In the meantime she was growing tired of repeating the continual ‘yes my lady’, ‘certainly my lady’, like those gaudy mimicking birds from the Indies. Now here they were at the Bread Street Compter, the last stop before the party made what she suspected was to be a very fateful return to her uncle’s apothecary, where Ned had faithfully promised Walter would be lodged by the evening. Now, while it’d be extremely gratifying to see that full of himself, prentice lawyer grovelling for forgiveness at losing ‘little lamb’ Walter, the ramifications mightn't be so pleasant. In the meantime, as the note had pleaded, the tour continued as slowly as she could manage. All the while Meg consoled herself with imagining the ‘talk’ she was going to have with Ned when this fiasco was over.
Finally, having dragged out the questioning of Warder Locksley for minutes longer than was polite, and probably giving everyone the firm impression she was a silly, light-headed, prattling lass, (that was going to be another count against Master Bedwell!) they began to inspect the cells of the prison. On one aspect she was firm. For this indignity, Ned Bedwell was going to suffer! Eventually they arrived at the set of dank cells that made up the Compter’s pitiful excuse for an infirmary. In her trade she was used to the fetid aromas of sick rooms, but this place was in a class of its own. The stench had a physical presence that rammed itself up the nose, almost clawing its way down the throat.
As Lady Dellingham stepped through the narrow doorway, she shoved the cloved orange pomander closer to her nose and stopped so abruptly that Councillor Cromwell almost ran into her. Lady Dellingham’s free hand thrust out and pointed imperiously at a trio of figures by the opposite wall. An old man, thin and scrawny, his beard grey and matted, was lying on a filthy straw pallet being spoon fed from a bowl of pottage. The ministering angel was a young man with bulging eyes and limp yellow hair, dressed in a dark gown that had recently been cleaner.
That perhaps wasn’t the scene that had Meg Black wide eyed in shock. Instead it was on the other side of the pallet. A familiar, tallish, young lad with reddish hair was kneeling in prayer and quietly reading from a small book. It was impossible, just impossible! She’d never seen Red Ned Bedwell pray for anything, except the providential fall of a dice! And…and Meg’s stare narrowed to the simple book cover. That, she was almost certain was one of a recent shipment from Antwerp. How ever did he get one of those?
“What is the meaning of this?” The thundering voice of Lady Dellingham echoed in the chamber and all the eyes that could, swung her way. It may have been dark, but Meg could have sworn the Ned Bedwell, the master of deceit, didn’t look as startled as he should have. “Walter, what are you doing?”
At this booming question, Walter dropped the spoon from his trembling fingers and stuttered a meek reply. “Oh, mo…mo…mother!”
Not waiting for an answer, the furious frown of Lady Dellingham immediately directed itself towards Meg. “Mistress Black, you didn’t tell me that my poor Walter was here!”
Before she could frame any kind of answer, that double-damned Ned Bedwell had walked over, the slim volume clutched piously in his hands, and favoured them with a decent courtly bow. “Pray forgive her, Lady Dellingham. Margaret knew naught of this venture.”
Meg clenched her fists and resisted the urge to sock that insincere smile, as Ned ‘lawyer’ Bedwell wove his story. “My lady, we’d taken in all the sights of the city and Walter and myself were passing here on the way to a…a meeting of ‘friends’. When we heard piteous cries from this place of duress, and in Christian charity for this season, Walter insisted that we do what we could for these poor wretches.”
To Meg that was an arrant lie from start to finish. She clenched her jaw to halt the urge for re editing. Lady Dellingham though, was struggling to fit her little lamb with these putrid surroundings. Finally in a voice raw with shock, she stammered out a question. “Is…is this so Walter? Have you been ministering to these poor wretches? Have you…felt a calling?”
The said lost lamb put down the bowl. Still on his knees he shuffled towards his mother, reverently took up the fringe of her kirtle and kissed it. “Yes…yes mother. It was at the meeting of Ned’s, ahh friends, that the spirit of our compassionate Lord spoke to me.”
For the first time since Meg had been shackled to their visitors from Shropshire, she witnessed Lady Dellingham display anything other and sneering disdain. She reached down, drew up Walter and clutched him to her like a lost child. “Hallelujah! Praise be to the Lord! Walter, your father and I always hoped that you’d find your avocation in the reformed religion, but we never thought it would be so soon, or in this foul pit.”
Having helped chase Walter through places that made this pesthole look like the luxuries of Richmond Palace, Meg doubted it as well. Ned however, was playing the scene. She watched him step next to Walter, place a fond hand on his shoulder and give Lady Dellingham the most simpering smile she’d ever seen. “Yes my lady. The few days we have had with Walter have been a profound revelation. His presence has made such a difference to our humble company. I ask, no I beg you to let us keep him with us until his vessel is ready to depart. With his lead and inspiration, we can do God’s work and restore this city as a New Jerusalem!”
Meg blinked in stunned shock. She hadn’t just heard that, had she? Ned damned be he Bedwell pleading to keep Walter, the bane of their life for the past two days, for a further two weeks? And…and as part of a reformist Christian commitment? Walter the satyr and dice man? No, the fetid air must be causing a delusion.
Then Councillor Cromwell’s dryly sardonic voice cut through the weeping babble and brought them back to reality. “That, Master Bedwell, is an extremely generous offer. I, myself, feel inspired enough to meet this company of saints. Would you pray escort us?”
Ned, still giving his simpering performance, suppressed a curse, and instead turned toward his patron with a modest bow. Damn cursed his daemon, the ploy had almost worked! Keeping a tight hold on ‘lamb’ Walter, he helped their erring reformer to stand up, then spread his hand in a humble demeanour, making sure the heretical book was prominently displayed and wound out his first piece of cozenage. “Of course, Councillor Cromwell, though I fear that while our piety may meet with our honest approval, our location in a tavern may offend polite company.”
Lady Dellingham, after the brief display of humanity, snapped back to form with a sneering comment, loud with echoes of condemnation. “Ahem, in a common tavern? I do not find the location in any way Christian. They are the Devil’s castles, fortresses of sin, where the demons of drunkenness and debauchery consort with lewd and vulgar women!”
Ned hadn’t heard that one before. While his better angel primly agreed, he speedily temporized. “My lady, while that is indeed true and much lamented, it is however an excellent cover for the pursuit of the Lord’s work. Sir Thomas More’s pursuivants would never think to look there.”