Gregory House - The Lord Of Misrule

Ned looked down on the fallen guard and shook his head. Pepper, by the saints, pepper, and some heathenish concoction. Just was well Meg Black warned him not to breathe when he cast it out. As he had found himself thinking on more than one occasion in the past, he’d have to watch that girl. For a sweet Christian lass, she had a very evil and vindictive turn. Ned grabbed a hand full of fresh snow and rubbed his gloves and the collar of his overmantle. Cleaning could happen later, but he’d be damned to have any of that hot spice powder on him. He’d seen that fellow’s face-red and suffused, gasping for air. Ned gave a small wave and two figures moved out from the deeper shadows. Time to pay Earless Nick a visit.

***

The tavern door was too heavy to kick open so Ned instead shoved it with a shoulder, weight and its momentum did the rest. The door thumped loudly into the wall with a hollow boom and every eye in the place automatically snapped around to see who’d dared disturb the lair of Earless Nick. Ned strode arrogantly in with Meg Black on his arm, looking as if they were parading down the long gallery in Westminster, and made straight for the tavern keeper’s bench.

“Ho, where’s the sluggedly measle who serves here?” Ned slapped his palm flat on the table. If the door boomed like a great gonne, this snapped through the common room like a shot from a harquebus, sharp and threatening.

A fellow, large in bulk if not muscles, with a long black beard, pushed himself reluctantly up from the dicing table and waddled slowly over, pausing for a leisurely gob into the fire. Finally he arrived and stood arms on hips in front of Ned with a sneering scowl and projected another green ball of slime at the floor rushes by Ned’s boot. “Wot y’ want! This ‘ere tavern’s only fo’ Lord Nick an’ his men.”

Ned was ready for this. The taverner keeper should’ve been as well — his assumption of arrogance and security let him down. Ned took a leisurely pace forward and shot out a boot, catching the large man in the side of the knee. Still, with tree trunks for legs he may have still stood, like an ancient oak, but Ned moved faster than his opponent’s startled reaction. In a move he’d learnt from a master of defence, Ned stepped in close to the angry taverner, grabbing his approaching hands and tugged them outward. As the finale to his welcome, his left knee shot up and impacted solidly with the taverner’s cods. For a moment the man’s eyes crossed with puzzlement as the hefty blow to his nearest and dearest fired up to the brain. Finally, the message received, the groaning man crumpled forward, collapsing on the floor, both hands clutching his bruised cods whimpering small squeals of pain.

As a conclusion Ned whipped out his poniard, placed it across the base of the taverner’s nose and twitched slightly. A few drops of blood stained the rushes. “No man speaks to Red Ned and his lady without respect, you lard-tubbed, pizzle shrivelled measle!”

At the sudden prospect of blood, the tavern common room went quiet. If this had been the Gryne Dragone in Southwark, whosoever had been foolish enough to pull this stunt would have been punctured or hacked by enough ironware to fill a Ward Muster armoury.

Here it was different. This was the still quiet of fear and hungry anticipation. The crowd in the Black Goat were waiting, for what Ned wasn’t sure, until a voice called out in the lazy affected tones of the Cambridge graduate. “Leave him. Bottoph is a lazy, surly slug and losing a nose would no doubt improve his looks. However he’s already broken into my habits and it would be an inconvenience to train another taverner.”

Still with his blade in place, Ned tilted his head up and scanned the audience for the speaker. Several tavern patrons instinctively shifted, creating a clear corridor of sight towards the table nearest the fire. At one end sat a well dressed gentleman. Like Ned he was wearing a heavy over mantle gown, though this one was half shrugged off the shoulders to reveal a shot silk doublet. That, in the sign language of presentation in this modern age, spoke of affluence and status. If Ned had any doubts, a heavy gilt chain circled the fine cambric linen collar, framing the face above. Ah yes. Ned dropped the whimpering taverner and stood up straight. The face, that…that was interesting. The speaker possessed the kind of features that would have made an angel weep, while his hair casually spilled from beneath a velvet cap in a wavy flow like sun tinted gold to his broad shoulders. Ned instantly felt a wash of jealousy, especially as he noticed the sharply indrawn breath of Meg Black. No doubt about it, Earless Nick was surely the handsomest rogue in all of London.

Casually he slipped the poniard back into its sheath and fixed the speaker with an arrogant stare, hand deliberately resting on his sword hilt. “Who are you to request a favour of Red Ned Bedwell?”

“Oh I plead your forgiveness for my lack of manners, Red… ahh, Ned.”

As he should have expected, the words had the right sound and manner, but as for deeper meaning, Ned knew this fellow never ever begged anyone’s forgiveness. The lazily indulgent tones continued with a small flick of a very clean hand at the surroundings. “I am Nicolas Throckmore, master of this humble abode, and I invite you and your beauteous lady to share a glass of Bordeaux sack.”

Ned inclined his head in a respectful nod as to an equal. Another casual wave of Master Throckmore’s fingers had three of his retinue hurriedly scattering and scurrying. Two hauled up a pair of carved chairs that would have more suited a noble’s parlour rather than a tavern, while the third bustled behind the taverner’s bench, searching out the requested wine. As for the moaning taverner still lying on the floor, not a man moved to aid him. So command here was absolute. Ned’s daemon quivered in fear. Earless Nick demanded respect.

Putting out his arm, Meg Black automatically placed her hand on it and allowed him to escort her to the table. Making a show of the placement of her dress, she took the chair closest to the fire, the position of respect and honour. Without a further glance towards her, Ned took his own seat and assumed a stance of benign indifference, as recommended by the masters of manners at the Inns. It gave him a chance to quietly survey the room as they waited for the proffered refreshment.

Overall it was a generous space, larger than the Red Boar, with a decent sized stone faced fireplace. Some five tables filled the area and lighting was provided by tallow candles in wall sconces. That alone spoke of modest expense. However to Ned’s eye, there were several more telling examples of wealth. At Nick’s right hand was a multi branched gilt candle stick and it burned five new candles, from where the sweet aroma of fresh beeswax spread its perfume. If all this weren’t enough, the walls were covered in large painted canvas panels, mostly highlighting feats of heroes. On the left was King Arthur, while opposite, Hector fought Achilles. Many a gentleman’s house couldn’t boast as many.

All the while, Nick smiled indulgently, as the Master of the Liberties watched Ned review all ‘his’ many trappings of nobility. Where you stood in this society was all about display — your silverware, hangings, tapestries, clothes and jewellery, and most of all, how you stood your ‘place’. Ned’s better angel may complain about how savagely and cruelly he’d treated the taverner, but without that display of power and status, they’d have been rolled bare minutes after walking through the door.

Finally a tray arrived and Nick’s ragged retainer made a good effort at the proper etiquette for serving. The wine was poured from a silver ewer into a matched set of three Venetian glasses. The first was presented to Meg, then the second to him while the third, with a touch more deference, to their host. Ned wasn’t a fool. He waited for Nick to drink, which he did with evident pleasure. Meg Black had grilled her repentant retainer over Nick’s favoured cozenage gambits. Luckily drugged or poisoned wine wasn’t one of them. Raising a toast to their very generous host, Ned sipped the sweet sack. He politely tipped his head in appreciation. It was strong and significantly better than the one he’d acquired for the Christmas Revels. His daemon promptly suggested a reason — ‘connections’ to the Royal cellar.