Gregory House - The Lord Of Misrule

Her hair fluttered as she skipped down the street, her dress held high, revealing a very nice pair of legs. Briefly she turned, blew him a kiss and laughed. Ned slumped against the wall and exhaled a bent up breath. Thank the saints she’d left. That girl made Meg Black look as predicable as the tides. Adeline was definitely an acquired taste, and an expensive one.

As Ned mopped his brow, a frowning Mistress Black exited from the Goat’s Head tavern. As expected she didn’t look happy. Pre-empting her scolding, he abruptly turned and walked off.

“Ned Bedwell, where do you think you’re going?”

Ned gave an insolent flick of his fingers. “Why, to find Walter of course.”

“But we have three more places on my list to check.”

“Ignore them,” he called back, heading off tauntingly.

“What? Why should I do that?” By the tone of her voice, Meg Black was puzzled by his behaviour.

That contributed to his gloating satisfaction. “Because, Mistress Black, I know where he is.”

Whether she fumed and stamped her foot, Ned didn’t turn to see, but a moment later her clearly angry footsteps paced close behind him. Excellent, now for a change, he was in charge.

***

The crossing of London from Petty Wales to the eastern Liberties, past the Fleete stream, was not a pleasant jaunt, and for Ned, this was his second time in one day. Another flurry of snow added to the mounded banks of frozen slush in the streets and made the walk bitterly cold. As Ned had observed just yesterday from the cheery interior warmth of the revels room, the white blanket did soften the outlines of the roofs, while at the same time hiding the ruts, potholes and broken cobbles of the city roads. Once more he was quietly cursing, stumbling over another concealed obstruction, though this time he kept his balance. A tumble before Gruesome Roger was one thing, but in front of his still fuming mistress…ahh no. Ned had seized the leadership of this little band due to a single clue, and any slip up on his part would see Meg Black once more taking control. He’d no desire to go traipsing through her idea of his supposed haunts.

No doubt Meg was still fuming over the usurpation. That was evident by her continued silence. His daemon had hinted that, knowing ‘Mistress Black’, she was probably plotting and scheming revenge for this latest slight. Now if pressed, Ned would reluctantly concede that Meg had many commendable virtues. She was friendly, rather attractive, possessed a cutting sense of humour, as well as possibly being more intelligent than was good for a girl of her position. However one trait stood out above all others, her stubborn loyalty. That was the single most important factor in their survival during the Cardinal’s Angels affair. Of course once it had been guided by his natural leadership, they’d prospered. But the flipside of those traits was her stubbornness. Once Mistress Black latched onto an idea, not even a barrel of gonnepowder could blast it loose.

As an example, her present obsession, i.e. that in the space of a few hours the infamous Red Ned Bedwell had nefariously tempted poor Walter from his pious pursuit of Christian reform. Ned didn’t mind proclaiming his skills and talents. He was quite proud of most of them. But that brief span wasn’t long enough to teach a neophyte the deepest secrets of Hazard so that they’d gain six angels. Or know when was the perfect occasion to pull the weighted purse trick. In the hours since lamb Walter’s startlingly convenient disappearance, Ned had some time to mull the situation over. His conclusions were no where near certain, but the best he could come up with was that some person, so far unknown, had got to young Walter and put him up to this mischief. His personal suspicion was that this series of unfortunate events was linked to a rival of the Dellingham’s in Shropshire, hence the cryptic warning to be on guard from Councillor Cromwell. Though, why his patron insisted on such round about methods of making his tasks known had Ned perplexed. Maybe it was a habit picked up during his time in Cardinal Wolsey’s service. That must have been a post set in the very midst of plots, pursuivants and power. Having had only a glimpse of one of the Cardinal’s schemes, Ned could see how concepts of honour and loyalty were warped and twisted to serve personal ambition and survival.

At the bridge over the Fleete, Ned felt a familiar thump on his shoulder. Oh ho. Curiosity must have finally driven Meg Black past her natural limit of endurance. Grasping the stone wall on the side of the bridge to steady himself on the slippery cobbles he turned towards a very upset Mistress Black. “Yes?”

“Where are you dragging us, Ned Bedwell?” Her voice held the sort of inquisitive menace he’d come to know too well. Meg Black had worked herself up into a real temper.

“As I said Mistress Black, to where Walter is.”

“Hmm yes, so you said! But I wonder how the Ned Bedwell who’d been strongly proclaiming his innocence suddenly ‘discovers’ the missing Walter?”

Ah yes, he suspected she’d take this tack. Her suspicions must have been working over time.

“Why Mistress Black, you know I have my sources throughout the city.”

This perfectly reasonable reply was greeted with a derisive snort. “Sources? Is that what you call the company you keep? How many of those ‘ sources’ need to avoid the parish constables?”

Hmm, was this perhaps a not so veiled reference to his frequent evening companions? Ned bit back the instant retort about ‘scurrying reformer rats’ he’d heard so recently. Instead he returned a dismissive shrug. “It’s true they shun attention. However they’ve aided your ventures more than once.”

At that honest comment, Meg Black shifted her view to the broken surface of the Fleete. Rather than the noble stream that entered the city, this part was choked with ordure and refuse. If it hadn’t also been full of ice, then it would have perfumed the surroundings with a miasma that cleared the nose and choked the lungs even in winter.

Ned could see that his barb had hit home and felt it was time to relent, though only a little. “Come on Meg. This bickering is foolish! We gain naught from it. We’re heading for a place by Temple Bar where I was told Walter might be. I trust the source and let’s leave it at that.”

It was plain that Meg Black was undergoing her own inner tussle — revenge and slight, battling with reason and sensibility. “This source…is…are they reliable?”

Ned gave a single nod. The future held nothing but trouble if he elaborated on his relationship with Adeline. With an exasperated snort, Meg Black considered this for a moment, and with an almost imperceptible bob of her chin, stalked off. Well this was the best he could expect, and so far still in charge he led their small band westwards along Fleete Street.

The Red Boar was a typical smaller tavern cum gaming house. It stood some two storeys high with white lime-washed walls and a thatched roof. Buildings like this were common in the crowded warrens of the Liberties of London though not always quite so clean. Set on the London side of Temple Bar, it was near enough to Chancery Lane to draw upon clerks and Royal officials from Westminster and still be safe from too close supervision. The Liberties were one of those wonderful anomalies that made legal life in and around London so fruitful. It lay outside the boundaries of London City but not quite in Westminster. Nor did county officials hold sway here. Thus, by a quirk of law both secular and temporal, this region fell in a nebulous zone of jurisdiction. One of his friends at the Inns, a northerner, had likened it to the debatable lands between England and Scotland — a place said to be infested with wild hairy kneed Scots and fugitives from English justice where the only law was the sword, and murder and croft burnings were a daily occurrence.