The Lord Of Misrule (2 page)

Edward Bedwell
or as he prefers Red Ned—an apprentice lawyer at Gray’s Inn and organiser of the Christmas Revels.

Margaret or Meg Black
—apprentice apothecary, amateur surgeon and sometime smuggler of illicit literature. Suspected subverter of the Christmas Revels.

Robert Black
—older brother of Meg. Apprentice artificer and Ned’s partner in the Revels scheme.

Gruesome Roger—
retainer to the Black family. A fellow with secrets who likes to loom menacingly over Ned ruining his Christmas.

Richard Rich
—Commissioner of Sewers for London and uncle to Red Ned. A lawyer climbing the ladder of patronage, and a good friend of Thomas Cromwell

Canting Michael—
a gang lord of Southwark who would like Red Ned’s ‘company’ for an hour or two.

Earless Nick (Throckmore)
—self–proclaimed Master of Masterless men and Lord of the Liberties. Always ready for good company and a game.

Lady Dellingham
—an ardent church reformer and ally of Cromwell. She holds firm
views
on the performance of good works in the sinkholes of London. Soon to leave for Geneva, though probably now soon enough for Ned’s liking.

Walter Dellingham
—a young innocent reformist lad of interesting dispositions and talents, luckily soon to leave for Geneva.

John Reedman—
a legal clerk at Gray’s Inn cursed with foolish relations.

Richard Reedman
—a young country lad with a bad choice of companions.

Phil Flydman
—Flaunty Phil to his drinking friends and fellow dicemen.

Delphina
—a redheaded punk of the Liberties, of flaming red hair, emerald green eyes and,
ahem,
other attractions.

Prioress Abyngdon
—the Mistress and Governor of the London Liberties refuge of the Paternoster Row priory.

Captaine Gryne—
a gang lord of Gryne’s Men in Southwark and purveyor of violence to the fiscally generous.

Gulping Jemmy—
a rogue with a keen thirst and some strange friendships amongst the gang lords of London.

Will Whipple
—a new and weak stomached member of Canting’s gang much prone to codpiece wetting

Wall-eyed Willis
—Flogger and cutthroat in service to Earless Nick, a fellow who enjoys his work.

Flaunty
Phil
—Phil Flydman, a dicer and cozener from the Wool’s Fleece who believes that where Ned is concerned, slights and insults need repaying immediately.

Delphina
—a punk of the Wool’s Fleece, formerly of flaming red hair, and stunning attractiveness though now somewhat singed.

Old Bent Bartholomew
—the hunchbacked lord of the London beggars a notable rogue ready for all and any advantages.

Hobblin’ Hugh
—a humble and much put upon member of the Beggar’s fraternity

Kut Karl
—Bent Bart’s notorious knifeman and enforcer

Dr Agryppa
—an advisor and physician to Captaine Gryne at the Gryne Dragone, maybe a player of deep cosenage for past slights and humiliations.

As well as
a host of revelling clerks, apprentice lawyers and assorted punks, minions and rogues of the Liberties and the City of London

King Henry VIII
—a sovereign in desperate need of a male heir.

Katherine of Aragon—
Queen of England, at least for now.

Lady Anne Boleyn
—a Howard niece and supporter of Lutherans who the King wants to marry.

Thomas Cromwell
—former secretary to Cardinal Wolsey now serving the King on the Privy Council.

Sir Thomas More
—Lord Chancellor of England and pursuer of heretics. Formerly the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster.

Cardinal Thomas Wolsey
—disgraced former Lord Chancellor now living in exile from the Royal Court.

The Liberties of London, The Fetter Lane Fleece
and
The Comfit of Rogues
are works of fiction. However most of the main points of the stories are based around historical Tudor London of 1529–30 and the setting is derived from period documents and accounts. I have endeavoured to give contemporary readers a window into the daily thoughts, and attitudes of the people in their positions in the Tudor hierarchy. All the main characters of this work are fictional, though as much as research allows, they do express the mood, passions and concerns of the time. These views or actions do not necessarily represent those of the author.

The quotes from the Bible are sourced from facsimiles of the original Tyndale translation available from
http://www.william-tyndale.com/index.html

My grateful thanks to my readers for suggesting that this series of novellas and short stories be combined for both print and ebook publication, your wish is my command. In this combined edition of the misadventures of Red Ned Bedwell and his friends over the Yuletide period I’ve used the over all title of the Lord of Misrule. In this topsy-turvy Medieval-Tudor festival roles and status were reversed and it was a time of mockery and riotous celebration that poked a satirical finger at the pride and vanity of the Tudor elite of church and state. As such it was too good an opportunity to have aspiring rogue and apprentice lawyer Ned tumbled and rolled amongst the true arch rogues of London in their plays of rivalry, patronage and masterly cozenage.

Unlike many stories of this period mine focus on those much lower down the Tudor hierarchy, the very real and earthy citizens of England as seen in the background of Shakespeare’s plays such as Falstaff in
Henry V part 1
and Sir Toby in
Twelfth Night
. Definitely not the city of Courtly Love and or the Chivalric romances popular at the Royal Court. As
a writer of historical fiction, I strive to bring forth a contemporary understandable view of the Tudor Age, during the reign of Henry VIII
. For some readers this may appear different from what they’ve seen in the HBO epic
The Tudors
or read elsewhere, this does not make a writer’s interpretations for fiction right or wrong just based on individual style and a slanting of story towards various audiences. A good example is the English language, that of the Tudor period is both maddeningly close and frustratingly different to our modern usages. As any of the recent productions at the Globe Theatre have proved, especially the ones endeavouring to portray period vernacular and pronunciation. To aid the story flow and provide a period flavour I’ve made some efforts to render dialects and phrasing into more modern standards, hopefully without sounding like a player at a Ren Fair. For any one who would like to look a little deeper into where our language came from I can highly recommend Bill Bryson’s
The Mother Tongue
, an extremely amusing account of accent, eccentricity and English. Finally apart from a good tale of adventure, rogues and cosenage as a historian and researcher I’m trying to give the reader as accurate a portrayal of Tudor life and culture as possible based on the surviving records, accounts and archaeology.

Please note that language, spelling and grammar of these stories is based on the UK English standard taught in Australia, and of course my own style and idiosyncrasies. I would appreciate it if any reader discovers gross errors of history or language, could they please let me know via my blog and I will do my best to correct them.

Regards Gregory House

Terra Australis 2012

A Red Ned Tudor Mystery

Ned closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the winter chilled stonework of the bridge. No, he kept on telling himself, don’t look down. That wasn’t a good idea. It may look like any other patch of the murky, stygian gloom of mid winter, but searching for an unseen peril below didn’t help. If he fell he knew what happened. He’d seen it a minute or so ago when the bridge wall collapsed. Earless Nick’s luckless minion tumbled over him and, screaming briefly, had plummeted onto the ice which had shattered with a loud crash, then finally a choking gurgle. So no, he didn’t need to peer down there to see the effects. His imagination was already doing a good enough job supplying him with the images he didn’t need. He already knew the Fleete Ditch by reputation – all of London and the Liberties did. In summer you could smell it for a mile. So a closer inspection of the sluggish, turgid, stream, charged with turds and piss channel scourings was not required. Instead he needed to do something constructive, like figure out how to climb up.

As it was, his fingers were getting cramped, shoved as they were between the iron and the stone. He’d tried to tighten his grip on the iron staple and who knows, without the gloves, it may have been easier. However as slippery as they felt right now, they protected his flesh from the jagged edged iron. Damn the Liberties work crews and damn Sir Thomas
Bloody
More! That lofty royal official had been Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, and this bridge was under his jurisdiction for repair. Perhaps if the new Lord Chancellor of the Kingdom had spent less time a’ hunting heretics, he could have put that spare energy to better use. Like repairing the
bloody
Fleete Ditch Bridge!

Ned attempted to distract himself from this situation. An ancient philosopher had suggested that, when in peril, one should recall a happy or pleasurable occasion to regain a moment of joy. Well he did that, and what readily sprang to mind was the Christmas Revels. His Christmas Revels actually, that he’d organised, financed and in fact should have, at this very moment, been sitting down to, feasting on roast suckling pig with a tankard of the finest sack in his hand. And just think, during these twelve nights of Christmas, didn’t he have so much to be thankful for. Now he was hanging off the Fleete Ditch Bridge. Oh, how could it be better?

Ned wedged his hand further into the unyielding stone and mortar. Let’s see, what improvement would suit? Ah, of course, Mistress
damn her arrogance
Black, she could be here instead of him. Oh wait no, no. What would be more fitting was that meepish little rat, the reformist lost lamb, Walter Dellingham! But wait, his daemon supplied one name above all, one name that well and truly deserved to be here; Gruesome Roger Hawkins. It was the fault of that surly retainer of the Black’s that Ned was here swinging off a piece of iron, waiting to plunge to an ignominious end. Oh Christ on the Cross no, not drowned in turds!

As Ned made an effort to remember a prayer, any prayer, he heard the scraping of a boot on the cobbles of the bridge above him. Slowly the scuffing came closer. Damn – more of Earless Nick’s minions. He’d already gone through three – wasn’t that enough? Anyway that complaint was moot. It was not as if he could get to his dagger or sword – they were up there on the bridge. Possibly he could push himself hard against the stone wall. It was damned dark down here and the bridge lanterns didn’t cast even a smidgen of light this way. The boots hit his sword and the metal chimed on the cobbles. The outline of a figure peered over the edge as if looking straight at him. Ned wasn’t sure whether or not he should call out.

Then a low voice spoke above him. “Well bless me, it really is Christmas. Fancy finding y’ here Bedwell. Wotcha doin’ down there? Is Walter with y’?”

Ned closed his eyes for a moment and, to keep his temper in check, slowly counted up to ten – in Latin. “No. No, I don’t have lost lamb Walter here! Now for the love of all the saints, Roger
bloody
Hawkins, get me up!”

“Tch tch. That’s a fair nasty tongue on y’ this evening, Red Ned Bedwell.”

At the wryly amused tone, Ned ground his teeth and sent up another prayer, this time calling on forbearance. “Forgive me Master Hawkins. I’m cold, my arms hurt and damn Walter’s slipped off again.”

The shadow changed shape as Gruesome Roger Hawkins squatted by the broken wall, no doubt to help him up. “Yeah remember, Bedwell, the day when y’ challenged me at the tavern?”

“Yes, yes I do.” How could he forget it? That instant in time, just a few days ago was the very harbinger of his hanging off a rusty iron staple on Fleete Street Bridge.

“
Yeah, well so do I Bedwell, an’ I’ll remind y’ of what my reply was. By God’s Blood, afore the week’s out y’ goin’ to rue those words, y’ll be wadin’ through a river o’ shit to beg my forgiveness.”

Ned sighed. Oh yes he remembered that part.

“Well Bedwell, here we are, an’ I’m waiting.”

Ned blinked a few times in sheer surprise. This damned retainer was expecting him to apologise? What of his honour, his dignity, his natural superiority as an apprentice lawyer? As an instance of poor timing, the iron staple, which former Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster should have replaced along with repairing the broken wall, chose now to ease out from its mortared hole. “Ahh Meg Black isn’t nearby by, is she?”

At this point even the shrewish comments of an ungrateful Mistress Black were preferable to what awaited below. Unfortunately in the dull gloom of the lanterns Ned could see the glint of Gruesome Roger’s wolfish smile and the shake of his head. “No, she’s tending someone down the road. I’s can go an’ get her if y’ want.”

The iron squealed and Ned’s heart thumped rapidly. “No, ahh it’s fine!”

“I can come back later if’n y’ want Bedwell.”

If there was one aspect of his character, apart from his intelligence, that Ned was justifiably proud of, it was his practicality. After all, when hanging twenty foot over a frozen river of ordure, practicality was practically a virtue.

***