Ned rubbed his face as he throttled the wild speculations of his daemon. “Hmm, well at a guess those six angels have disappeared — like our dear Walter.”
“What do you mean Walter’s disappeared, Red Ned Bedwell?”
As those familiar tones of disapproval rang out, Rob’s face turned pale. Ned didn’t have to look behind him to identify their latest visitor. He dropped his head into the cradle of his hand. Of all the cursed luck, who should turn up but that damned nosy herb dabbler!
As expected, the usual accusations flew forth, that he was a miserable measle, a drunkard, a tosspot, a cozener of lewd inclinations and no doubt an imp of mischief and debauchery who did the devil’s work. That, at least, was the edited version. Ned had heard all this before. The lass had more inventive and colourful language than a fishwife, though this time, as far as his better angel was willing to swear, he wasn’t at fault. Well, not for all of it. The planning and intent of debauchery, in his mind, was a different order of sin to the act. Anyway lamb Walter may have baulked at the gate, so that one didn’t count.
In the meantime Ned didn’t try any defense, just lowered his head and let it all flow over him. Eventually Meg Black’s fearsome temper would wind down. She’d gathered breath for a further volley including, as Ned suspected, physical missiles to add weight to her argument, when her brother Rob stood up to be the willing sacrifice. Shamefacedly, he volunteered that Walter’s lack of presence was his fault, since Ned had been called away. At the news Meg Black actually halted and swung her baleful gaze towards her brother. Ned could actually see her weighting the truth of his report. In the end a quick whisper from Gruesome Roger seemed to reinforce the current version of events and reluctantly Mistress Black took a seat and almost kindly asked Rob what had happened.
That may have been a reprieve, except that Rob also faithfully reported the progress of the revels and Walter’s willing, and in fact eager, participation. As the tale unwound Ned fervently wished for his friend to acquire a modicum of discretion. He wasn’t sure whether Meg Black was going to erupt into another bout of anger when it came to the description of Hazard.
Instead she seemed to satisfy her violent urge by instead refocusing her attention Ned-wards. “Bedwell, you measly lewdster! Is this the Christian care that you promised Lady Dellingham and Cromwell?”
Now that was a very difficult accusation to answer, especially considering his plans, so instead he tried deflection. “May I remind you, Mistress Black, that twice I was called away, each time on urgent ‘business’ so it was nigh impossible to cater to those ‘demands’ and watch over Walter, unless I were suddenly to miraculously become TWINS!” The last part was in a deliberately louder volume since, by all the saints, he too could shout.
Meg Black seemed on the verge of replying, probably in kind, until another quiet whisper from Gruesome Roger stalled her. And if looks could impart the fires of the netherworld, then Ned was sure he’d now be a well and truly scorched twig smoking pathetically on the ground. However drawing upon some hidden reserve, Meg visibly forced herself to calm and in an almost normal voice, asked “So if poor Walter hasn’t fallen into the ‘house of easement’, where is he?”
Ned’s daemon waspishly remarked that some ten minutes ago he was at the same stage and if uninterrupted they’d be further ahead. As usual Ned ignored that remark. He’d found in past dealings with Meg Black the first ‘natural’ response only led to bitter dispute. Instead one had to sensitively walk around the problem and allow her to think she had equal input. “I don’t know Meg. I’ve only spent a few hours in his company.”
That barbed reminder gained him a frown but that was all. His daemon hinted that Meg Black obliviously was saving her temper for a more impressive occasion; a hypothesis strongly disagreed with by his better angel, who spoke of Christian forbearance. Ned thought both were off target, but kept back his reasoning.
After a minute of finger tapping silence, Meg Black finally came out with ‘her’ suggestion. “Do you think Walter was seized by More’s men?”
He blinked in surprise. Ned hadn’t considered this unpleasant possibility. “I shouldn’t think so. This tavern hasn’t any reputation for ‘night schooling’ or else they’d have searched upstairs.”
Where More’s pursuivants would have found the opposite of evangelical studies, his daemon reminded Ned, but this prompted further speculation. His mind slowly worked over the problem. He’d finally had some food so the ache in his gut was abated though the weariness from the night’s work still lingered. So it probably wasn’t Sir Thomas More. His secret pursuivants prowled all over London, but somehow it didn’t seem like the Lord Chancellor’s style to grab only one. They tended to like their victims in batches. It always looked more impressive as they were marched through the London streets. “Tell me Meg, does his family have any disputes lodged at the courts?”
Now it was her turn to be surprised. “Why no, I don’t think so. The family isn’t staying until the law term. Remember Walter and his mother are leaving for Geneva after Twelfth Night.”
To Ned that only meant they had no writs or actions pending. Still the concerns of last night worked upon his imagination. He hadn’t been followed, had he? Warily Ned inspected the fellow inhabitants of the tavern common room — some dozen Christmas company revelers, a few locals he’d seen before and them. None appeared to have the devious demeanor of pursuivants, but his daemon whispered that, with a really practiced pursuivant, how would you know?
Lurkers in the shadows? No, he firmly thought to himself, he had enough problems to worry about without his imagination supplying more. The question of Walter’s disappearance had to have a simple answer. “What do you know of Cromwell’s interest in the Dellinghams?”
This elicited an interesting reaction. Ned could have sworn that, for one moment, Meg Black had blanched, and he thought he detected a hint of either anger or maybe fear. “I know no more then you Ned. I received the summons from Ralph Sadler and a note from my uncle.”
At that answer his nascent lawyer’s instincts tingled. He’d stake silver on the fact that Mistress Black was lying, what about Ned wasn’t sure, but somehow he suspected it involved his presence in this scheme.
All of a sudden Meg Black, the most practical of apothecary apprentices, gave a loud sniff and burst in to tears. “Oh poor Walter — the poor lost lamb! I’m sure he’s been led astray! Oh, Walter — lost and alone in London!”
At this suddenly distraught scene Ned was at a loss. He’d only ever seen Meg cry once, and that was when recounting the death of her parents. To shed such prodigious tears for Walter, a mere stranger, set loose a veritable host of suspicions. The first and foremost of the pack was the prospect of a secret marriage contract between a reformist apothecary and a lad who was training to be a leading reformer. Not that he had any right to complain. Well not really…but…but he damned well didn’t like to be manipulated! So if that was the game, as his daemon whispered, Ned had a few ready plans for some revenge. He thumped the table with a fist. “By all the saints, stop your wailing. Trust me. Walter’s not that much of a lost lamb,” Ned replied bitterly.
The crying halted with a shocked sniff and Meg Black dabbed at her tear-stained cheeks with a linen kerchief and glared at him. “Why not? Have you no shame, Ned Bedwell! Poor Walter, lost, alone and bewildered in the city, at risk of every foister, nip or lewd punk!”
“Ahh…I think not.”
“What?” At this denial, Meg Black lost the last of any desire for weeping. Instead she surged up to a full, angry five foot and balled her fists as if to lay a blow. Roger, still with that amused smile on his scarred face, edged closer to intercept. As for Ned, it was purely an instinctive reaction that made him flinch.