Gregory House
The Liberties of London
Dramatis Personae
Edward Bedwell or as he prefers Red Ned — an apprentice lawyer at Greys Inn and organiser of the Christmas Revels
Margaret or Meg Black — apprentice apothecary and amateur surgeon and sometime smuggler of illicit literature, suspected subverter of the Christmas Revels
Robert Black — older brother of Meg, apprentice artificer and Ned’s partner in the Revels scheme
Gruesome Roger — retainer to the Black family, a fellow with secrets who likes to loom menacingly over Ned ruining his Christmas
Richard Rich — commissioner of Sewers London and uncle of Red Ned, a lawyer climbing the ladder of patronage, a good friend of Thomas Cromwell
Canting Michael — a gang lord of Southwark who would like Red Ned’s company for an hour or two
Earless Nick (Throckmore) — self proclaimed Master of Masterless men and Lord of the Liberties, always ready for good company and a game.
Lady Dellingham — an ardent church reformer and ally of Cromwell, she has firm views on the good works in the sinkholes of London
Walter Dellingham — a young innocent reformist lad of interesting dispositions and talents
Anthea — a blonde punk of St Paul’s, consort of Earless Nick
And a host of revelling clerks, apprentice lawyers and assorted punks, minions and rogues
King Henry VIII — a sovereign in desperate need of a male heir
Katherine of Aragon — Queen of England, for now
Lady Anne Boleyn — a Howard niece and supporter of Lutherans who the King wants to marry
Thomas Cromwell — former secretary to Cardinal Wolsey now serving the King on the Privy Council
Sir Thomas More — Lord Chancellor of England and pursuer of heretics
Cardinal Thomas Wolsey — disgraced former Lord Chancellor now living in exile from the Royal Court
Prologue
Ned closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the winter chilled stonework of the bridge. No, he kept on telling himself, don’t look down. That wasn’t a good idea. It may look like any other patch of the murky, stygian gloom of mid winter, but searching for an unseen peril below didn’t help. If he fell he knew what happened. He’d seen it a minute or so ago when the bridge wall collapsed. Earless Nick’s luckless minion tumbled over him and, screaming briefly, had plummeted onto the ice which had shattered with a loud crash, then finally a choking gurgle. So no, he didn’t need to peer down there to see the effects. His imagination was already doing a good enough job supplying him with the images he didn’t need. He already knew the Fleete Ditch by reputation — all of London and the Liberties did. In summer you could smell it for a mile. So a closer inspection of the sluggish, turgid, stream, charged with turds and piss channel scourings was not required. Instead he needed to do something constructive, like figure out how to climb up.
As it was, his fingers were getting cramped, shoved as they were between the iron and the stone. He’d tried to tighten his grip on the iron staple and who knows, without the gloves, it may have been easier. However as slippery as they felt right now, they protected his flesh from the jagged edged iron. Damn the Liberties work crews and damn Sir Thomas Bloody More! That lofty royal official had been Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, and this bridge was under his jurisdiction for repair. Perhaps if the new Lord Chancellor of the Kingdom had spent less time a’ hunting heretics, he could have put that spare energy to better use. Like repairing the bloody Fleete Ditch Bridge!
Ned attempted to distract himself from this situation. An ancient philosopher had suggested that, when in peril, one should recall a happy or pleasurable occasion to regain a moment of joy. Well he did that, and what readily sprang to mind was the Christmas Revels. His Christmas Revels actually, that he’d organised, financed and in fact should have, at this very moment, been sitting down to, feasting on roast suckling pig with a tankard of the finest sack in his hand. And just think, during these twelve nights of Christmas, didn’t he have so much to be thankful for. Now he was hanging off the Fleete Ditch Bridge. Oh, how could it be better?
Ned wedged his hand further into the unyielding stone and mortar. Let him see. Of course, Mistress damn her arrogance Black, she could be here instead of him. Oh wait no, no. What would be more fitting was that meepish little rat, the reformist lost lamb, Walter Dellingham! But wait, his daemon supplied one name above all, one name that well and truly deserved to be here; Gruesome Roger Hawkins. It was the fault of that surly retainer of the Black’s that Ned was here swinging off a piece of iron, waiting to plunge to an ignominious end. Oh Christ on the Cross no, not drowned in turds!
As Ned made an effort to remember a prayer, any prayer, he heard the scraping of a boot on the cobbles of the bridge above him. Slowly the scuffing came closer. Damn — more of Earless Nick’s minions. He’d already gone through three — wasn’t that enough? Anyway that complaint was moot. It was not as if he could get to his dagger or sword — they were up there on the bridge. Possibly he could push himself hard against the stone wall. It was damned dark down here and the bridge lanterns didn’t cast even a smidgen of light this way. The boots hit his sword and the metal chimed on the cobbles. The outline of a figure peered over the edge as if looking straight at him. Ned wasn’t sure whether or not he should call out.
Then a low voice spoke above him. “Well bless me, it really is Christmas. Fancy finding y’ here Bedwell. Wotcha doin’ down there? Is Walter with y’?”
Ned closed his eyes for a moment and, to keep his temper in check, slowly counted up to ten — in Latin. “No. No, I don’t have lost lamb Walter here! Now for the love of all the saints, Roger bloody Hawkins, get me up!”
“Tch tch. That’s a fair nasty tongue on y’ this evening, Red Ned Bedwell.”
At the wryly amused tone, Ned ground his teeth and sent up another prayer, this time calling on forbearance. “Forgive me Master Hawkins. I’m cold, my arms hurt and damn Walter’s slipped off again.”
The shadow changed shape as Gruesome Roger Hawkins squatted by the broken wall, no doubt to help him up. “Yeah remember, Bedwell, the day when y’ challenged me at the tavern?”
“Yes, yes I do.” How could he forget it? That instant in time, just a few days ago was the very harbinger of his hanging off a rusty iron staple on Fleete Street Bridge.
“Yeah, well so do I Bedwell, an’ I’ll remind y’ of what my reply was. By God’s Blood, afore the week’s out y’ goin’ to rue those words, y’ll be wadin’ through a river o’ shit to beg my forgiveness.”
Ned sighed. Oh yes he remembered that part.
“Well Bedwell, here we are, an’ I’m waiting.”
Ned blinked a few times in sheer surprise. This damned retainer was expecting him to apologise? What of his honour, his dignity, his natural superiority as an apprentice lawyer? As an instance of poor timing, the iron staple, which former Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster should have replaced along with repairing the broken wall, chose now to ease out from its mortared hole. “Ahh Meg Black isn’t nearby by, is she?”
At this point even the shrewish comments of an ungrateful Mistress Black were preferable to what awaited below. Even in the dull gloom of the lanterns Ned could see the glint of Gruesome Roger’s smile and the shake of his head. “No, she’s tending someone down the road. I’s can go an’ get her if y’ want.”