Gregory House - The Fetter Lane Fleece

The snow covered mound on the rough cobbles crunched with the solid impact of his body and Ned whimpered as he rolled. Oh Christ that…that stung! The icy crystals set the skin of his bare back aflame, especially the long bloody scratches from that cursed sign. Well he hoped it was only the shock of the snow and ice that aggravated his current condition. It didn’t pay to investigate too closely what lay under the few inches of snow in a Liberties street. Dead dogs, piles of mouldering rushes and steaming kitchen waste where amongst the lesser ills. At least, remarked his daemon, it wasn’t the Fleete Ditch, a river of turds and tanner’s discharge. He’d dangled over that last week, seemingly for hours, on the brink of imminent death by drowning, as had Earless Nick’s luckless minion. No, no fear of that fate tonight. Instead he only had to worry about daggers, swords, cudgels, a butcher’s cleaver or two and the savage fury of an irate punk. See, said his daemon, nothing to worry about.

Rolling with the momentum of his sudden exit Ned staggered to his feet, and rendered slightly unsteady by his too solid landing, began to stagger off down Fetter Lane towards Fleete Street. A loud chorus of howls and curses from the Wool’s Fleece informed him that his solo sojourn was going to be of a very short duration. Damn. Ned hopped on one foot as he tried to continue his forward passage while at the same time attempting to pull on his left shoe. As for the rest of his clothes, his better angel may scold him for looking more naked than the wild Irish or bare breeched Scots, but unlike them he did have the ability to cloth his present nakedness. Just not now, thank the blessed saints for the shroud of night, even if the extra cold was shrinking his cods and setting his skin a prickle with goose bumps. If he continued much further in this ‘exposed condition’, his bollocks would be lumps either side of his neck and not even an hours delightful cajoling by Mistress Adeline could draw his pizzle out from its hiding spot.

Oh by the blessed saints why did the Twelve days of Christmas have to be so damnedly cold? Or Reedman’s brother, the stupid measle, so bereft of brains or commonsense?

Ned’s foot stamped down upon a thin layer of ice instantly breaking through the crust and he sank knee deep into the resulting pothole. Oh Christ! Oh Christ! Oh…Of a sudden his mind froze over in white pain as the water and muddy ice, chilled by weeks of Lord Frost’s breath, fountained up drenching his not so dangling nearest and dearest cods. The world around him blurred and he tried to draw breath to scream. Richard Reedman, you miserable bastard! If his cods were damaged or blighted the fool was going to suffer.

An angry cry from behind told Ned he didn’t have time to cater for clutching his frosty manhood. He needed to move, or else. The motivation of a prime kicking and thumping plus sundry assaults with cudgels and knives prompted his flagging efforts, and shivering as if he had the ague, Ned pushed on. The cries though increased in volume as the foisters of the Fleece rallied for a chase. Damn, damn, damn! This plan looked so good back at the Sign of the Spread Eagle. His angel remarked waspishly that it was warm in there by the blazing fire and he’d a full tankard of Rhenish in hand, so…

“Ere’s t’ stinking measle who ‘it me!” the fair Delphina screeched.

“A shillin’ ta the one what brings ‘im down!” The slightly muffled nasally voice of Flaunty Phil added. A hand over his broken nose may have hindered his speech, though an eager roar and cheer still answered the call.

Ned ignored his other shoe, gave up any further attempt at pulling on his shirt, doublet and hose and instead found a new burst of speed. Damn this! He just had to stop this dreadful habit of helping out friends with their Liberties follies. It was proving to be dangerous to his health, and by Satan’s great black hairy balls, so perishingly cold !

Chapter One. A Festive Gathering, The Sixth Day of Christmas 1529

As the icy spray of Lord Frost’s breath made manifest the chill toll of the winter season, hope and joy warmed the heart in the Christian domain of England. It was the very centre of the Twelve days of Christmas and a time of solemn celebration in church, as families and local guilds gave thanks for the birth of the Saviour. However not all were inclined to the gravitas of the season. The twelve days heralded the triumph of a more mischievous spirit as well, one enthroned on an ale barrel, cloaked in gaudy rags and tinsel with a wooden spoon as a sceptre. For this was the reign of the Lord of Misrule, where apprentices could act as their masters and the solemnity of the church was ridiculed, its faults, greed and hypocrisy exposed. The normal rules of position and privilege that tightly bound the obedience of the Tudor kingdom for a brief span of time were set aside. On the whole the gentry accepted the jibes and bestowed the traditional festival rewards, smiling at the ribald humour of the plays and japes. After all it was only for twelve days.

In the cheery warmth of a private room at the Sign of the Spread Eagle tavern in Wood Street such concerns about the brevity of Misrule’s reign were banished amongst the joys and pleasures of the Christmas Revels. The snow may have been falling steadily outside, shrouding the rutted city street and the higgledy piggledy line of the thatch and tile roofs in a mantle of velvet white, but as picturesque a scene as it was to set any poet to a sighing and a scribbling of its pristine beauty, the company present cared not a fart. Nor did they spare much consideration for the religious and symbolic meaning of the festivities. No. The twenty odd apprentice clerks and lawyers from the Inns of Court were solely focused on the trays of freshly baked and steaming mutton pies and the jugs of mulled Rhenish at hand, that was except for a cluster at the gaming table or the two fellows lost in sighing admiration of the trio of diaphanously clad maidens singing sweetly of Maying time pleasures.

In the feast’s chair of state at the head of the main table was Red Ned Bedwell, apprentice lawyer, and as he would have his fellows believe, a very successful aspiring gentleman on the rise. He was feeling very relaxed not to mention pleased at the course of his Christmas Revels. Though there were some who’d reckon Ned was in manner and habits closer to a measly rogue, a common foister or tosspotting dice man. Luckily for Ned the main prompter of these views and arch disrupter of his ‘ahem’ plans, Mistress Meg Black, wasn’t invited to the Revels. A good thing too whispered Ned’s daemon as he noticed the ready and very attractive smile of the scantily clad harpist in the corner. It was such a very enticing smile, the rosy lips and dark fluttering eyelashes full of promise. Ned felt his cods become somewhat restricted in accommodation as the harpist winked slowly at him.

A sudden and heavy wallop temporarily distracted the direction of his thoughts and brought Ned, cods and all, abruptly back to the Revels. “Ned, this is as fine a feast as those at the Guildhall. You certainly have a gift.”

The large hand of his friend Rob Black gripped Ned’s shoulder with almost eye-watering strength. Good fortune or timing favoured Ned, for this was perhaps the only time that evening he was not holding the pewter cup of sweet sack, and so it didn’t drench his neighbour in an inopportune spray of wine. Wincing slightly Ned thanked his feasting companion for his compliments. As he’d found last year the apprentice smith and foundry man was an excellent lad to have at one’s side in a brawl, for all his brotherly relationship to the indomitable and suspicious minded Meg. However working amongst other fellows of equal breadth and stature, Rob frequently forgot the effect of his size and strength on mere mortals. Ned boasted some six feet in height with as he thought decent shoulders and fine legs thanks to the rigorous training provided Master Sylver, and in his own mind felt himself the epitome of manly physic. When Rob clapped a heavy hand on his back Ned felt as weak as any hunch-shouldered, crab-fisted clerk of his Uncle Richard’s at Middle Temple Inns. It was a humbling reminder that despite brawl, affray and a handy need for speed from irate swains or outraged husbands, he just wasn’t going to be able to wrestle a recalcitrant carthorse like Rob.