The Lord Of Misrule (18 page)

Standing in the lee of a projecting upper storey, Ned pretended to lean against the wall and clean frozen street muck off his shoe, while his servant still holding the sputtering link light stood out in the lane. Pretty standard behaviour for most gentlemen—they’d shelter in comfort awaiting while the minions suffered the cold and the rain. As a piece of scene setting Ned thought it perfect even though Rob had voiced a pointed reminder of the perishing cold. He needed to watch the tavern for a few minutes before putting his cozenage into play. There was the usual beggar huddled under a half collapsed lean–to across the lane. That was to be expected in the Liberties, no doubt another pair of hired ‘eyes’ for Earless Nick. Most establishments under his ‘patronage’ had at least one nearby to report the comings and goings so as to speedily informing their lord and master on the departure of any likely targets for ‘tithing’.

Apart from the defacto gateman The Wool’s Fleece looked pretty much the same as it had two years ago. Now wasn’t that a warning in itself considering this tavern sat almost equidistance from the prestigious Clifford Inn, Rolls House and Ned’s usual place of supervision at Gray’s Inn. But no it was still a shabby wattle and daub timber frame building some three storey’s high, pocked with crumbling gaps which the patches of whitewash and the large piles of mounded snow didn’t hide. The roof was the common thick straw thatch popular outside the city boundaries and cheaper than tiles or split shingles. Several shuttered windows, neither evenly spaced nor level, punctured the walls at each level. From memory they’d be simple timber shutters. No chance of lead framed glass at The Fleece. Over the front door swung the worn painted sign of a suspended sheep. It was fastened to a pair of rusty iron chains pinned by rough staples to a projecting beam off the second storey.

As dilapidated as it was in his eyes, Ned couldn’t understand what had been its allure. His daemon happily supplied the ‘reason’. Ahh the innocent flaws of youthful memories. Deception, shame and humiliation all proved a useful spur for his play this night. Looking back on it Ned couldn’t believe he’d ever been that naive, a real country dolt, and by Satan’s singed arsehole, it was even after a year of university. But no, chided his daemon, the first day at Gray’s Inn and he’d fallen for the cosenage play of that sanctimonious swine, Gylberte Fowlke, senior apprentice lawyer. The best tavern with the fairest dice game from Westminster to London Wall, Fowlke had claimed, and embraced by the arm of friendship young Ned, wide eyed and keen to impress, had been led to a damned thorough fleecing. And that wasn’t all. After his trouncing at dice, flushed with shame and raged he’d challenged the dice master. By all the saints that act of insanity and bravado had almost earned him a shroudless grave tumbled in a ditch. Only the intercession of Lady Fortuna in the form of Mistress Adeline had saved him from his first almost terminal lesson in the ways of the Liberties. Master Fowlke the treacherous measley weasel would get his comeuppance later. This day though was the turn of that pack of roguish fleecers laired at The Wool’s Fleece.

Ned straightened up and sauntered over to Rob. “All right this is just a simple play at cozenage. Remember to call me master or my lord and back my calls. We lead them on until we find out where they’ve stashed Richard.”

Rob gave a short nod of almost reluctant agreement. Ned could see by the set of his shoulders that his friend was unhappy with the arrangement. “But Ned…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t mean any disrespect to our Revel companions, but are you sure we can depend on them to play their parts? Wouldn’t it be easier to call Meg and Roger for assistance? I’m sure the…”

Ned made an abrupt cutting gesture with his hand at the suggestion and Rob’s words shuddered to a halt. “No! Not Meg.” He rubbed his hand over a very cold nose and shook his head.

“Now Rob, your sister has many admirable qualities and I’ll admit she’s proved herself, ahh, inventive over this last week. But we’ve no heretics or secret night schools here. This play of the coney catcher’s game is one of mine own skills on mine own turf.”

All that was true. This was his field and he’d be thrice damned as a measle tosspotting fool if he let Meg Black stick her nose in any of it.

Rob appeared to accept this or at least he shrugged in resignation.

“Look, as John explained, some punk and her apple squire have played a right piece on young Richard. The simple country cousin must have let out he was to be married soon and they seized him up for a pre–contract cozen. They’ll have a friar on hand and some petty lawyer to draft the instant marriage contract and as witness. If we don’t spring the idiot he’ll have to pay three pounds to escape the false bond.”

Rob mulled that part over. Three pounds was a hefty amount of gilt. A family could live well for months on such a sum. Ned didn’t have much idea regarding the wealth of Reedman or his brother’s prospective bride, but if these rogues thought they could lever more coin, not much could be done. Any
decent
citizen of standing would instantly cry loudly and summon the Liberties Watch. Oh by the saints, wouldn’t that solve all the problems! Ned knew the Liberties Common Watch, almost as well as their cousins in villainy, the Southwark Watch. As any
sensible
citizen should expect, they were a similar set of scoundrels and sheep fondlers, excelling at the skill of not arriving at an affray until too late or the rogues were long gone. So that only left petitioning some Royal official or lord for assistance, it’d be cheaper and faster to pay the ransom.

Having quelled that minor rebellion Ned tugged his doublet and cloak into a clumsy attempt at rakish style and strode towards the tavern. Rob, playing his servant, doused the link light at the tavern entrance and pushed open the door.

Ned strode in with a jaunty step and stopped hand on hips, legs spread wide in a poorly executed attempt to copy a lord’s manner. As expected the company of the common room gave him a thorough review from head to toe. This was fine since in between knocking the snow off his borrowed cloak and vainly trying to reset the splay of crow feathers in his cap, he was doing the same. Having given the audience a chance to weigh up their visitor Ned strode over to the taverner’s bench and thumped a groat on the scarred timber. “A flagon o’ yer best wine.”

The taverner, a small wizened man overwhelmed by a black beard reaching down to his waist, picked up the coin and scowled at it before turning away without a reply.

Appearing nonplussed Ned looked bemusedly around the common room searching for a clear table. One tallish fellow, possessed of a short trimmed beard and a fine long nose, got up from the table and sauntered over. In the fashionable London how one dressed proclaimed the status and position of the wearer. It was a fact of life which is why Ned had chosen the selection of homespun and older fashioned apparel befitting a country yeoman.

He'd heard one poetic comparison
—like
the vivid hues of a spring flower drew a bee to taste its nectar
—as if. Ned thought this an insipid simile and not at all fitting the present moment, far more like a wasp on its way to pillage the bee skep. A fitting label since this ‘Fleecer’ was dressed in the puffed and slashed gaudy colours favoured by German soldiers serving Emperor Charles. They were called Landsknechts, and held the reputation as being ready for a fight or wanton pillage, whichever came first. Their fame had peaked with the capture of the King of France at Pavia back in ‘twenty five’ but a brace of years ago. It had plummeted again when the Imperial army sacked Rome and held the Pope captive. Ned had seen this fashion displayed at Court by the younger outré members of the court. It was frowned upon by the Master of Apprentices at the Inns as too prideful, lacking the gravitas and dignity of black. Where he could Ned skirted the statues like many of his other apprentice lawyers.

This fellow though was as colourful as any peacock and twice as bold as he walked over and leant beside the bench giving a friendly, welcoming smile and slapping down his own coin. “Dickon, yea lazy measle! A jug of brandy wine for our newcomers on this frosty night.”

Ned returned the smile and gave a jerky nod in the direction of his newly acquired companion. “Why thank ye master, that’s indeed generous for mere strangers.”

Their colourful host waved the thanks away with an open handed gesture and his puffed and slashed sleeve rippled black and vivid yellow. “Think naught of it friend. Tis the time of our saviour’s birth when all good Christians should show each other kindness and good will. Anyway Master, you look worn down by this foul weather’s chill. Care to share my table by the fire?”

As if momentarily stunned by such generosity Ned paused, but a smile and a gentle tug on his sleeve drew him easily along. Rob of course trailed dejectedly after, and not offered a seat squatted by the wall, the very picture of a dejected and none too bright servant waiting for the next shouted command to stir him into laggardly action. Ned though was treated with uncommon courtesy and took the honoured seat by the fire readily accepting a fully charged horn cup of brandy wine. To those uninitiated in the ways of the Liberties it all looked so cheery and friendly, smiles and a Wassail cup. What more could a weary traveller fresh from the country ask for?

“Welcome to the merry company at the Wool’s Fleece. I’m Phil Flydman, a fellow of some note hereabouts.”

Ned gulped the proffered drink and didn’t have to simulate the eye watering cough. Damn but this stuff was fiery and coarse! It felt like his throat was being stripped by liquid dragon’s fire. As for his newly introduced host, Ned already knew his name and dress by reputation and as his daemon reminded him also by ‘that’ prior meeting. The fellow was Flaunty Phil, a known rogue moderately skilled at the substitution of the false fullans and gourds in dice play, though Ned hadn’t heard if Phil now moved into other areas of roguery and cozenage. Thus it was prudent to play the easy country fool, the veriest coney of the coney catcher’s game.

Ned coughed and choked, thumping his chest before wheezing out a stifled reply. “By…by Christ’s bones, that’s…that’s a powerful drink Master Flydman. My thanks for your generosity. I’m Will Paston fro’ Branfield.”

His host nodded with keen interest and bid Ned take another sip. “Really. Where be that Master Paston?”

“Half a day’s ride north of Chelmsford on the road to Thyckfield. Tis a grand place, the largest village for a day’s ride. We’ve fifty houses and two mills.”

Flaunty Phil leant back his hand striking flat on the table his eyes wide with astonishment. “Why I’s never! Such luck! It can only be by the Good Lord’s will. Mine own uncle, Thomas Smyth, is from near Chelmsford around those parts!”

Ned pretended to be startled. “Well, well who’d chance a kinsman of mine own countryman, here in this big city.”

Flaunty Phil for his part gave Ned’s shoulder a good natured buffet and called out. “Ho taverner, a jug of your best for His Majesty’s worthy and loyal subject, this good Essex man, Will Paston!”

As if on cue the rest of the tavern commons gave a hearty cheer. Ned pretended embarrassment at the praise as a third jug rapidly arrived at the table, and then of course another toast, this time to the stout lads and buxom lasses of Essex. Ned playing cautious endeavoured to spill a fair bit before it reached his lips.

On the third round of toasts, this time to His Sovereign Majesty, his new best friend Phil leant closer. “Tell me countryman, what brings you to London?”

Ned clumsily rubbing his face bent forward and dropped his voice. “Why Master Phil, I’m here to sort out a few legal matters afore my marriage.”

“Really? So this does call for celebration. Another drink!”

Once more the cups rose up in a hearty toast and once more Ned took less than a mouthful then conspiratorially bent his head a lot closer to his host and attempted a soft voice. He made an effort to slur words as if he really had just downed four beakers of eye wateringly strong brandy wine. “No, no not so loud Master Phil. I’m to be married next week but in the meantime I’ve to see a lawyer about the transfer of the lands from the dowry.”

“Ho, ho, a lass of property! You lucky fellow Will!”

Another not so discrete round of toasts to celebrate his ‘good fortune’, then a fifth after Ned gave the value as three farms worth and an oast house. After which Ned shook his head at the sixth round of pledges. “Nay friend Flid…Flydman. Any more of this fiery drink an’ I fears I’ll be over borne. I’m here on a most’s important duty.”

Ned slipped little on the table and blinked his eyes a few times as if the scene was blurring, made a clumsy effort to tap his nose in a knowing fashion and tried to look around in a sly wary manner then whispered. “The law clerk at Gray’s said here was a fine house where a gentleman could have some personal ahh instruction in the art o’ spurring. Cause, cause…”

Ned trailed off lamely though Flaunty Phil’s previous smile expanded to display a number of broken teeth. The fellow may have thought it friendly but for Ned it was the sly grin of a fox to a foolish duck. “Why Will, I’d have thought you the very cockerel of Branfield.”

Ned puffed up his chest and endeavoured to look like he was the most popular and skilled of swains. “Ahh, ahh y’see the village milk maids calls me the Bull o’ Branfield,” said Ned with all the sincerity of a lad hoping a wild boast would soon match reality.

Flaunty Phil took it all in his stride giving his own conspiratorial tap of the nose and a practiced wink. “I’m sure you’re the greatest Codsman and pizzle jouster of punks o’ Branfield, but I can sees that a countryman the likes of you wants a woman who has all the skill to bring a fellow to the mastery o’ ‘es talents.”

Ned blushed at the suggestion, not that hard an accomplishment considering the potency of the brandywine.

His host nodded slowly with what only could be called lewdly sly leer. “So Will my friend, all’s I can say is that yea came to the right place. I know’s just the
lady
that’ll do yea a treat, a woman of skill and renown in these parts o’ London.”

Flaunty Phil nudged one of the non-descript loungers on a nearby bench who slouched off, heading for the stairs leading to the upper storey. In the meantime Flaunty Phil hunched over in a conspiratorial manner and put a hand on Ned’s shoulder. “Delphina, friend Will, is a pearl amongst the punks of the city, a rare beauty whom even engaged the interest of that known courtly lecher, Sir Francis Bryan. In fact that most famous ‘codsman’ trained Delphina in all the lewdest arts from Paris and Rome that can please a man for hours.”

Ned nodded, not so much salivating in anticipation, but at least trying to look as if he were. “Really, by Christ’s bones um, um that’s the kind of fire I’s want ta quench!”

Then as if his own keenness was suddenly damped Ned hesitated and looked guiltily around clutching at his purse. “Is, is, is she pricy?” Ned managed to squeak out this question nervously. It was a slight problem that by this point his daemon had lost track of the ‘plot’ and was giving him an imagined review of the delights of fair Delphina.

Flaunty Phil’s smile twitched at the impulsive movement and his eyes noted the apparently bulging purse with solicitous interest. “Nay lad. Since it is the days of Christmas, and for mine own countryman, I’ll arrange for her to see yea as a favour to me, an it’ll not even cost yea a bent groat.”

“Why Phil, yer a boon, a boon friend!” Ned slurred that slightly and made a clumsy grasp at Phil’s arm.

The cozener’s smile flickered into a flashing grin of predatory triumph, and as if on cue Phil raised his arm and pointed to the stairs. “Ere she is, beauty enthroned!”

Thus Ned’s head was jerked around by the ringing summons to behold the entrance of Delphina. A chorus of sighs and whimpers accompanied her stately steps down the stairs, and the vision in a long red dress and matching fiery hair drifted over to their bench. Her sweet tones tickled every fibre in his body sending a jolt to his previously ignored cods. “Master Flydman, ye called me fo’ to see to this fine gentleman?”

Ned didn’t have to simulate a befuddled gulp, nor did his daemon. Now just as his better angel warned, this part of the plan was going to need some very careful footwork.