Gregory House - The Lord Of Misrule

Ned was somewhat lost. He didn’t have a clue what his patron was talking about. Salvation, sin he’d been dragged all the way across a bitterly chill London to hear cryptic homilies? To play safe he murmured profound agreement and humble thanks for the advice. After that and a longer silence, Ned was given a simple waved dismissal as Cromwell, staring out the window at the falling snow, ignored him. With a hopefully graceful half bow, Ned turned on his heel and exited the room. He once more pulled on his cap to ward against the chill of Westminster’s corridors. Damn, now he had to walk all the way back and the point of this summons was, well put simply, look after Walter. He shook his head and rubbed his face in exasperation. Damn, damn, damn! He had to trudge back all that way and it was snowing and for company he had the surly Gruesome Roger. So much for the pleasant idylls of the Christmas Revels!

***

“I’m telling you, he can’t be down there Rob!” He was sure the shout came out muffled, but Ned wasn’t going to remove the sack soaked kerchief from his face. The stench was strong enough to drop an ox. Only the Fleete Ditch would be worse. Instead Ned thumped Rob on the shoulder, then grabbing a handful of doublet, pulled him out of the room of easement. Both of them lent against the opposite wall and gulped in drafts of fresher air, less tainted by the fetid stench of the privy, as their breath steamed in the winter air.

“But Ned, he as to be!” Rob sounded almost plaintive.

Ned shook his head. No, it just wasn’t possible, even for a foolish lamb like Walter. His friend, however, kept on clutching a single shoe and peering fretfully into the dark recess below the four hole privy. While Ned had heard stories of the odd unfortunate who’d been so taken with drink that they’d tumbled into the privy pit and expired, that couldn’t have happened to Walter. Could it? The forlorn shoe in Rob’s hand hinted at the dreadful fate. Ned shivered as a chill breeze whistled under the tavern gate. It was freezing here and even his gloved hands felt frozen in the short time they’d spent in the tavern’s small courtyard. By the saints, what was Cromwell going to say? He’d just left him, swearing that the Dellingham lad was in safe hands. Christ on the Cross, it’d be a cruel turn of Fortuna’s wheel to have him drown in a privy. Ned stamped his feet on the frozen slush as his stomach complained of ill treatment. His unhappy daemon prodded his thoughts. This was a damned foolish task.

“We’ll find nothing here. I’m going in for an ale!” So abruptly turning on his heel, Ned walked back down the narrow passage through the doorway into the cheery warmth of the common room of the Sign of the Spread Eagle. Rob lingered an extra few seconds and gave the privy a last quick inspection then promptly followed after.

Plunking himself down on the bench, Ned wearily rubbed his aching forehead. All this damned excitement and racing around before breakfast. Damn Cromwell and Meg Black to the fiends of Hell. His Christmas Revels were being ruined. In the meantime various members of the Christmas Company drifted down stairs to sup on the morning offering. The tavern keeper had laid out small beer, fresh manchet loafs and a honey sweetened porridge. Ned eagerly broke off a piece of bread and dipped it in the steaming bowl. By the saints it tasted good. All the way to Westminster and back with a growling stomach, the sacrifices he made for duty and now this. Encouragingly he poured a horn cup of mulled ale and pushed it towards his large friend who’d finally appeared and signaling for him to sit at the bench. Rob, however, ignored the invitation and still stood there looking distinctly worried and twisting the single leather shoe in his callused hands.

“Rob, we won’t solve this on an empty belly. Sit, eat, and tell me the tale from the beginning.” His daemon silently appended ‘again’ to the end of the sentence, but Ned ignored the slight. He’d arrived in the midst of chaos so charitably he allowed for misunderstanding. Reluctantly Rob folded himself onto the bench, though he didn’t let go of the shoe, and after tentative sip of his beer, slowly recounted the immediate past.

“Well Ned, we didn’t know up till half an hour ago. Everything seemed fine, then…then…” Rob shook his head and his explanation stumbled to a halt.

Ned finished his morsel of breakfast and waved his hands in a placating manner. This was going to be easier if everyone remained calm, especially his own impatiently demanding daemon. “All right Rob. Let’s take this a step at a time. What happened say an hour ago?”

Rob gave a snuffling sniff and wiped his face with his sleeve. “The fellows from the Inns were still playing Hazard and Walter was the caster.”

Ned blinked in amazement. What, Walter the innocent lamb was still at it the next day? A nagging reminder from his daemon said that this was old news. Rob had said similar before he’d hurried off to Cromwell. Ned ignored that and instead dwelt on all those damned hours wasted dealing with Meg Black and the useless summons to Westminster. All that time and he could have been siphoning Walter’s purse. Instead others had free rein. Curse his luck. “Ahh, how did he go?”

It was Rob’s turn to look surprised. The young artificer gave a most perplexed frown and rubbed his chin. “Oh yes Walter… you see that’s were it went a bit strange, Ned.”

“Really, how?”

Rob gave an embarrassed cough and fidgeted with the lone shoe on the table. “I was watching him as you’d asked, and Walter appeared to be holding his own most of the night, winning and losing the same as the others. Then after you left this morning, the game changed.”

“How?” Ned’s daemon trembled in dread anticipation.

“For one thing, Walter scooped the pot of six angels in a very fast set of games.”

“What? Walter? Six angels?” Ned tried hard to credit the event, but that was impossible. Walter was the primmest, most succulent cony he’d ever seen, a born innocent ready for a fleecing and yet…he won a pool of six angels?

Rob recognized his puzzlement and nodded.

“Yeah, from two shillings to six angels all within a half hour.”

It was Ned’s turn to shake his head in disbelief. How could that happen? Lady Fortuna was known to spread her favours widely but a gain of six angels? He’d never seen the like before. “So what happened then?”

Rob gave one of his despairing shrugs. “As I said earlier, Walter claimed an urgent need for the privy and we thought nothing of it, until some half an hour had past. I went to look for him and found only this.” Rob pushed the forlorn shoe forward.

Ned gave the piece of footwear a thoughtful tap. This situation was highly irregular.

“Was Walter much taken in drink?” That was one possibility, though Ned considered you’d have to be spectacularly drunk to fall into a privy. His daemon appended that falling over tosspot drunks didn’t win six angels at Hazard .

“No, no he wasn’t. I’d have said slightly tipsy, that’s all. Walter walked well enough.”

Ned pinched a lip and cast a wary eye around the common room. The Sign of the Eagle was one of the more reputable taverns in this ward, which was why he’d chosen the place. Unlike some, it wasn’t a sink hole of depravity where masterless men gathered to plot mischief and felony. Their preferred prowling ground on this side of the river was over in the London Liberties past the Fleete Ditch. With Tam keeping an eye on proceedings upstairs and in the common room, it was unlikely any nips, foister or cross biters were in residence. So scratch the cony catchers and peddlers of cozenage, although, perhaps there was one possibility.