Gregory House - The Lord Of Misrule

The reaction had been a snivelling Roger, overcome by his passions, kneeling to beg forgiveness from his mistress. Even Ned’s daemon lost its usual cynicism at the sight. However it did whisper out of the side of its mouth that this was excellent coin to save up for use at a more convenient occasion. In the meantime Ned listened very carefully as the workings of the Liberties were explained by one who’d stood at the right hand of the Lord of the masterless men of the Liberties, Earless Nick.

That information was one reason Ned was sliding so quietly along Bride Lane. This so called lord spread a range of guards around his lair. Though Ned accepted it as a sensible precaution, the other news that chilled was that Earless Nick maintained a scattering of beggars and punks throughout the city to spy out advantages. Ned tried to concentrate on the here and now, but that delightful titbit shook him. He’d already made an enemy of Canting Michael, the owner of the baiting pits and gang lord of half of Southwark. Now…damn…now to find that due to the cursed nuisance, lamb Walter, Red Ned Bedwell risked the wrath of another. As consolation, his better angel reminded him of the honour and virtue he’d gain in the eyes of Meg Black for undertaking this venture. Somehow that just didn’t balance the scales. Not at all!

According to Gruesome Roger, or ‘Hawks’ in this region, a guard should be stationed one building down, on the corner. Ned knelt down on the snow, in the shelter of a doorway, and carefully peered past a convenient pillar. Yes, he could just make out a figure standing in a recess twenty paces away, stamping his feet.

A hand touched his shoulder and Ned almost bolted. Then Meg Black whispered a question in his ear. “Only the one guard?”

Easing back the panic, Ned gave the shadows a thorough inspection. A light crunch of trodden snow told him that Gruesome Roger had joined the crouched huddle. Finally satisfied, Ned pointed to the lurking darkness. A low cough and a plume of white mist from chilled breath could be seen in the light of the cresset lantern beyond. “Yes. He’s alone, so we’ve got this far. Any ideas on how to get past him?”

From a hidden satchel produced from the depths of her heavy gown, Meg pulled out two small items and passed them to him. In the dim light from the few lanterns in the lane Ned could make out a small leather flask and a paper parcel, both commonly used by apothecaries for medicines.

He shook his head. This didn’t seem like the time to dispense physicks! “What’s this? You want me to balance his humours, or maybe check his urine?”

“No, you measle brained puttock. Splash the contents of the flash around your face and neck. It’s aqua vitae from brandy wine.”

Ned frowned and gave the flask a puzzled frown. “Why?”

He could have sworn Meg Black muttered several ‘common words’ that any goodly Christian young lady shouldn’t even know. “Because when you stagger up towards the tavern, he’ll just take you for a drunken clerk.”

He had to admit this was actually sound thinking. However that only accounted for one of the two items. Ned held the spare parcel up and waved it enquiringly, well at least as best as one could in the London evening. Even in the murk he could tell that Meg Black exasperatingly shook her head. She grabbed his collar and pulled him closer and in a most emphatic whisper, told him what he could do with it. At the conclusion, Ned stiffly got up and set about his task. His daemon, however, whistled in sheer amazement. Meg Black was a true mistress of dangerous deviousness.

John Plyborne tucked his freezing hands under his armpits and hugged them tight. This was a perishingly bitter evening to be on guard duty. He’d given up swearing at Robarts for winning the dice throw that put him here. Grumbled about missing out on the pork and pease pudding was acceptable, but no…not the dice. They were Nick’s own set and you’d have to be seriously piss-drunken to challenge Earless Nick on the roll of his ‘lovely pair o’ducks’. Anyway Nick was in one of his strange fancies this night, so it was probably safer out here in the snow. Once more John stamped his chilled feet. Thankfully, the boots he pulled off that fool last week, allowed enough room to stuff in the extra rags. He gave the black night sky a forlorn glance. The clouds, from what he could see, were low and heavy. It’d be a far dump of snow later, he’d wager. By Christ’s bones, he hoped ol’ Toby had sobered up by then. Twas his turn from the ten o’ the clock chimes. John gave a grimace and coughed. Damned cloak had more holes in it than a whore’s chastity. Slipping off wasn’t an option either. Nick had flogged One eyed Cheswick for that sin last week. So rather than a raw back, he’d suffer the cold.

In the midst of all this chill, cheerless Christmas, John heard singing, and from the vocals, it was neither angelic nor a wayward choir. No Christmas carolling this, unless it was the style that went on in the many ‘Liberties Nunneries’. As the off tune song warbled closer, John gave a gloating smile. Oh yes, this was a cursed sight more earthly. Most hymns he’d heard didn’t extol the warmth and charity of an abbess’s cony, or the abbot’s fondness for its soft pelt. Now, that was a carolling he could get used to. A fine voice, if somewhat slurred. As the singer wavered into view, John could make out a well dressed gentleman staggering down the lane, giving out his all with a few country ballads. He easily recognised Cakes and Ale.

“I give ‘er sack, I gave ‘er ale, I gave er cake, I gave ‘er gold.

“I kiss’t ‘er wonce, an’ kiss’t ‘er twice, an’….an’…an’, oh yes, she gaven me all!”

“Opppp! Ahhhhhhh!” “God’s blud! Ahhhhhh! By the Devil’s ‘own arse, better ‘ut than in!”

John blessed his patron saint for putting him on duty. This was a true Christmas gift, a tosspot ready for rolling. Eagerly he stepped out into the lantern’s light. “Ho good clerk, where are y’ bound this cruel night?”

“What? What? Where are ye, varlet? Can ye tell where…Ahhhhhh! By t’ Devil’s own cod’s, a veritable trumpet! A trumpet I says. What says ye, sirrah?”

John had stepped forward to catch the unsteady figure, when the gentleman let out a monster of a belch, and he’d been forced to lean back as the wave of consumed brandy wine rolled over him. His grin widened like a shark. This was going to be so easy. The fellow could hardly stand. Having been a nip as a lad, he could still lift a coin or two with practiced ease.

“What say ye sirrah? Where do I fin’ t’ Bludy Goat?”

John easily slipped an arm under the swaying figure. This was the best Christmas ever! This tosspot actually wanted to go to the Black Goat. Damn him for a sack soaked fool, Earless Nick would fleece him in a trice and best of all, that were a very, very fine, thick gown the belcher had on, just right for a winter evening on guard.

“Why, Sir Clerk, lean on me, an I’ll take y’ there, a warm fire and the best sack in all the Liberties.” John chuckled with not so false glee.

Then five paces from the door, his charge stumbled and dropped towards the snow. John, with his heavy build, steadied the poor drunken cony and reached down to check the purse. As he did so his victim twisted suddenly and a strange puff of dust flew into his face as he breathed in. For an instant he was puzzled, then…then the burning pain clawed up his nose and down his throat. His eyes streamed with tears and all three felt like they’d been scalded with burning ashes. With his hands clutched to his fiery throat, John dropped to the snow desperately pushing his face into the soothing chill. That’s why he didn’t notice his former charge straighten up, though he did feel the boot to the skull…well at least briefly.