The Lord Of Misrule (6 page)

“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.

***

Ned whistled a carefree tune as he took a place by the fire in the revels room of the Sign of the Spread Eagle. The day hadn’t turned out so bad after all. The church bells were ringing what he calculated to be five o’clock. Excellent, that meant an hour until the serving of the evening feasting, though there should be the odd pie or savoury tart to snack on till then. As for the St Paul’s affray, that had worked out for the best. The retreat to Greyfriars originally had him cursing, especially as Meg Black fussed over Walter, like a mother hen over a chick, so much so that Ned’s daemon was chiding him over the serious miscalculation. At this rate it had whispered, Walter and Meg would have a prenuptial contract before the week was out. The most that Ned had been able to do was absolve himself of the blame for the punks. Good old meek as a cony Walter had readily backed him up. He’d smiled at that performance. Oh the irony, being defended by poor little lamb Walter, when Ned been the one with mischief in mind. His daemon had chuckled over it for hours, though of course his better angel had disagreed, reminding him sternly of duty and Christian charity.

Then in the midst of the St Paul’s punks debacle, Meg Black had received an urgent plea for a list of medicines from one of the small chantry hospitals that the Guildhall sponsored. Since her twin cousins and uncle were elsewhere, that left her alone to mix up and prepare the requested remedies. Ned had offered, kindly he thought, to take Walter off her hands, since it was going to be both busy and boring here for some hours. To forestall Meg’s frowning hesitation, he also quietly reminded her of Lady Dellingham’s stricture regarding Walter’s ‘unbalanced humours’ not to mention his usual reaction to the presence of the infirmed. The possibility of having to deal with either a fainting or puking Walter could have been what swayed Meg’s decision. Or perhaps it was his solemn promise that her brother was as good a warden as she could find. Either way Walter was his for the night, a prospect that had him grinning in anticipation. Even better, Gruesome Roger was required as Meg Black’s escort, so he needn’t expect any more inconvenient summons. Yes!

Walter’s introduction to the Christmas Company had gone down well, especially when Ned had mentioned that the lad’s family were acquainted with Councillor Cromwell. You could accuse the juniors at the Inns of many failings, but their take up on court associations was phenomenal, even after hours of carousing. After an initial response of eye bulging amazement, four generous tankards of sack helped Walter the cony to fit right in. Thus, after the travails of the day, Ned had a chance to relax and enjoy the celebrations. He leant back against the panelled wall and took a deep draught from his pewter cup. As promised, the sack was indeed a good drop-sweet, strong and brimming with flavour. That had been a damn fine piece of work hitting Ralph Sadler for the name of a reputable merchant in the wine trade. Councillor Cromwell’s secretary certainly had his ear to the ground, though as Ned had discovered, any man working for the newest Privy Councillor had best ensure that their master was well supplied with only the finest. Cromwell had worked in both law and trade before Cardinal Wolsey had snapped him up as a secretary, so the man knew all the ins and outs of the merchant’s game.

Ned also had no doubt that Councillor Cromwell also brought this same degree of thoroughness to his Royal service. He, himself, had been tasked with several assignments already. Nothing extensive or risky just simple checking up on a number of past members of Parliament regarding their properties, business dealings and marriage relations, more or less the common tasks of the menial apprentice lawyer or clerk in any matter that came before the courts. As to why, well Ned wasn’t stupid enough to ask. He was already vulnerable without playing the nosy pursuivant.

He nibbled on a sugared plum and surveyed the room. As requested they had two large rooms with an adjoining door. The larger main room had a large table flanked by benches where the company sat for the feasting. The north end held a pair of smaller tables each with a spray of stools. On one of these, Reedman had set up his chess board and was challenging all comers at a shilling bet a game. The other, at present, had a two fellows competing over a game of backgammon. It was a casual game so the stakes were usually only a penny. To avoid problems Ned had imposed a set of rules on all games. Firstly he supplied the cards and dice to avoid the possibility of any
fullans
; dice with lead weighting or
gourds
which were slightly irregular and tended to come up with the same number when rolled by a skilled cony catcher. On the whole, Ned was trusted as honest, mainly because he was known around the Inns as the most knowledgeable when it came to the cony tricks of crossbiters and diceman in Southwark. Perhaps a left handed compliment, but you took praise were you could. The other proviso was that all disputes had to be brought to Rob Black and his ruling was final. Any further complaints and Tam Bourke would step in. The company had seen Tam throw out a few interlopers already and so they held that promise in high regard.

Then of course they came to the nobility of indoor games – cards. The current favourites around the Inns were
Bone Ace
and
Ruff and Honour
. With some humility, Ned considered himself a master of the play. He’d already gained five shillings in a few low bidding games yesterday and was seeking to improve his purse, though that would be later in the night. For now, as the evening dark drew in, Ned considered it a perfect time to teach their honoured guest the pleasantly diverting game of
Hazard
.

Walter, as he’d seen so far, was fitting right in. He’d taken to venison pies with a passion and had amused himself with a short game of chess with Reedman, which he’d good naturedly lost very quickly. Right now he was taking his ease at the long table, listening gape mouthed to the other clerks as they swapped complicated tales of serial adultery and pre nuptial contracts from recent court cases. Between the judicious application of strong sack, the food and their trio of diaphanously clad musicians, the lad was mellowing out nicely. In fact Walter was getting a real education in the ways of London. Ned had noticed that his charge’s eyes constantly drifted over to the blonde haired lass playing the harp. Anthea had been a blonde as well. Hmm, his daemon slyly suggested a few little scenarios that may prove useful later. In the meanwhile it was time to inculcate Walter into a more convenient sin.

Rising up from his perch by the fire, Ned sauntered over to the long table, and clapped his charge on the shoulder. “Walter, care to join us in a simple game of chance?” Ned put down a horn cup containing two carved dice and gave it the slightest rattle.

Walter looked up at him with those bulging eyes of his and blinked nervously. “Ahh how…how do you play it Ned? Is it complicated?”

***