To Master Milliken Tover, Taverner of the Red Boar. In my capacity as a clerk of Councillor Cromwell, I, Ned Bedwell of St Lawrence Poor Jewry warrant and avow that I stand guarantor for all and any debts incurred by Walter Dellingham in any manner whatsoever. Dated the twenty fifth day of December, Fifteen Hundred and Twenty Ninth year Anno Domino, the twentieth Regnal year of Our Sovereign Majesty, King Henry VIII.
To Ned that part was bad enough but worse was underneath — the signature. It was his or damned enough close to it was possible. By all the blessed saints, what had Walter done? His daemon had a more urgent question — how had he done it? While his angel, not to be surpassed, whispered an even worse question, how many more of these are there floating around London?
Ned turned back to the eager taverner. Tover was wearing his most earnest face, the one he kept for his more valuable customers, when he was presenting their slate. “How long was he here?”
“Mayhap, two or three hours, by the bells of St Paul’s.”
“When did he leave?”
“Oh some time ago, ‘e cleaned out some five or so of the clerks from the Middle Temple and then disappeared wit’ a blonde punk he’d come in with. I’s seen ‘er round the Liberties often. She usually dresses like that colourful flock around St Paul’s.”
Ned dropped to the bench and shook his head wearily. Damn, too cursed late! Walter had been here and once more successfully played the cony-catchers game, no doubt about that. Even Meg Black couldn’t dispute the evidence. Ned took a deep breath and focused on the expectant taverner. “I’m afraid, Tover, this isn’t my pledge. It’s been forged.”
His happy visage sagged, disappeared, and then underwent several more variations before settling on the one Master Milliken employed for indigent clerks who didn’t cough up the gilt. “Damn y’ Red Ned Bedwell. I’m down one angel, eight shillin’s and four pence for food and drink. Who’s goin’ to pay for that?”
It was a very good question. Right now Ned wanted Walter really, really badly just so he could grab the little worm by the doublet and shake him until sufficient spare coins rattled loose. In the meantime he passed the bill to Meg Black. “Yours, I think.”
Gone was the mutual forbearance of the last twenty minutes. Now Mistress Black folded her arms and refused the tainted bill. “What cozenage trick is this, Ned Bedwell? It’s got your name and signature on it. You sort it out — you lost him.”
Oh how predictable! This was obviously, at least to him, a well planned cony-catchers play, and he was the cony. Either Walter or his puppet-master was going to regret this. With a frowning glare in the direction of Meg Black and Gruesome Roger, Ned slowly reached into his doublet, pulled out his purse and held it up thoughtfully in his hand. “I will pay this single bill, but you know Meg, past all your rancour and upon your Christian conscience, it’s not mine, and Rob and all the Christmas Revels company will back me up.”
For once Meg Black’s guilty conscience forced her to look away and Ned gave a small, tight smile. At last, a victory of sorts. “However, this comes at a price. I want Roger here, to spill on Anthea the punk and Earless Nick, because I think he knows exactly where Walter is, right now.”
***
Chapter Nine: A Christmas Carolling
Cautiously Ned slipped around the corner of Bride Lane. In one respect he thanked the saints, that it was dark enough since the onset of the early winter night so he could move unseen towards his target. On the other hand he cursed the darkness for its ability to similarly hide any threats. As for his companions in stealth, the less said about them the better. Meg Black moved quietly enough, but Ned wondered in the event of an affray just where she’d produce the hot poker from. Because, it wasn’t as if this particular gathering of the Liberties miscreants would be cowed by her shrewish tongue or bitingly sarcastic manner.
Then there was Gruesome Roger. Ahh yes good old ‘Hawks’. Hadn’t he proved to be a veritable mine of information once his mistress had ‘convinced’ him to confess his prior employment. Roger Hawkins, the loyal, sour faced, dependable retainer of a thorough going, reformist minded lass — didn’t he come from a very murky background indeed. It had proved a real eye opener to even Ned’s apprentice lawyerly cynicism and soundly convinced his daemon that challenging Gruesome Roger was a short cut to a shroud.
In his prior service, before somehow linking up with the Black family, good old faithful Roger had been a very wicked lad. In fact the retainer’s previous devotion to the darker aspects of the Liberties life had left Ned deeply awed. It was amazing how much of a potted history could be fitted into ten minutes. A good analogue was the breaching of prison walls. Out poured a life-story’s worth of dread deeds and deepest sin, let loose in one cathartic confession.
It was Mistress Black’s reaction that had amazed Ned the most. At the litany of ‘wickedness’, she’d blanched occasionally at some of Rogers reports, then bade him remember that he had voluntarily turned away from that life and sort redemption. That act, she said, spoke of the soul’s hunger for the purified word of God and, Meg Black continued, that the way to wipe away the hold of the past, was to tackle the demons who’d shackled him for so long.
The reaction had been a snivelling Roger, overcome by his passions, kneeling to beg forgiveness from his mistress. Even Ned’s daemon lost its usual cynicism at the sight. However it did whisper out of the side of its mouth that this was excellent coin to save up for use at a more convenient occasion. In the meantime Ned listened very carefully as the workings of the Liberties were explained by one who’d stood at the right hand of the Lord of the masterless men of the Liberties, Earless Nick.
That information was one reason Ned was sliding so quietly along Bride Lane. This so called lord spread a range of guards around his lair. Though Ned accepted it as a sensible precaution, the other news that chilled was that Earless Nick maintained a scattering of beggars and punks throughout the city to spy out advantages. Ned tried to concentrate on the here and now, but that delightful titbit shook him. He’d already made an enemy of Canting Michael, the owner of the baiting pits and gang lord of half of Southwark. Now…damn…now to find that due to the cursed nuisance, lamb Walter, Red Ned Bedwell risked the wrath of another. As consolation, his better angel reminded him of the honour and virtue he’d gain in the eyes of Meg Black for undertaking this venture. Somehow that just didn’t balance the scales. Not at all!
According to Gruesome Roger, or ‘Hawks’ in this region, a guard should be stationed one building down, on the corner. Ned knelt down on the snow, in the shelter of a doorway, and carefully peered past a convenient pillar. Yes, he could just make out a figure standing in a recess twenty paces away, stamping his feet.
A hand touched his shoulder and Ned almost bolted. Then Meg Black whispered a question in his ear. “Only the one guard?”
Easing back the panic, Ned gave the shadows a thorough inspection. A light crunch of trodden snow told him that Gruesome Roger had joined the crouched huddle. Finally satisfied, Ned pointed to the lurking darkness. A low cough and a plume of white mist from chilled breath could be seen in the light of the cresset lantern beyond. “Yes. He’s alone, so we’ve got this far. Any ideas on how to get past him?”
From a hidden satchel produced from the depths of her heavy gown, Meg pulled out two small items and passed them to him. In the dim light from the few lanterns in the lane Ned could make out a small leather flask and a paper parcel, both commonly used by apothecaries for medicines.
He shook his head. This didn’t seem like the time to dispense physicks! “What’s this? You want me to balance his humours, or maybe check his urine?”