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.”