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-likethe 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.”