Actually Londoners also used the piss channel in the centre of the road that hopefully carried refuse to the river. With a relieved sigh, Ned performed the necessary function soon followed by a puzzled Walter. Taking his time despite the winter chill, Ned made sure the mounded snow steamed in a prominent display of capacity until he was certain of a result.
An approaching voice trilled suitable appreciation of his feat. “Ohh I’s says lads. Youse got a rit royal sceptre an’ orb ’ere. Fancy Anthea crowns ‘em fo’ a six pence?”
Ned finished relacing his cod piece and turned with a smile towards the first of the brightly arrayed girls strutting towards them. The punks of St Paul’s were a colourful bunch, proud of their gaudy plumage. As Ned knew, in the hierarchy of ‘street vendors’, they stood near the top of their free ranging sisterhood, only surpassed by the brothel mistresses in the various ‘nunneries’ scattered across the city’s Liberties. He was also aware of their forward and bold manner that had the preachers at St Paul’s vexed at the displays of open lewdness. For young Walter, he could think of none more suited for the poor mouse. Mistress Anthea had long blonde hair fluttering loose under a simple green cap. She was dressed in a lace fronted kirtle of worn scarlet and had her chemise pulled down around her neck, exposing an interesting amount of breast. A heavy dark cloak was looped through her arms. No doubt it nestled around her shoulders when trade was slower.
Ned doffed his own cap in a play at gallantry as the St Paul’s punks came closer. “Why thank you for the compliment, though I fear that I must decline your generous offer. However my friend here is new to the glories of London and may be interested.”
With a wave of his hand, Ned indicated the gawping Walter. At the invitation Mistress Anthea, the boldest of the punks, slipped between the two of them and wrapped an arm around Walter, pulling his face into a close inspection of her bulging bodice. Ned gave an amused chuckle at the sight. “So Walter, you asked to witness the wicked haunts of Babylon. Care to caress a set of devil’s dumplings?”
Obligingly Mistress Anthea wiggled her bodice and two rosy nipples popped out. Ned could tell how cold it was, for the nipples were as hard and pointy as a church steeple. Walter’s eyes locked on the sight and he swallowed with an audible gulp. “Oh Lord, save me from temptation!”
“Y’know what they say Walter? To conquer sin you must recognise it.”
Tentatively Walter the cony reached out and stroked the top of one breast with the back of his fingers. Mistress Anthea smiled encouragingly and caught up Walter’s hand, then looking the lad full in the eye, nibbled his fingers. Walter the cony gulped even louder and his breathing altering noticeably. Ned considered the situation. The education of Walter into the Ways of the World was looking good.
Unfortunately Lady Fortuna saw fit at the trembling cusp of temptation to spoil the proceedings. Meg Black chose that delicate moment to exit the cathedral and of course beheld the sight of Walter’s introduction to the city. Ned stifled a sigh of exasperation as she stormed over towards the colourful company, trailed by a worried Gruesome Roger. Ned cautiously took a sideways step as Meg Black, her face crimson with either cold or fury, strode up to Mistress Anthea and thrust a menacing finger at her. “You! Unhand him, you gutter punk!”
At this challenge Mistress Anthea locked her arm around that the now dazed Walter and snarled her defiance. “Is ‘e youse gentlem’n?”
“What? No!”
Ned shook his head at her automatic response. Oh no, that was the wrong answer. Surely Meg knew how possessive the St Paul’s punks were? His better angel scolded him for succumbing to temptation and jealousy. His daemon, however, recommended a more wait and see gambit.
In the meantime the competition escalated when Meg made a grab at Walter’s free arm, Mistress Anthea tightened her grip. “Well sod off sister! I’s saw ‘im first!”
Meg, still holding one of Walter’s arms, tried to haul him away. Instead this action backfired as several of the St Paul’s punks hurried over to support their companion. “Ned, Roger help me!”
At this summons what could he do? Reluctantly Ned grabbed hold of Walter’s arm along with the straining Meg Black. If the intention was to foil the attempt of Mistress Anthea it failed. Two of her sisters immediately joined in the tug of war. To Ned this turn of events didn’t bode well. He’d wanted Walter shocked, or perhaps pliantly compromised, but as a tug o’ war trophy betwixt Meg Black and the St Paul’s punks, this could become too public.
Ned repositioned his feet in the slippery snow and lent backwards, physically dragging Walter and the other team three paces along the street. However a further pair of punks joined the fray and he lost a pace.
“Roger? Roger!”
At the cry Ned risked a brief glance across to Meg Black’s usually looming minion. Gruesome Roger was standing to one side, chewing his lip, with a very strange expression on his face. If Ned didn’t know better he’d think it was fear. No, this couldn’t be right. Given the slightest excuse, Roger Hawkins was always ready to pull the iron shod cudgel from his belt and wade into the fray, though not this time. To Ned, the scar faced minion appeared almost reluctant, as if he wished himself elsewhere.
“Roger!”
Another more strident call finally galvanised him into action. The retainer roughly shoved himself next to his mistress and then, grabbing the confused Walter, hoisted their poor charge onto his shoulder. It was a good effort, though Anthea and her companions still kept their grip on a trailing arm.
“Oy. Don’t tak Walter. ‘e’s mine own lambkin, e’ is. Sweetkin’s don’t leave Anthea!”
The inclusion of Gruesome Roger made the contest easier. They gained four paces though the St Paul’s punks still struggled to hold on, their shoes treading the snow into a mushy slurry. One of the more enterprising girls scooped up a mixed handful of snow and threw it at them. It impacted on the back of Roger’s neck causing him to stagger in surprise and curse. “Oww! Leave off y’ slattern doxy!”
This however prompted Mistress Anthea to swap from Walter to Roger. She clutched at his doublet and dragged her head closer, peering intently at his turned away face. “Oy, I know’s ya. Yo’r Earless Nick’s man, Hawks. He’s been a askin’, after ya! Hawks, Hawks, you’ll let me ‘ave my little lambkin, won’t ya.”
Roger ignored the clinging punk’s claim of association and roughly shrugged her off. Mistress Anthea fell backwards, taking the rest of her tug o’ war team with her. They all landed in a sprawled heap on the fresh snow. A few of the more bold spectators to the affray urged them to go for a second round, while a tight cluster of merchant’s wives loudly complained of the shameful disorder on the streets.
Meg Black had won the tussle for Walter and quickly led him off, though not before the thwarted Mistress Anthea gave her own parting shots. “I’ll nay forget this Hawks, ya black hearted bastard! Ya can still get in sweet wit’ Earless if’n ya tells my sweetkins Anthea’ll be at the Sign o’ the Black Goat!”
To a continuing chorus of calls, they retreated towards the safety of Greyfriars and with every step Ned silently cursed the failure of his play. No doubt his chances of now separating Walter were ruined, though the poor little lamb kept on craning his head back over his shoulder watching, or so it seemed, the retreat from temptation with forlorn longing. So maybe not a total loss. However his daemon gleefully reminded him of one success, Gruesome Roger and Mistress Anthea. Ned was certain there was a story there and given the opportunity, he’d enjoy prying it out of the Black minion.
***
Chapter Four: A Doubtful Decision