“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.
Or not.
Meg Black apparently wasn’t impressed by the gallant rescue from the foul and loathsome Fleecers. Instead she stood there in toe-tapping impatience, giving him a long measured survey from unclad foot to ahh mostly clad torso. At least after that burst of exercise Ned felt warm…well that was most of him.
“Y’know Ned, running around without clothes in this weather is perilous. You could get frostbite, and the only cure for that is chopping off the frost blighted parts.” Gruesome Roger, who’d worst luck survived the affray unscathed, gave the most evil grin and made energetic slicing motions with his dagger, while the dozen odd members of the ‘night school’ tittered and blushed at the suggestion.
Ned though was aghast and pulled his gown protectively over his most treasured possessions. “What! You mean like cut…off?”
“Why yes Ned, severed. Tis the only remedy once the black rot strikes or else you die of the spreading canker.”
Oh no this was a grim prognosis. His daemon gibbered wildly in panic at the prospective loss of privileges and usual pleasures. His angel though sternly rallied him with the advice that many a saint or worthy scholar had lost their manly attributes, for instance the famous Abelard. That reminder of the French scholar and lover of Heloise didn’t help at all. Ned winced and turned desperately to Meg, almost dropping to his knees in the snow. “Please Meg, for all the regard you may have for me, PLEASE HELP ME!”
Mistress Black regarded his kneeling and humble plea with what some would have described as a very evil glint in her eye. Smiling she patted him on the head as one would a child. “There is one remedy, but it has its…complications.”
“Yes, yes anything! Whatever it is I’ll pay the price no matter how steep, wear a duck on my head or chew leeches, whatever, but please save me!”
Meg’s smile didn’t waver. She just nodded her head in what he dimly perceived through his haze of sudden terror as… as satisfaction. “Y’know Ned, I believe for the cure I’ll hold you to that promise.”
Ned didn’t whimper or cry. His daemon was quite busy doing it for him.
Chapter Nine. Reward?
Ned huddled deeper into the mound of gowns, coverlets and cloaks, sipping the steaming posset, and luxuriating in the spreading warmth. Oh this was much better than running down Fetter and Fleete stark bollock naked, feeling his treasured assets growing numb-er by the moment as if covered inches deep in ice and hoarfrost. The fire in the private room had been stoked up with a fresh faggot and he was even beginning to sweat from the radiant heat. After the last few hours he didn’t care if this was the very image of Hell. Better the hot abysmal plains packed shoulder to shoulder with demons than the ice. Another sip of the hot spiced wine slid down his throat and Ned’s thoughts slowly stirred assembling the disparate and chaotic scenes and images into a recognisable pattern of the evening’s events.
Now he’d rescued the measle-brained Richard from his false pre-contract, that was all to the good and a fine success. His better angel interposed a rather arch comment on that regard, about how Rob had actually done the deed while Master Bedwell was pelting down Fetter Lane as bare buttocked as a wild Aethope of Affryca. Ned winced at the reminder. Well yes that did sort of happen, but in his preferred version of events, he had bravely drawn off the denizens of the Fleece with nary a thought to his own safety thus giving Rob the opportunity. That justification made Ned feel so much better. The only difficulty was that the rescue was supposed to have been by several lads from the Revels hiding out by the Wool’s Fleece privy.
Quite obviously that part of the plan hadn’t eventuated. According to a slurred and mumbled explanation by Will Davison, good intentions and firm leadership had got them to the corner of Fetter and Fleete where a stiff blast of icy winds had prompted an urgent retreat to cover. Ned had nodded in agreement about this night’s chilly conditions. However the assault might have pushed on if they hadn’t succumbed to a discussion of remedies for the cold. Damn lawyerly democracy! They voted to seek shelter for a few minutes till the winds lessened in the Red Boar. Ned had sighed over that reluctant and sheepish revelation-one draught of mulled wine by the fire so easily multiplied. Thus by fate, chance and warm spiced Rhenish was his rescue party so easily waylaid. Ahh the fortunes of war, he was sure Caesar didn’t have this problem when he was fighting the Gauls or crossing the Rubicon. He really couldn’t see some scarred veteran centurion sheepishly sidling up to Julius Caesar and with an unsteady salute pronouncing Ave Caesar. Sorry the XIV legio didn’t show up for the flanking attack, but yea we found this really wonderful taverna with the best Falerian you’ve ever tasted…and the lads they reckoned you’d be fine so… Decimation for such a dereliction would have been the least punishment from the Master of Rome.