Gregory House - The Fetter Lane Fleece

Taking the loudness of the angry cries and the approaching pools of bobbing light as a good measure of peril, Ned increased his stumbling pace. He could swear that he’d just passed Salisbury Court on his right so if memory served him the Fleete Ditch Bridge was maybe a hundred paces ahead. Anyway he desperately hoped it was the well know landmark. The dark of the night and the snow made this a treacherous game of Blindman’s Bluff. One wrong turn and he’d find himself face to face with Flaunty Phil and the irate Delphina, not to mention their rowdy flock of Fleecers and so far no help in sight.

As an added complication his shivering was getting worse. The numbness was travelling up his legs. His feet felt like frozen lumps of…of, well nothing. Since he spent a considerable time shuffling between Gray’s Inn, Middle Temple Inn and St Lawrence Poor Jewry in the city Ned’s knowledge of the layout of this Liberties was pretty good. As an apprentice lawyer and aspiring rogue it was always handy to have a comprehensive knowledge of shortcuts not to mention potential escape routes in case of ‘difficulties’. Tapping into his instinctive memory Ned knew that once past that bridge of recent ill repute there were a dozen small alleys off Ludgate Hill. It would be a simple matter of a moment to duck into a hidden corner and gain some breathing space to re-don his apparel. After that a few twisty turns and he was slipping down London Wall via Blackfriars and then an easy stroll along the broad path of frozen Thames to regain the safety of the city and the comfort of the Revels.

Ahh the Revels. His angel was most pleased he’d brought up that vexing subject. What about Richard Reedman, the fellow he was supposed to be rescuing rather than cavorting in the snow, it asked pointedly? If he’d had the energy Ned would have blushed with embarrassment. How was he to slip out of this ticklish situation? And then there was explaining to Meg just what had happed to Rob. The lad wasn’t a fool and when last seen had been fairly sober, so his chances should be good. However when that door had crashed open revealing an irate Flaunty Phil, sword in hand, Reedman problems and Rob’s whereabouts had plummeted drastically in the hierarchy of priorities. A rapid and as it turned out painful exit via the window had topped the list.

However all that was for later. At the present, as his daemon reminded him, any future without a serious kicking and side dish of swords and cudgels wasn’t a betting prospect. As a gaming fellow with skill at the baiting pits he wouldn’t put much more than a clipped groat on his current prospects. Then as if conjured by the thought his chances plunged lower than a chipped farthing. A piece of broken cobble thumped in the snow beside him and Ned jumped in fright. This single stone was only a precursor to a barrage that thudded around him, clattering off walls and sending up small spurts of ice on their impact, that was except for the three that smacked him painfully in the back of the legs. Ned stumbled into the snow and gasped in pain as he once more rolled over onto his bruised back and sore shoulder. That cursed sign! How typical of the Wool’s Fleece-the decayed iron chains holding the tavern’s sign had snapped under only the slightest strain. It was another cursed humiliation to add to the tavern’s long list. Damn Delphina for a conniving doxy!

The cries grew closer and at their urgent prodding, instinct once more came to the fore, pushing Ned up to hobble towards the beckoning twin lanterns of the bridge.

If he’d breath to spare, he’d curse Lady Fortuna as well for being a treacherous deceiving mistress. A few days ago he was hanging off this cursed bridge in imminent peril of plunging to a disgusting and disgraceful end. It was sublimely ridiculous that he should be facing the fate again so soon. His daemon’s frantic warning cajoled him to take a step, then another. The rain of missiles continued as did the angry cries calling the pace of the hunt. A few more struck him glancing blows on the shoulder and back, but Ned just winced and gritted his teeth. He wasn’t that lost to the cold and fear that he’d cry out now. Flaunty Phil and his fellow rogues were close and gaining on their quarry. The shrill scream of Delphina was an incentive he didn’t need.

A strange apparition seemed materialise in front of him. Ned shook his head and cleared away the snow and ice building up on his eyelashes. Since he couldn’t make the bridge, it appeared that it was coming to him. Oh Lady Fortuna, such a worker of miracles!

As Ned limped along the light grew clearer and closer revealing a potential new problem. The lights weren’t the Fleete Ditch Bridge but instead a small group of sojourners challenging the winter dark. Ned’s spirit quailed. Knowing his fellow Londoners this could be a company of carousers in which case he may be saved, and that was a slim ‘may be’, or a pack of Liberties roisters which meant freezing to death would be a blessing and a kindness. Ned hesitated. What was he going to do? He could sit down and try to pull on some clothes. As far as his angel was concerned that would at least be a start. His daemon counselled otherwise-chance it. Did he really want to be remembered for freezing in the snow whimpering and mewling? Wasn’t he a man of parts? Red Ned Bedwell, the scourge of the Southwark baiting pits, bane of both Earless Nick and Canting Michael, gang lords of the Liberties. By Satan’s black arsehole he was!

Bravely inspired or foolishly led Ned staggered upright and waving a fist charged towards the coming lights. “Yaaaaw-I’ll not go down like a mongrel cur, you cursed Liberties whelps!”

Ned assumed that’s what he yelled. It was what he meant to say and inside his imaginings it sounded superb-stirring, strident and strong. Well yes, perhaps in his mind that’s how it was, but to the clutch of lanterns it probably wasn’t so impressive…or coherent.

“Eerk. A Bedlamite! And he’s naked!”

“Master Hawkins, save us from this dreadful rogue!”

“Keep yer distance Beatrice. He may have the foaming sickness.”

“The poor soul! Shouldn’t we help?”

All of these shouts and screams slowly penetrated Ned’s fog of bravado or maybe cold-induced stupidity. It dawned upon him that the group he was attacking might not be roisters or revellers-too many long skirts and kirtles for one. However what really got through was the solid punch in his guts from a swung cudgel.

“Tis alright Mistress Black. Just some naked loon lost to drink or madness. I’ll see him off.”

Ned doubled over and wheezed from the blow. Blessed saints, he knew that thrice damned voice. It was Meg Black’s faithful and sordid shadow, Gruesome Bloody Roger.

“Arrgh…Sod you for a piss channel turd, Hawkins!” Ned cursed in frustration as he dropped to his knees and all of sudden had a really close look at the stitching on the worn toe of Gruesome Roger’s boot. It was in mid move, pulling back to remove the naked loon-shaped obstruction from the path of these worthy evangelicals. Then it abruptly halted.

A hand reached down grasping Ned’s hair with little care and dragged his head upwards into the lantern light. “What…Bedwell? Bedwell! Y’ stupid tosspotting measle, y’ drunk again. Why ain’t y’got y’clothes on?”

Ned felt like spitting in the face of the despised minion or gutting him with a blunt edged dagger. Instead he chose calm restraint. “You louse-borne piece of maggot’s vomit, let me go!”

Gruesome Roger did-eventually-but only after he’d rubbed Ned’s face back in the snow twice making sure he got a good mouthful of the Fleete Street’s finest chilled muck. Then the fiend bent down for a very quiet and personal chat. “Listen Bedwell. y’ prattling lewdster, Mistress Black an’ her friends, y’ know her special friends are behind me. So shut yer filthy mouth an’ for the love of God put some clothes on. Yer scaring the maids.”