At the sudden prospect of blood, the tavern common room went quiet. If this had been the Gryne Dragone in Southwark, whosoever had been foolish enough to pull this stunt would have been punctured or hacked by enough ironware to fill a Ward Muster armoury.
Here it was different. This was the still quiet of fear and hungry anticipation. The crowd in the Black Goat were waiting, for what Ned wasn’t sure, until a voice called out in the lazy affected tones of the Cambridge graduate. “Leave him. Bottoph is a lazy, surly slug and losing a nose would no doubt improve his looks. However he’s already broken into my habits and it would be an inconvenience to train another taverner.”
Still with his blade in place, Ned tilted his head up and scanned the audience for the speaker. Several tavern patrons instinctively shifted, creating a clear corridor of sight towards the table nearest the fire. At one end sat a well dressed gentleman. Like Ned he was wearing a heavy over mantle gown, though this one was half shrugged off the shoulders to reveal a shot silk doublet. That, in the sign language of presentation in this modern age, spoke of affluence and status. If Ned had any doubts, a heavy gilt chain circled the fine cambric linen collar, framing the face above. Ah yes. Ned dropped the whimpering taverner and stood up straight. The face, that…that was interesting. The speaker possessed the kind of features that would have made an angel weep, while his hair casually spilled from beneath a velvet cap in a wavy flow like sun tinted gold to his broad shoulders. Ned instantly felt a wash of jealousy, especially as he noticed the sharply indrawn breath of Meg Black. No doubt about it, Earless Nick was surely the handsomest rogue in all of London.
Casually he slipped the poniard back into its sheath and fixed the speaker with an arrogant stare, hand deliberately resting on his sword hilt. “Who are you to request a favour of Red Ned Bedwell?”
“Oh I plead your forgiveness for my lack of manners, Red… ahh, Ned.”
As he should have expected, the words had the right sound and manner, but as for deeper meaning, Ned knew this fellow never ever begged anyone’s forgiveness. The lazily indulgent tones continued with a small flick of a very clean hand at the surroundings. “I am Nicolas Throckmore, master of this humble abode, and I invite you and your beauteous lady to share a glass of Bordeaux sack.”
Ned inclined his head in a respectful nod as to an equal. Another casual wave of Master Throckmore’s fingers had three of his retinue hurriedly scattering and scurrying. Two hauled up a pair of carved chairs that would have more suited a noble’s parlour rather than a tavern, while the third bustled behind the taverner’s bench, searching out the requested wine. As for the moaning taverner still lying on the floor, not a man moved to aid him. So command here was absolute. Ned’s daemon quivered in fear. Earless Nick demanded respect.
Putting out his arm, Meg Black automatically placed her hand on it and allowed him to escort her to the table. Making a show of the placement of her dress, she took the chair closest to the fire, the position of respect and honour. Without a further glance towards her, Ned took his own seat and assumed a stance of benign indifference, as recommended by the masters of manners at the Inns. It gave him a chance to quietly survey the room as they waited for the proffered refreshment.
Overall it was a generous space, larger than the Red Boar, with a decent sized stone faced fireplace. Some five tables filled the area and lighting was provided by tallow candles in wall sconces. That alone spoke of modest expense. However to Ned’s eye, there were several more telling examples of wealth. At Nick’s right hand was a multi branched gilt candle stick and it burned five new candles, from where the sweet aroma of fresh beeswax spread its perfume. If all this weren’t enough, the walls were covered in large painted canvas panels, mostly highlighting feats of heroes. On the left was King Arthur, while opposite, Hector fought Achilles. Many a gentleman’s house couldn’t boast as many.
All the while, Nick smiled indulgently, as the Master of the Liberties watched Ned review all ‘his’ many trappings of nobility. Where you stood in this society was all about display — your silverware, hangings, tapestries, clothes and jewellery, and most of all, how you stood your ‘place’. Ned’s better angel may complain about how savagely and cruelly he’d treated the taverner, but without that display of power and status, they’d have been rolled bare minutes after walking through the door.
Finally a tray arrived and Nick’s ragged retainer made a good effort at the proper etiquette for serving. The wine was poured from a silver ewer into a matched set of three Venetian glasses. The first was presented to Meg, then the second to him while the third, with a touch more deference, to their host. Ned wasn’t a fool. He waited for Nick to drink, which he did with evident pleasure. Meg Black had grilled her repentant retainer over Nick’s favoured cozenage gambits. Luckily drugged or poisoned wine wasn’t one of them. Raising a toast to their very generous host, Ned sipped the sweet sack. He politely tipped his head in appreciation. It was strong and significantly better than the one he’d acquired for the Christmas Revels. His daemon promptly suggested a reason — ‘connections’ to the Royal cellar.
Having observed the social niceties, Nick lent forward, eyes twinkling with, well what? Pleasure, anticipation, curiosity? Ned didn’t know but he was instantly on his guard. “Pray tell me, Red Ned, how has my humble tavern gained the pleasure of your lady’s presence?”
Meg Black had been mostly silent. Apart from a few murmurs of thanks, she’d played the demure lady perfectly. What’s more, on some quarter hour’s notice, she’d found a nearby friend and borrowed a swag of gilt — including gold earrings, a silver chain necklace inset with an amethyst, and another of those pearl studded french hoods that all the best reformist girls so adored. Now she played her part. “Good Master Throckmore, Red Ned trespasses on your domain on my petition.”
Earless Nick’s smile widened to show a perfect smile. Ned tried not to feel any more resentful, thinking of his chipped and not so pristine front teeth. “Is that so my lady? Well for one so fair, I must forgive the transgression and instead give thanks for your visit.”
Meg played up to the compliment and returned her own generous smile at the gallantry. Ned kept up his own hooded smile, but by the saints he’d enjoy throttling this slippery weasel. “I fear, good sir, I have mislaid something and Red Ned kindly offered to help me find it.”
The beaming smile shifted to Ned and he bathed in its warm glow. Pity it didn’t reach Earless Nick’s eyes — they still glittered, but more with speculation than friendship. “Why Red Ned, the actions of a true knight, straight out of the tales of Mallory or the ballads of de Troyes. I commend any man of honour!”
Ned returned a bow for the flattery. It paid to keep to conventions since they had naught else. Earless Nick, still polite and chatty, must be wondering how they’d passed his guard unchallenged. However none of the motley collection at the other tables had moved to investigate. So Ned’s surmise was that Master Throckmore was deeply curious at their arrival and assumed a retinue waiting outside in the lane. So Nick would string them along with the hail fellow well met play, and keep his lads close.
“So my lady…?” Nick switched back to Meg with a hanging question.
She played it well by pretending to be pleasantly startled, with a hand up to her mouth, and a further look of embarrassed surprise. Well Ned’s evil little daemon hoped she was pretending. “Oh forgive me Master Throckmore for my rudeness. I am Mistress Margaret Black.”
At that Nick’s light blue eyes sparkled with delight and maybe something deeper. Ned strained to keep a pleasant smile on his face. “Why Mistress Margaret, how can I be of assistance?”