Gregory House - The Lord Of Misrule

Ned closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the winter chilled stonework of the bridge. No, he kept on telling himself, don’t look down. That wasn’t a good idea. It may look like any other patch of the murky, stygian gloom of mid winter, but searching for an unseen peril below didn’t help. If he fell he knew what happened. He’d seen it a minute or so ago when the bridge wall collapsed. Earless Nick’s luckless minion tumbled over him and, screaming briefly, had plummeted onto the ice which had shattered with a loud crash, then finally a choking gurgle. So no, he didn’t need to peer down there to see the effects. His imagination was already doing a good enough job supplying him with the images he didn’t need. He already knew the Fleete Ditch by reputation — all of London and the Liberties did. In summer you could smell it for a mile. So a closer inspection of the sluggish, turgid, stream, charged with turds and piss channel scourings was not required. Instead he needed to do something constructive, like figure out how to climb up.

As it was, his fingers were getting cramped, shoved as they were between the iron and the stone. He’d tried to tighten his grip on the iron staple and who knows, without the gloves, it may have been easier. However as slippery as they felt right now, they protected his flesh from the jagged edged iron. Damn the Liberties work crews and damn Sir Thomas Bloody More! That lofty royal official had been Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, and this bridge was under his jurisdiction for repair. Perhaps if the new Lord Chancellor of the Kingdom had spent less time a’ hunting heretics, he could have put that spare energy to better use. Like repairing the bloody Fleete Ditch Bridge!

Ned attempted to distract himself from this situation. An ancient philosopher had suggested that, when in peril, one should recall a happy or pleasurable occasion to regain a moment of joy. Well he did that, and what readily sprang to mind was the Christmas Revels. His Christmas Revels actually, that he’d organised, financed and in fact should have, at this very moment, been sitting down to, feasting on roast suckling pig with a tankard of the finest sack in his hand. And just think, during these twelve nights of Christmas, didn’t he have so much to be thankful for. Now he was hanging off the Fleete Ditch Bridge. Oh, how could it be better?

Ned wedged his hand further into the unyielding stone and mortar. Let’s see, what improvement would suit? Ah, of course, Mistress damn her arrogance Black, she could be here instead of him. Oh wait no, no. What would be more fitting was that meepish little rat, the reformist lost lamb, Walter Dellingham! But wait, his daemon supplied one name above all, one name that well and truly deserved to be here; Gruesome Roger Hawkins. It was the fault of that surly retainer of the Black’s that Ned was here swinging off a piece of iron, waiting to plunge to an ignominious end. Oh Christ on the Cross no, not drowned in turds!

As Ned made an effort to remember a prayer, any prayer, he heard the scraping of a boot on the cobbles of the bridge above him. Slowly the scuffing came closer. Damn — more of Earless Nick’s minions. He’d already gone through three — wasn’t that enough? Anyway that complaint was moot. It was not as if he could get to his dagger or sword — they were up there on the bridge. Possibly he could push himself hard against the stone wall. It was damned dark down here and the bridge lanterns didn’t cast even a smidgen of light this way. The boots hit his sword and the metal chimed on the cobbles. The outline of a figure peered over the edge as if looking straight at him. Ned wasn’t sure whether or not he should call out.

Then a low voice spoke above him. “Well bless me, it really is Christmas. Fancy finding y’ here Bedwell. Wotcha doin’ down there? Is Walter with y’?”

Ned closed his eyes for a moment and, to keep his temper in check, slowly counted up to ten — in Latin. “No. No, I don’t have lost lamb Walter here! Now for the love of all the saints, Roger bloody Hawkins, get me up!”

“Tch tch. That’s a fair nasty tongue on y’ this evening, Red Ned Bedwell.”

At the wryly amused tone, Ned ground his teeth and sent up another prayer, this time calling on forbearance. “Forgive me Master Hawkins. I’m cold, my arms hurt and damn Walter’s slipped off again.”

The shadow changed shape as Gruesome Roger Hawkins squatted by the broken wall, no doubt to help him up. “Yeah remember, Bedwell, the day when y’ challenged me at the tavern?”

“Yes, yes I do.” How could he forget it? That instant in time, just a few days ago was the very harbinger of his hanging off a rusty iron staple on Fleete Street Bridge.

“Yeah, well so do I Bedwell, an’ I’ll remind y’ of what my reply was. By God’s Blood, afore the week’s out y’ goin’ to rue those words, y’ll be wadin’ through a river o’ shit to beg my forgiveness.”

Ned sighed. Oh yes he remembered that part.

“Well Bedwell, here we are, an’ I’m waiting.”

Ned blinked a few times in sheer surprise. This damned retainer was expecting him to apologise? What of his honour, his dignity, his natural superiority as an apprentice lawyer? As an instance of poor timing, the iron staple, which former Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster should have replaced along with repairing the broken wall, chose now to ease out from its mortared hole. “Ahh Meg Black isn’t nearby by, is she?”

At this point even the shrewish comments of an ungrateful Mistress Black were preferable to what awaited below. Unfortunately in the dull gloom of the lanterns Ned could see the glint of Gruesome Roger’s wolfish smile and the shake of his head. “No, she’s tending someone down the road. I’s can go an’ get her if y’ want.”

The iron squealed and Ned’s heart thumped rapidly. “No, ahh it’s fine!”

“I can come back later if’n y’ want Bedwell.”

If there was one aspect of his character, apart from his intelligence, that Ned was justifiably proud of, it was his practicality. After all, when hanging twenty foot over a frozen river of ordure, practicality was practically a virtue.

The trilling notes of a harp chimed gently behind him as Ned rubbed his hands in front of the blazing fire. The cheery sounds were echoed a moment later by the throaty laugh of a girl and the soft clink of a cup of sweet sack wine bumping the table. A glance out the diamond paned window told him that they’d made it here in good time. The usual mounds of street refuse were now being steadily covered in a hefty layer of white snow. No doubt even the water tubs that stood under the building’s eaves now had a surface of ice an inch thick. Despite the chill he found the scene alluring. London looked so much different in the white velvet blanket, almost as if it was donning its Twelfth Night mask apparel. Thus in one day she transformed into a pale fair mistress, rather than as some court wit had it, a pock marked crone with the fetid stench of the Fleete Ditch. The improved aspect and the subduing of the foul city airs were to Ned only the first of the benefits the winter snow had bestowed on him.

The second had been the growling dismissal by his master, Richard Rich, that year’s esteemed Autumn reader at Lincoln Inn. Most prentice lawyers were worked hard by their masters, eager to screw the last ounce of worth from the winter’s light, before having to resort to rush lights or expensive candles. So Ned shouldn’t complain too much because his fingers were cramped from his laboured task of writing up pleas for the upcoming law term. Or that the room’s meagre fire put out so little warmth that the ink in its brass pot frequently froze over and he had to chaff it warm to write. However in his case it was worse, since his master was also inconveniently his uncle. In this season it was a common joke around the Inns that Master Rich’s filial regard for his ‘worthless’ nephew bordered on that of His Sovereign Majesty’s for his recently dismissed former chancellor, Cardinal Wolsey. Thus, despite the difficulties, Ned’s better angel kept reminding him it could be worse. He could be serving his patron, Councillor Cromwell, out in the biting cold on some thankless task. However speculation didn’t aid his plans as his frustrated daemon whispered.