“No, you measle brained puttock. Splash the contents of the flash around your face and neck. It’s aqua vitae from brandy wine.”
Ned frowned and gave the flask a puzzled frown. “Why?”
He could have sworn Meg Black muttered several ‘common words’ that any goodly Christian young lady shouldn’t even know. “Because when you stagger up towards the tavern, he’ll just take you for a drunken clerk.”
He had to admit this was actually sound thinking. However that only accounted for one of the two items. Ned held the spare parcel up and waved it enquiringly, well at least as best as one could in the London evening. Even in the murk he could tell that Meg Black exasperatingly shook her head. She grabbed his collar and pulled him closer and in a most emphatic whisper, told him what he could do with it. At the conclusion, Ned stiffly got up and set about his task. His daemon, however, whistled in sheer amazement. Meg Black was a true mistress of dangerous deviousness.
John Plyborne tucked his freezing hands under his armpits and hugged them tight. This was a perishingly bitter evening to be on guard duty. He’d given up swearing at Robarts for winning the dice throw that put him here. Grumbled about missing out on the pork and pease pudding was acceptable, but no…not the dice. They were Nick’s own set and you’d have to be seriously piss-drunken to challenge Earless Nick on the roll of his ‘lovely pair o’ducks’. Anyway Nick was in one of his strange fancies this night, so it was probably safer out here in the snow. Once more John stamped his chilled feet. Thankfully, the boots he pulled off that fool last week, allowed enough room to stuff in the extra rags. He gave the black night sky a forlorn glance. The clouds, from what he could see, were low and heavy. It’d be a far dump of snow later, he’d wager. By Christ’s bones, he hoped ol’ Toby had sobered up by then. Twas his turn from the ten o’ the clock chimes. John gave a grimace and coughed. Damned cloak had more holes in it than a whore’s chastity. Slipping off wasn’t an option either. Nick had flogged One eyed Cheswick for that sin last week. So rather than a raw back, he’d suffer the cold.
In the midst of all this chill, cheerless Christmas, John heard singing, and from the vocals, it was neither angelic nor a wayward choir. No Christmas carolling this, unless it was the style that went on in the many ‘Liberties Nunneries’. As the off tune song warbled closer, John gave a gloating smile. Oh yes, this was a cursed sight more earthly. Most hymns he’d heard didn’t extol the warmth and charity of an abbess’s cony, or the abbot’s fondness for its soft pelt. Now, that was a carolling he could get used to. A fine voice, if somewhat slurred. As the singer wavered into view, John could make out a well dressed gentleman staggering down the lane, giving out his all with a few country ballads. He easily recognised Cakes and Ale.
“I give ‘er sack, I gave ‘er ale, I gave er cake, I gave ‘er gold.
“I kiss’t ‘er wonce, an’ kiss’t ‘er twice, an’….an’…an’, oh yes, she gaven me all!”
“Opppp! Ahhhhhhh!” “God’s blud! Ahhhhhh! By the Devil’s ‘own arse, better ‘ut than in!”
John blessed his patron saint for putting him on duty. This was a true Christmas gift, a tosspot ready for rolling. Eagerly he stepped out into the lantern’s light. “Ho good clerk, where are y’ bound this cruel night?”
“What? What? Where are ye, varlet? Can ye tell where…Ahhhhhh! By t’ Devil’s own cod’s, a veritable trumpet! A trumpet I says. What says ye, sirrah?”
John had stepped forward to catch the unsteady figure, when the gentleman let out a monster of a belch, and he’d been forced to lean back as the wave of consumed brandy wine rolled over him. His grin widened like a shark. This was going to be so easy. The fellow could hardly stand. Having been a nip as a lad, he could still lift a coin or two with practiced ease.
“What say ye sirrah? Where do I fin’ t’ Bludy Goat?”
John easily slipped an arm under the swaying figure. This was the best Christmas ever! This tosspot actually wanted to go to the Black Goat. Damn him for a sack soaked fool, Earless Nick would fleece him in a trice and best of all, that were a very, very fine, thick gown the belcher had on, just right for a winter evening on guard.
“Why, Sir Clerk, lean on me, an I’ll take y’ there, a warm fire and the best sack in all the Liberties.” John chuckled with not so false glee.
Then five paces from the door, his charge stumbled and dropped towards the snow. John, with his heavy build, steadied the poor drunken cony and reached down to check the purse. As he did so his victim twisted suddenly and a strange puff of dust flew into his face as he breathed in. For an instant he was puzzled, then…then the burning pain clawed up his nose and down his throat. His eyes streamed with tears and all three felt like they’d been scalded with burning ashes. With his hands clutched to his fiery throat, John dropped to the snow desperately pushing his face into the soothing chill. That’s why he didn’t notice his former charge straighten up, though he did feel the boot to the skull…well at least briefly.
Ned looked down on the fallen guard and shook his head. Pepper, by the saints, pepper, and some heathenish concoction. Just was well Meg Black warned him not to breathe when he cast it out. As he had found himself thinking on more than one occasion in the past, he’d have to watch that girl. For a sweet Christian lass, she had a very evil and vindictive turn. Ned grabbed a hand full of fresh snow and rubbed his gloves and the collar of his overmantle. Cleaning could happen later, but he’d be damned to have any of that hot spice powder on him. He’d seen that fellow’s face-red and suffused, gasping for air. Ned gave a small wave and two figures moved out from the deeper shadows. Time to pay Earless Nick a visit.
***
Chapter Ten: A Knave
The tavern door was too heavy to kick open so Ned instead shoved it with a shoulder, weight and its momentum did the rest. The door thumped loudly into the wall with a hollow boom and every eye in the place automatically snapped around to see who’d dared disturb the lair of Earless Nick. Ned strode arrogantly in with Meg Black on his arm, looking as if they were parading down the long gallery in Westminster, and made straight for the tavern keeper’s bench.
“Ho, where’s the sluggedly measle who serves here?” Ned slapped his palm flat on the table. If the door boomed like a great gonne, this snapped through the common room like a shot from a harquebus, sharp and threatening.
A fellow, large in bulk if not muscles, with a long black beard, pushed himself reluctantly up from the dicing table and waddled slowly over, pausing for a leisurely gob into the fire. Finally he arrived and stood arms on hips in front of Ned with a sneering scowl and projected another green ball of slime at the floor rushes by Ned’s boot. “Wot y’ want! This ‘ere tavern’s only fo’ Lord Nick an’ his men.”
Ned was ready for this. The taverner keeper should’ve been as well — his assumption of arrogance and security let him down. Ned took a leisurely pace forward and shot out a boot, catching the large man in the side of the knee. Still, with tree trunks for legs he may have still stood, like an ancient oak, but Ned moved faster than his opponent’s startled reaction. In a move he’d learnt from a master of defence, Ned stepped in close to the angry taverner, grabbing his approaching hands and tugged them outward. As the finale to his welcome, his left knee shot up and impacted solidly with the taverner’s cods. For a moment the man’s eyes crossed with puzzlement as the hefty blow to his nearest and dearest fired up to the brain. Finally, the message received, the groaning man crumpled forward, collapsing on the floor, both hands clutching his bruised cods whimpering small squeals of pain.
As a conclusion Ned whipped out his poniard, placed it across the base of the taverner’s nose and twitched slightly. A few drops of blood stained the rushes. “No man speaks to Red Ned and his lady without respect, you lard-tubbed, pizzle shrivelled measle!”