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.