Gregory House - The Lord Of Misrule

To Meg that was an arrant lie from start to finish. She clenched her jaw to halt the urge for re editing. Lady Dellingham though, was struggling to fit her little lamb with these putrid surroundings. Finally in a voice raw with shock, she stammered out a question. “Is…is this so Walter? Have you been ministering to these poor wretches? Have you…felt a calling?”

The said lost lamb put down the bowl. Still on his knees he shuffled towards his mother, reverently took up the fringe of her kirtle and kissed it. “Yes…yes mother. It was at the meeting of Ned’s, ahh friends, that the spirit of our compassionate Lord spoke to me.”

For the first time since Meg had been shackled to their visitors from Shropshire, she witnessed Lady Dellingham display anything other and sneering disdain. She reached down, drew up Walter and clutched him to her like a lost child. “Hallelujah! Praise be to the Lord! Walter, your father and I always hoped that you’d find your avocation in the reformed religion, but we never thought it would be so soon, or in this foul pit.”

Having helped chase Walter through places that made this pesthole look like the luxuries of Richmond Palace, Meg doubted it as well. Ned however, was playing the scene. She watched him step next to Walter, place a fond hand on his shoulder and give Lady Dellingham the most simpering smile she’d ever seen. “Yes my lady. The few days we have had with Walter have been a profound revelation. His presence has made such a difference to our humble company. I ask, no I beg you to let us keep him with us until his vessel is ready to depart. With his lead and inspiration, we can do God’s work and restore this city as a New Jerusalem!”

Meg blinked in stunned shock. She hadn’t just heard that, had she? Ned damned be he Bedwell pleading to keep Walter, the bane of their life for the past two days, for a further two weeks? And…and as part of a reformist Christian commitment? Walter the satyr and dice man? No, the fetid air must be causing a delusion.

Then Councillor Cromwell’s dryly sardonic voice cut through the weeping babble and brought them back to reality. “That, Master Bedwell, is an extremely generous offer. I, myself, feel inspired enough to meet this company of saints. Would you pray escort us?”

Ned, still giving his simpering performance, suppressed a curse, and instead turned toward his patron with a modest bow. Damn cursed his daemon, the ploy had almost worked! Keeping a tight hold on ‘lamb’ Walter, he helped their erring reformer to stand up, then spread his hand in a humble demeanour, making sure the heretical book was prominently displayed and wound out his first piece of cozenage. “Of course, Councillor Cromwell, though I fear that while our piety may meet with our honest approval, our location in a tavern may offend polite company.”

Lady Dellingham, after the brief display of humanity, snapped back to form with a sneering comment, loud with echoes of condemnation. “Ahem, in a common tavern? I do not find the location in any way Christian. They are the Devil’s castles, fortresses of sin, where the demons of drunkenness and debauchery consort with lewd and vulgar women!”

Ned hadn’t heard that one before. While his better angel primly agreed, he speedily temporized. “My lady, while that is indeed true and much lamented, it is however an excellent cover for the pursuit of the Lord’s work. Sir Thomas More’s pursuivants would never think to look there.”

He received a very hard eyed inspection and another of those disturbing harrumphs. Cromwell however, maintained a very tight smile that gave nothing at all away, thought Ned may have discerned the smallest spark of amusement.

“After all, my lady, where better to assail the forces of evil, than in their own bastion?”

“Yes, Master Bedwell, where indeed?” This dry comment came from Cromwell who was turning his hard-eyed inspection from one to another of them.

Ned continued to hold on to Walter. “My companions would consider it an honour to welcome you as our guests.”

This sounded perfect, the right balance of respect and humility. Ned just prayed that it was true and that the concentrated glare from Mistress Black didn’t mean what his daemon had warned. She couldn’t still want revenge…could she?

The distinct clink of iron roused Ned from his musings. He quietly slipped off the bed, picked up the hooded lantern from the stool beside him and tip toed to the slightly opened door. Cautiously he eased himself through into the chamber and stood in the deep shadows of a nearby painted canvas. A rhythmic, metallic, scraping sound squeaked into the silent void of the predawn morning. It almost matched the tone of the neighbouring snores which echoed from around the room. Ned cautiously slid his feet across the floorboards, carefully easing his weight first on one foot then another, checking that the timber didn’t groan as it jostled its neighbour. Finally, long minutes later, he’d made it the curtain shrouded bed. The soft squeaks hadn’t changed their stop/start pattern. Still sliding his stockinged feet along, he made it to the head of the bed and slowly wrapped his fingers around the curtain’s fringe, then on the latest muted squeak, he tugged the curtain back and thrust the unhooked lantern into the shadows.

As he expected, the sudden glow of illumination revealed a very interesting sight. The bed covers were mounded up over a hunched figure in a long shirt. A pair of bulging, watery blues eyes blinked up at him in the sudden flood of light. Exactly as you’d expect to find behind the curtain of a privy bed, except for the snaking line of a wrought chain that wound from the corner pillar to under the coverlet.

“Morning, Walter. Having trouble sleeping?”

“What! Oh Ned you startled me. I’m sorry, did I disturb you? Pray forgive me. I had to use the privy pot.”

Ned swung the lantern over the shrouded area of the bed. Opposite he could see a second pale figure stretched out. A spill of long, straw-blonde hair trailed over the pillow and drifted along the exposed spine, terminating at the swelling buttock curves. The white skin glowed alluringly.

Ned swallowed slightly at the vision and cleared his throat. “Ahh huh, certainly Walter. Yes, it must have been when you used the pot. However unless you’re pissing nails, I don’t think so.”

Ned put his hand out, palm open, and crooked his finger. “The rasp, Walter. Now if you please.”

Walter widened his eyes in well simulated alarm, and his face dropped into its familiar pattern of mopish regret “What rasp, Ned? I’m shocked to think you’d believe that I’d renege on our arrangement. I swore an oath upon the bible!”

Ned gave a sigh and sadly shook his head. He’d thought the two days exemplary behaviour had been too good to be true. “Walter, Walter, what am I going to do with you? You remember the terms of our agreement? I’m afraid, for this breach, that I’ll have to withdraw Rosemund as your ‘companion’.”

Up to this point Walter had kept up his skilled mask of a practiced dissembler, but at the threat, he immediately dissolved into a teary, grovelling wretch, clutching desperately at Ned’s gown. “No, no! Please Ned! I’ll behave. I promise I’ll make a new pledge upon my very salvation. No, don’t take Rosemund away!”

Ned maintained his stern demeanour and continued to hold out his hand. “The rasp, Walter. Come on.”

Eventually the sniffling subsided, and seeing that his play hadn’t made any difference, the penitent Walter reluctantly shuffled across and pushing his hand under the nearby pillow, slowly extracted a battered smith’s rasp and held it out.