“Now Master Paston let us to delights.” And those sparkling green eyes advanced filling his view with their promise of pleasures to come.
Ned wasn’t quite sure how she did it, maybe some secret of the art of punkery, but he found himself stripped of all apparel-hose, shirt and especially codpiece. For a lad of not a little experience this was somewhat disconcerting. He’d failed to recall the sequence or particulars of the disrobing. Instead the low pleasant voice of his new mistress brought Ned back from whatever land of dreams he inhabited with a gentle request. “M’lord would you care for a hippocras of mine own devising?”
The half undressed Delphina approached a much blushing Ned with a gilt cup held in front of those magnificent breasts. She’d half shrugged out of her kirtle which settled in a skin tight fashion over the smooth skin of her stomach. Ned very loudly swallowed at the sight, not having to fake the amazement of a rough country yeoman. He was damned sure his blush extended from head to toes, and as his angel sharply reminded, without even a codpiece for modesty!
“M’lord, I was given this mixture by a Moorish astrologer retained for his skill in blending potions of love by Sir Francis Bryan. It contains the rarest of ingredients-the powdered horn of the unicorn, crystallised tears of a lion and the crushed stones of a Spanish bull.”
Ned took the proffered cup, looked into its crimson depths and drew in a deep breath. It may indeed have contained all those exotic ingredients, cinnamon and cloves for sure, as well as the sharp aroma of honey. Cautiously he tilted the cup and pretended to swallow deeply and greedily while rolling a few drops over his tongue contemplating its taste.
It was just the smallest flaw in this play of cozenage that began Delphina’s sudden dramatic plummet from grace and perfection. Memory finally spurred Ned’s flagging resolve as he inhaled the sweet aroma. Yes there it was, sugar and honey to mask the tang of the poppy juice. This familiar taste brought to mind another lass, somewhat more fully clothed, wielding not the tools of desire but rather the hot iron of the barber surgeon to cauterise his wound. Once tasted the poppy juice was never forgotten.
Unbidden another fragment of classical learning surfaced. Oh yes, this was exactly like Ulysses and the Lotus eaters, thus would Delphina ease her new swains into the bath, and to keep the theme, all too soon they’d be the arms of Morpheas.
Ned languidly dropped the large gilt cup from his lips and wiping off the residue with the back of his hand glanced at the waiting and attentive Delphina. For once it wasn’t the rosy nipples that held his attention. No indeed. Instead there was the smallest hint of a gloating half smile and the keen watchfulness of her eyes.
Her fine boned hand reached forward, and stroking his, gently but firmly pushed the cup back for another quaffing. “M’lord, the Moor always advised that for fullest effect it be taken in one long draught.”
Her teasing voice alone would bring the withered dead back to life. And with those remarkable emerald eyes urging a fellow on to do the deed how could any eager lad refuse? The fact that the tip of his tongue went numb was but the last clue to the play and despite the urging of his cods washed away any remaining entanglements of the enchantment.
“Oh by Christ bones what a sweet flavour this ‘as.” Ned folded his other hand over hers. Underneath his fingers her hand quivered with eagerness for him to take the draft. Resisting the pressure Ned paused with the drugged chalice partway to his lips. “Oh yes sweetest Delphina. I’s one question I’s been meaning to ask yea?”
His half-clad host appeared to still a slight frown and once more unveiled that radiant smile. “Why of course Master Paston, whatever may please y’.”
“I’s thank yea mistress for yea indulgence, but I needs t’ know, kinda private like…” Ned pulled the cup down and her hand with it while he moved his head closer as if to shyly whisper. “Yea see…I’d…I’d…I’d like to know where you stashed Richard Reedman!”
Delphina once brilliant gaze froze and her head swung briefly over her left shoulder. Then she reacted to the import. “Yea! Y’re no yeoman!”
Ned may have been unclothed but he wasn’t standing on ceremony. He dashed the hippocras lees into Delphina’s face, and using her trailing sleeves as leverage, flung her away from him. The deceiving punk slammed into a large cabinet and dropped stunned to the floor. However that brought only an all too brief respite. In less time than it took for him to scoop up his bundle of clothes, a loud hammering beat upon the door. Oh what a pity, sniggered his daemon back from its transport of delights. Perhaps Delphina shouldn’t have pulled the sturdy timber latch across to calm the nervous country lad. Damn but they were fast-her fellow rogues and cozeners must have been huddled outside the door awaiting for her signal.
As the timber door cracked and strained at the assault Ned searched frantically for an avenue of escape. A large robing cabinet stood to one side as did a coffer chest but only a drink sodden fool would consider hiding in either of them. As for the traditional spot for secreting cuckolds of under the bed, well there wasn’t one. The thudding increased in tempo and impact. Perhaps Delphina’s loud moans of regained consciousness spurred on the effort. In the meantime if he wanted to live, Ned had to get out of there.
A familiar and now angry face thrust itself through the splintered gap in the door, and beheld the fair Delphina stretched out on the floor. “Yea stinking piss channel maggot! I’ll gut yea for this, Paston!”
Ned thought Flaunty Phil’s dire threat a trifle overblown. However since the opportunity presented itself he scooped up a wooden bucket and flung it at the protruding face. A bellow of pain told him that Flaunty Phil was all too keen on threats over precautions. Ned suspected the diceman’s features had been a little dented especially his fine nose.
However as satisfying as that was it didn’t get him out of the room. Unwittingly Ned found himself at the closed shuttered boards of the window. This wasn’t an option any naked lad would readily consider. Well not until the door and frame gave way with a final screech of splintered timber and a loud cry of triumph. Given the impetus Ned kicked open the shutters and briefly peered out into the chillingly cold dark of the Fetter Lane night. Ready or not, clothed or not, if he wanted to live Ned Bedwell had to chance it. Clutching his clothes bundle he leapt for the swaying sign of the Wools Fleece below him and prayed for a nice soft mound of…snow?
Chapter Seven. The Fleetest on Fleete Street
His gasped breath plumed white clouds into the chill night as Ned staggered into Fleete Street. By Christ and all his saints he’d made it out of Fetter Lane alive! It was a miracle-Lady Fortuna must be guiding his steps. His finely tuned ears told him that by yell and scream there must be over a dozen or even a hundred after him, all keen for Bedwell blood and to claim Flaunty Phil’s bounty. As for his feet he couldn’t feel them. His daemon did suggest that at this particular moment that was for the best, though it did commend him on his turn of speed not to mention ignoring all those bruising frozen ruts and broken cobbles on the road. In the normal course of life they’d be damned painful if you kicked them with even a shoe clad foot. If Ned had time for reflection he’d have reminded himself that one foot did have a shoe and ask why was it as numb as the other?