Gregory House - The Lord Of Misrule

It wasn’t though because of one simple reason. This patch of ground, lying as it did in between the city and Westminster, was valuable property. Many lords and bishops had their city houses and palaces here, especially along the river. Wolsey’s York Place was just the largest and closest to the Royal palace at Westminster. That much noble breeding and clerical sanctity desired a measure of peacefulness, and around their mansions they enforced this. As well, the space in theory fell under the purview of the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, who most recently had been Sir Thomas More. Thus if you were either a ‘sturdy beggar’ or a known heretic, the Liberties held doubtful sanctuary.

Even so, the Liberties still teemed with places for cony catchers or masters of cozenage to prosper at their craft. So by rights, the Red Boar should have been a sinkhole of depravity, patronised by persons keen to avoid the scrutiny of the city constables, but it wasn’t. Milliken Tover, the taverner, wanted a more respectable clientele. So like so many enterprising merchants in London, he hired a hefty retainer from Captaine Gryne over in Southwark. This dominating presence tended to treat beggars and miscreants without the tender discretion of the law — usually in fact with the assistance of an iron shod cudgel aimed behind the ear. This guaranteed safety was only one reason Ned often came here. The ….ahh…other was Adeline.

So Ned wasn’t concerned when Tover’s heavily built figure came bustling up to him as soon as they they’d passed through the doorway. He’d a happy smile on his jowly cheeks and a most eager twinkle in his eye. “Good ta see you Red Ned. I was told y’d be here. Come ta settle y’ friend’s bill, already? I’s always said y’re a true gentleman!”

Ned was jolted to an abrupt halt. “What? What friend…what bill?”

Obligingly Tover thrust a scribbled piece of paper in front of his face. Ned had no choice but to accept it or have it used as a nose napkin. Ignoring an instantly curious Meg Black and Roger, he walked over to a tallow candle and peered at the writing. He blinked several times in disbelief and reread it twice more, before Meg Black, unable to restrain her curiosity, shoved in next to him for her own perusal.

It said, in only a slightly wandering hand;

To Master Milliken Tover, Taverner of the Red Boar. In my capacity as a clerk of Councillor Cromwell, I, Ned Bedwell of St Lawrence Poor Jewry warrant and avow that I stand guarantor for all and any debts incurred by Walter Dellingham in any manner whatsoever. Dated the twenty fifth day of December, Fifteen Hundred and Twenty Ninth year Anno Domino, the twentieth Regnal year of Our Sovereign Majesty, King Henry VIII.

To Ned that part was bad enough but worse was underneath — the signature. It was his or damned enough close to it was possible. By all the blessed saints, what had Walter done? His daemon had a more urgent question — how had he done it? While his angel, not to be surpassed, whispered an even worse question, how many more of these are there floating around London?

Ned turned back to the eager taverner. Tover was wearing his most earnest face, the one he kept for his more valuable customers, when he was presenting their slate. “How long was he here?”

“Mayhap, two or three hours, by the bells of St Paul’s.”

“When did he leave?”

“Oh some time ago, ‘e cleaned out some five or so of the clerks from the Middle Temple and then disappeared wit’ a blonde punk he’d come in with. I’s seen ‘er round the Liberties often. She usually dresses like that colourful flock around St Paul’s.”

Ned dropped to the bench and shook his head wearily. Damn, too cursed late! Walter had been here and once more successfully played the cony-catchers game, no doubt about that. Even Meg Black couldn’t dispute the evidence. Ned took a deep breath and focused on the expectant taverner. “I’m afraid, Tover, this isn’t my pledge. It’s been forged.”

His happy visage sagged, disappeared, and then underwent several more variations before settling on the one Master Milliken employed for indigent clerks who didn’t cough up the gilt. “Damn y’ Red Ned Bedwell. I’m down one angel, eight shillin’s and four pence for food and drink. Who’s goin’ to pay for that?”

It was a very good question. Right now Ned wanted Walter really, really badly just so he could grab the little worm by the doublet and shake him until sufficient spare coins rattled loose. In the meantime he passed the bill to Meg Black. “Yours, I think.”

Gone was the mutual forbearance of the last twenty minutes. Now Mistress Black folded her arms and refused the tainted bill. “What cozenage trick is this, Ned Bedwell? It’s got your name and signature on it. You sort it out — you lost him.”

Oh how predictable! This was obviously, at least to him, a well planned cony-catchers play, and he was the cony. Either Walter or his puppet-master was going to regret this. With a frowning glare in the direction of Meg Black and Gruesome Roger, Ned slowly reached into his doublet, pulled out his purse and held it up thoughtfully in his hand. “I will pay this single bill, but you know Meg, past all your rancour and upon your Christian conscience, it’s not mine, and Rob and all the Christmas Revels company will back me up.”

For once Meg Black’s guilty conscience forced her to look away and Ned gave a small, tight smile. At last, a victory of sorts. “However, this comes at a price. I want Roger here, to spill on Anthea the punk and Earless Nick, because I think he knows exactly where Walter is, right now.”

***

Cautiously Ned slipped around the corner of Bride Lane. In one respect he thanked the saints, that it was dark enough since the onset of the early winter night so he could move unseen towards his target. On the other hand he cursed the darkness for its ability to similarly hide any threats. As for his companions in stealth, the less said about them the better. Meg Black moved quietly enough, but Ned wondered in the event of an affray just where she’d produce the hot poker from. Because, it wasn’t as if this particular gathering of the Liberties miscreants would be cowed by her shrewish tongue or bitingly sarcastic manner.

Then there was Gruesome Roger. Ahh yes good old ‘Hawks’. Hadn’t he proved to be a veritable mine of information once his mistress had ‘convinced’ him to confess his prior employment. Roger Hawkins, the loyal, sour faced, dependable retainer of a thorough going, reformist minded lass — didn’t he come from a very murky background indeed. It had proved a real eye opener to even Ned’s apprentice lawyerly cynicism and soundly convinced his daemon that challenging Gruesome Roger was a short cut to a shroud.

In his prior service, before somehow linking up with the Black family, good old faithful Roger had been a very wicked lad. In fact the retainer’s previous devotion to the darker aspects of the Liberties life had left Ned deeply awed. It was amazing how much of a potted history could be fitted into ten minutes. A good analogue was the breaching of prison walls. Out poured a life-story’s worth of dread deeds and deepest sin, let loose in one cathartic confession.

It was Mistress Black’s reaction that had amazed Ned the most. At the litany of ‘wickedness’, she’d blanched occasionally at some of Rogers reports, then bade him remember that he had voluntarily turned away from that life and sort redemption. That act, she said, spoke of the soul’s hunger for the purified word of God and, Meg Black continued, that the way to wipe away the hold of the past, was to tackle the demons who’d shackled him for so long.