliment, but you took praise were you could. The other proviso was that all disputes had to be brought to Rob Black and his ruling was final. Any further complaints and Tam Bourke would step in. The company had seen Tam throw out a few interlopers already and so they held that promise in high regard.
Then of course they came to the nobility of indoor games – cards. The current favourites around the Inns were
Bone Ace
and
Ruff and Honour
. With some humility, Ned considered himself a master of the play. He’d already gained five shillings in a few low bidding games yesterday and was seeking to improve his purse, though that would be later in the night. For now, as the evening dark drew in, Ned considered it a perfect time to teach their honoured guest the pleasantly diverting game of
Hazard
.
Walter, as he’d seen so far, was fitting right in. He’d taken to venison pies with a passion and had amused himself with a short game of chess with Reedman which he’d good naturedly lost very quickly. Right now he was taking his ease at the long table, listening gape mouthed to the other clerks as they swapped complicated tales of serial adultery and pre nuptial contracts from recent court cases. Between the judicious application of strong sack, the food and their trio of diaphanously clad musicians, the lad was mellowing out nicely. In fact Walter was getting a real education in the ways of London. Ned had noticed that his charge’s eyes constantly drifted over to the blonde haired lass playing the harp. Anthea had been a blonde as well. Hmm, his daemon slyly suggested a few little scenarios that may prove useful later. In the meanwhile it was time to inculcate Walter into a more convenient sin.
Rising up from his perch by the fire, Ned sauntered over to the long table, and clapped his charge on the shoulder. “Walter, care to join us in a simple game of chance?” Ned put down a horn cup containing two carved dice and gave it the slightest rattle.
Walter looked up at him with those bulging eyes of his and blinked nervously. “Ahh how…how do you play it Ned? Is it complicated?”
was not a game for those of poor memory, so the usual ploy for cross biters and cony–catchers was to ply their marks with brandy wine or distract them with low bloused punks. As it was, Ned quickly outlined the game. You could only have two players, a caster and a fader, though the audience could place side bets on each plays outcome. First, the players of Hazard placed side bets amongst themselves, ‘laying’ and ‘taking’ the odds as to whether the "caster's" or "fader's" point would be thrown first, since the odds against a six being thrown first before a five, were different from those of a five being thrown before a seven or a nine before a ten, and so on.
***
Chapter Five: A Sudden Summons
“Arghhh…Getoff! Ned swatted vainly at the hand tugging at his shoulder.
It continued to shake him and a loud voice echoed painfully in his skull. “Ned…Ned! You’ve got to wake up, Ned! Come on Ned!”
Reluctantly he rolled over and put up a hand over his eyes to block out the blinding light of day. Groaning he blearily rubbed his face, and looked up into the out of focus features of Rob Black. His friend had that deeply concerned look on his face again that spoke of more problems. “Rob, is the tavern on fire?”
“Ahh… no?”
“Are the French sailing up the Thames?”
“What? No, of course not!”
“Has the queen miraculously given birth to a son?”
“I…I don’t think so.”
“It’s not that damn sister of yours, again is it?”
“What? Certainly not. I mean I didn’t…”
“Good, then I’m going back to sleep.” With that Ned turned away from the unfriendly winter sunlight and nuzzled into the warm blankets. Moments later a pair of large hands tugged the covers off him and before he could complain, a deluge of ice cold water drenched his face. Ned instinctively shot up, eyes wide open at the shock. The light hurt like daggers driven into his eyeballs and his head returned its own measure of painful distress, pounding away like a tambour.
“Christ…Christ! What was tha…that?”
Before him was a very apologetic Rob Black with an empty pitcher in his hand. “I’m sorry Ned. I had to do it. We’ve got another messenger from Cromwell!”
Ned shook his head. Not again! Some people obliviously got to enjoy Christmas but it looked like Ned Bedwell wasn’t going to be one of them. He swung his legs off the bed. The other two inhabitants continued to snore away, unconcerned with the sudden arrival of morning. Ned cast them a regretful glance and struggled into his doublet. Then the matter of his duty struck him and he blurted out a desperate question. “Oh Christ, where’s Walter?”
Rob Black waved his hand in the direction of the end of the revels common room. “He’s still playing, Ned.”
“What, still?”
“All night. Only stopped to grab a firkin of ale, a few pies and manchet loaf.”
Ned wearily rubbed his hand over a bristly face. Well, well. Young Walter the lamb had certainly taken to the life of London. Ned pulled on his doublet, buckled on his sword and shrugged his heavy mantle over his shoulders. If all this to–ing and fro–ing continued he’d be better off camping in Westminster. Grabbing his hat on the way out the door, Ned abruptly skidded to a halt and lent back, hand on doorjamb. “Rob, can you keep and eye on our friend, Walter. See that he isn’t fleeced too badly.”
His friend gave an encouraging shrug that Ned took for ascent and, waving a hand in farewell, hopped off down the hallway tugging on the pair of borrowed riding boots. A few months in the service of Councillor Cromwell had taught him that the former secretary to Cardinal Wolsey didn’t tolerate tardiness.
By the time he’d made it to the top of the stairs, Ned had finally managed to pull on his last boot, and now came to a cursing, skidding halt. The damned messenger! He’d almost tripped over several steps and a sleeping dog in his haste and what did he find? Once more, at the bottom of stairs, was that thrice damned Gruesome Roger Hawkins.
“About time Bedwell. Cromwell’d be finished several masses afore y’re finished using the pot, given it a loving shake an tied y’r cods.”
This sneering welcome to the day wasn’t what Ned needed as he stomped down the stairs. His morning mood was already made fragile by a lack of revelling, a midnight summons from Meg
damned be her name
Black, too little sleep, no damned breakfast and being drenched in ice water. “Damn you, Hawkins. Go and hump your St Paul’s punk till your wizened maggot of a cock rots of the canker. I don’t care if you’re the Pope’s blessed uncle come to give me a Cardinal’s cap. Summon me like this again and even Meg Black’s skirt won’t save you!”
Ned put his hand on sword hilt and stepped forward into the half crouch he’d learnt from a master of defence. If here was the time to settle this sneering affront from a cursed, measly, fly blown servant, then damn Cromwell and his summons!
Gruesome Roger’s eyes narrowed and his hand clenched tight around his cudgel. For a moment Ned thought he was going to go for it. Then the Black retainer abruptly turned and strode stiff legged towards the tavern door. “I’ve not the time to waste fo’ y’r foolery Bedwell. Cromwell’s waiting.”
Ned blinked in surprise. That was a challenge, wasn’t it? A man of honour didn’t refuse a challenge, did he? Even a lowly servant. Ned pondered on the question for a moment then, as if not trailing after like a humble lackey, nonchalantly followed the Black’s retainer.
All the way to Westminster, over the Fleete and past Temple Bar, through the mounded drifts of snow Ned tried to work out whether he’d just faced down Gruesome Roger and thus ‘won’ or in fact been even more grossly insulted. His mood wasn’t improved by the fact that due to the large chunks of ice in the river, a comfortable wherry trip was out of the question. Thus his resort to borrowed boots again, which created their own problems. While they kept his feet relatively dry, boots such as these were properly meant for riding, so striding through the slush–hidden ruts and cobbles of London streets risked a twisted ankle at every step.
And then there was the vexing problem of Gruesome Roger. The Black’s retainer had consistently refused any further comment or reply to his many questions or imputations during the journey. Now Ned wasn’t so puffed up with pride to think that Gruesome Roger was afraid of him. The liveryman took all and every occasion to express his sneering disdain of his mistress’s ‘acquaintance’. So Ned had to ask why was today any different? This was something that too frequently occupied his thoughts instead of, as his better angel reminded him, working out what Cromwell wanted.
Ned’s better angel primly added that getting more sleep last night might have helped his present situation. His daemon countered with the suggestion of another good round of dicing or cards. Surely roistering would have improved his mood. But, by all the devils, imps and demons of the nine circles of Hell, what he really hadn’t needed last night was another of those cursed summons by Meg Black! He’d just settled down to a nice long dicing session with Walter and a few other lads and it was all going so well. Then, as he was in the middle of a winning streak, another messenger had called for him. For once it wasn’t Gruesome Roger, though it did concern Meg Black.
A young boy had been waiting nervously at the foot of the stairs. Ned had seen him around at the apothecaries, one of several who did the fetching and carrying amongst other household duties. The poor lamb was all afrightened with news that the Lord Chancellor’s men were going to raid one of the ‘night schools’ and Meg begged his aid.
Now that had been a real quandary. Ned would like nothing better than to inconvenience Meg Black, especially after she dragged him into Walter minding and this strangely devised pageant of hers. And of course her disturbance of his Christmas Revels begged for revenge. However, and he cursed as he considered it, the ‘night schools’ or ‘nests of heresy’ as Sir Thomas More called them, were secret gatherings of Lollards and evangelicals where they studied heretical texts and the Bible translated into English. The Bishop of London, with the assistance of the new Lord Chancellor, hunted them mercilessly, to root out the growing protests against the Church. Anyone captured could expect to spend some time in the Lollard tower of St Paul’s before being hauled before Foxford, the London Vicar General. Now there was a cleric without a drop of Christian compassion. You either confessed and were burnt or died in prison of the ‘sweats’. It was all the same to him. His better angel pricked his conscience. Was he really going to stand aside and let this happen? Actually no. While Red Ned Bedwell wasn’t strictly one of their number, during the
Cardinal’s Angels
affair, Lady Anne had spread her cloak of patronage over them at Grafton Regis. Thus he was now considered a client of the Boleyn faction and as a consequence, served Councillor Cromwell. So when the call for help went out…
In the end it had been a very long night. Ned had led a small band of ‘night schoolers’ away from the meeting at Cheapside via the twisting lanes and crooked alleys until they’d reached a safe house at Petty Wales down by the river. He’d even tucked one of the smaller heretical books into his doublet to stop it falling into More’s hands. It had been damned freezing with more snow, and the night was darker than a trip through Satan’s bum hole. Three hours it had taken by the time Ned had looped back, checking for any strays and then finally, wet, tired and chilled, he’d staggered back to the Sign of the Spread Eagle and, ignoring the carousing, he’d taken a blanket and collapsed on the corner bed.
That probably explained why Ned was having a problem flogging his weary sleep deprived brain into action. Why had he been summoned? Fortunately Ned found he had some hour or so in which to figure it out, though the impulse to snore away on a bench was sore tempting. The courts at Westminster may be closed and most clerks overwhelmingly concerned with their own Christmas revels. However that didn’t mean the function of government had closed down. No, there were still petitioners, reports and allocations to arrange. So Westminster, though leaner than the Law terms, was still bustling with activity.
Finally Reynolds, his patron’s liveryman, waved him into one of the hall’s privy chambers. Thomas Cromwell was standing with his back to a roaring fire, examining a letter. Ned immediately gave his most practiced bow, his cap brushing the floor. His master returned only the slightest flicker of an eyebrow to register the arrival of his latest retainer. Instead all of his attention remained on the letter. From his humbled position, Ned tried his best to read what he could of Cromwell’s demeanour. The newest of the King’s privy officials had a solid build. It was said around the Inns of Court that when younger, Cromwell had served as a mercenary in the Italian Wars. From all the signs Ned had seen, that could well be true. Cromwell moved amongst the men of power and violence with an ease that spoke of a long familiarity of court and command.
Finally Cromwell put down the letter and swung his undivided attention at Ned. With a slightly impatient flick of his fingers, he indicated that Ned should rise from his bow. “ Ahh, Master Bedwell. Your Christmas Revels are going well I trust?”
This may have sounded like a pleasant question from his indulgent patron, but Ned knew that it wasn’t. Cromwell, as he was coming to understand, never indulged in idle conversation. Every word and nuance was weighed and measured for use, impact or return.
Quietly and respectfully Ned answered. “As good Christians and gentlemen, Councillor, our ceremony is celebrated with proper reverence and due respect for the season.” Ned’s better angel tut–tutted reprovingly, as the memory of the carousing at the Sign of the Spread Eagle several hours earlier resurfaced. Ned kept a tight rein on his bland smile. Cromwell could read volumes in a single twitch.
His lord and master paced over to the nearby table and tapped it with a single finger as he gave a very slow nod. “I see. I hope that it is exactly as you maintain, Master Bedwell. The good ‘health’ of young Walter is a matter dear to the King’s interests.”
Ned didn’t have to translate that. The Dellingham scion was important to some scheme of Cromwell’s.
His patron gave the slightest cough and continued. “Sir Martin Dellingham is an ardent reformer and as you’ve seen, is much influenced by the opinions of his good lady.”
The sudden image of Sir Martin, ring through his nose like that of a bullock, and with tether grasped firmly by Lady Dellingham, was produced by his delighted daemon.
“There are several matters currently before the Shropshire assizes that Sir Martin has offered his assistance in mediating with his neighbours. Since they are closely connected with His Majesty’s personal affairs, I do not need to spell them out.” Once more this wasn’t a question, though it sounded like one.
Cromwell twisted a ring on his large hand and gave the slightest frown as he spoke. “So Master Bedwell, I’m sure I have made a wise choice in placing this unworldly young man into your charge?”
“The care of Walter Dellingham is my watchword Councillor.”
Cromwell turned his back to Ned and strolled over to the fire. Then after a minute’s silence Cromwell continued in almost a musing fashion. “You know Master Bedwell, the devil sets snares for us every day. Sin and temptation dog our footsteps. According to some learned men, it is how we grapple with these demon’s traps that gives us the chance of salvation. As we know, every man, even the veriest sinner can gain the grace of our loving God by their justification of faith.”