Gregory House - The Liberties of London

About one pace off and Walter’s nervous habit swung his head around just as Ned was reaching for his shoulder. The lost lamb’s bleary eyes widened in shock and he almost bleated. “Wh…Wh…What?”

Before he could dart off, Ned’s fingers locked onto his cloak, pulling the errant lad up short. “Walter. My, my, how we’ve missed you!” Ned reeled the lost lamb in and put a friendly but firm arm around the clearly reluctant figure and began to walk together onto the bridge. Got him crowed Ned’s daemon!

It was as Ned was strolling across the bridge, his charge ‘securely’ rescued that it all went terribly wrong. “That’s ‘im!”

The cry came from just behind them and Ned spun around to see three figures standing under the light of the bridge lanterns. Gruesome Roger and Meg, his supposed ‘rearguard’, were conspicuous by their absence. Three to one weren’t good odds, and though handy in a brawl, Ned had only recently started training in the not so gentlemanly arts of defence.

There was of course another problem-lost lamb Walter. Only the good lord knew were his loyalties lay. It was a brief struggle for a moment, though as his daemon said, the sheer unpredictability of his charge made Walter a dangerous liability in any fight. Knowing that it was only marginally the better of two poor choices, Ned pushed the lad towards the black shadow past the end of the bridge. “Walter I’ll stay here and keep them off. I want you to run up the hill to the gate and summon the Watch and then head for the Sign of the Spread Eagle!”

“Ye…ye…yes Ned!”

Before he released the lost lamb, Ned pulled Walter close and stared into his watery eyes. “Now Walter my lamb, if you betray me, I’ll see that you suffer in ways that you can’t begin to imagine!”

“Ne…ne…never Ned. On my soul!”

Ned closed his eyes for a moment and thrust Walter into the darkness, then shook his head. Humph, Christ on the Cross! He’d had the fool for almost a minute, damn!

Dropping into a half crouch, Ned drew both his sword and poniard. They whispered from their sheath with a very soft hiss, almost imperceptible in the falling snow. He exhaled slowly and twisted his feet to check his footing. It’d been a few months since he’d last been in a fight and that one hadn’t ended well. Actually the final result was success, but the battle itself was a shameful rout that had him hiding in an empty badgers set waiting for an irate Spaniard to go away. Chance, pride and revenge had rescued him that day — it was unlikely to do so here. Ned took up the stance he’d so recently learnt from Master Sylver, his instructor in the less than gentlemanly arts of survival. His left hand was down by his thigh with the dagger inclined upwards and forward while his sword was slightly forward

The first of Earless Nick’s men moved into the fitful shadows of the centre of the bridge. He was a large brute, armed with an iron shod cudgel and a long dagger. The second, just behind him, was smaller and appeared to have at least one dagger. Ned factored for two. The third stood back and was perhaps of medium height. From the glints as the fellow passed the lanterns he was armed with a large heavy blade, maybe a cleaver like those favoured by Captaine Gryne’s men.

The odds were bad. By the damned saints, where was that sluggard, Gruesome Roger? Ned breathed slowly as his potential assailants warily slid forward. It looked like he was on his own. Even if they heard the sounds of a fight, the Watch stationed at the gate wouldn’t interfere. They didn’t like trouble, especially if it was unprofitable. Ned had been in his fair share of brawls and fights. He could count himself reasonably skilled with fist and boot. As a ‘gentleman’ he’d been pursuing more honourable methods of defence such as sword, dagger and polearm. He was far from an expert and was in fact mostly a novice. However Master Sylver said the art of defence was also a matter of feel for the situation. Did your opponent want to be there and how did they move?

Watching these three slowly advance, Ned gained the impression only one of them was really keen on a scrap. The other two were more in the line of strutting roisters. That was good as he needed any advantage he could scrape up. So rather than wait he launched himself forward with a bound.

His attack startled the large fellow with the cudgel. Earless Nick’s sturdy beggar waited too long to swing and Ned slashed him across the arm in passing. His target was neither of the front two. So he also bypassed the smaller fellow armed with a dagger, parrying briefly, and jabbed at a thigh as he slid past, before colliding with their surprised leader. The heavy blade had swung down in a standard slash but Ned blocked it with his crossed sword and dagger and threw himself forward on now unsteady feet. Behind him the larger assailant had begun to howl in pain, while the dagger wielder had backed off, reluctant now to close. That was all to the good. Even in a brawl, Ned knew it was damned difficult to concentrate on more than one opponent at a time. With all the snow and ice the cobbles on the bridge were as slippery as a greased slide. With his forward momentum still accelerating, Ned gave up on keeping his footing. Instead he hammered the sword pommel into the cheek of Earless Nick’s retainer with all his falling weight. The fellow gave up on the fight and staggered backwards, dropping his heavy blade, hands clutching at his face. It was then that the smaller fellow decided to be brave, and with a cry, charged. Ned was down on his knees, sword somewhere else. Instinct swung him around and Master Sylver’s training had him automatically thrusting out his left hand before he’d actually had time to think about it.

The lighting on the bridge may have been poor, but Earless Nick’s last uninjured minion should have been more cautious, and perhaps indulged in second or even third thoughts. It must been his larger companion’s injury that spurred him on. Blood did that. Sometimes it broke men in combat and they fled. Other times they acted like lions. This fellow was, in fact, a foolish lion. The assault was bravely done, though with a serious flaw. He didn’t notice the poniard. Ned’s back slammed into the wall and given that it was stone, it should have been solid and it was. For an instant then, years of long winters and careless repairs gave way and Ned slid backwards through a sudden hole, his flailing hand seeking purchase even as he pulled the poniard from the groin of Earless Nick’s stunned minion. For an instant the hilt caught on a hollow in the mortar, until the weight of his screaming assailant landed on his shoulder and Ned lost his grip on the blade and tumbled backwards towards the yawning foul depths of the Fleete Ditch.

***

Ned strode angrily down the street. The season’s snow didn’t appear nearly so inviting today after the trudging traffic of the city had reduced it to a pale slurry. In this chilly weather at least it didn’t reek. That was some comfort — a very small one. Ned was angry. Actually he was well past that shallow emotion now, he’d moved into the territory of absolute rage. Any physician wouldn’t have bothered with vague mutterings over the interpretations of a piss bottle’s colour. Instead they’d have immediately prescribed him a treatment for extreme choler, even strapping him down for a course of bleeding. Luckily no decent doctor trod the cold, cold lanes of London at Christmas, seeking to help the afflicted. Those stuffed sods were wealthy, warm, and most of all they were at home.

By all the blessed saints and Christ’s holy blood! Ned thumped his fist rhythmically into his thigh as he strode along. It would be fitting to blame someone else. Meg Black, for her conniving and scheming, would have been perfect or perhaps that duplicitous minion of hers, Gruesome Roger. The arrogant fool had known who’d locked their talons into Walter. It could have saved them hours of searching, even if it had been Ned’s own naivety which had unleashed the monster that prowled the London dens of iniquity in the first place.