Gregory House - The Liberties of London

Walter’s eyes went all teary and he snivelled out a reply. “I spent it Ned. I’m sorry, it’s all gone! I’m a poor, miserable sinner who seeks forgiveness from the Almighty for my many grievous faults.” A trail of snot and tears ran down Walter’s face, making him look the most forlorn of coneys.

Ned gave a grin that was all teeth and once more thrust his face closer. “Oh no Walter. You can play the meek lamb with Meg Black, but I’m not so easily cony-catched.” Well not more than once, his daemon cautiously added.

“I’ve chased you all over the Liberties of London. For an innocent country lad you have a canny nose for the sites o’ mischief, and I’ve questioned all those you had a run in with, even Earless Nick. Now I know he still wants you which is why he had you cooling your heels here in Bread Street Compter on that false bill.”

Walter continued to whimper pitifully so Ned dropped him and walked for the door. “As you wish. I’ve got signed statements and writs from all your recent ‘friends’ so I wonder what your mother will think when she sees them?”

“Wait…wait Ned. I…I’ve got twenty five angels left!”

“Sorry, was that thirty five angels I heard?”

“Ahh…ahh…yes Ned, it was thirty five, on my oath.”

“Excellent Walter. See, that wasn’t too hard, was it? Now where did you hide it?”

“What? But I’ve pledged my word.”

“This may surprise you Walter, but my well of Christian forgiveness has run dry. Now where is it? Or do I leave you here?”

Walter dragged a dirty sleeve across his snot covered face and stared at Ned in a morose manner. “All right. It’s lodged at Herringwithe on Goldsmith’s Row.”

Ned nodded and gave a satisfied smile. Now, for the first time, that actually had the ring of truth about it. Herringwithe was one of the recipients of the intercepted pleading letters. Before the mood of honesty was lost, Ned whipped out a sheet of paper, along with a bronze quill and small inkhorn from his script, hanging by his sword. “Good. Now Walter, I’d like you to write out a draft for forty five angels, payable to me.”

“What! Why forty five? You said thirty five a moment ago!”

“Yes I did, but that was before you admitted cozening me, Walter. By the way, the longer you delay, the higher goes the fee.”

“This, this is extortion!”

“I doubt it. Look at it more as a fee for service. Anyway don’t whine. I suspect you still cleared some twenty angels according to my reports.”

Walter mumbled as he dipped the pen and hastily scratched away on the unfolded paper. Ned helpfully pointed out a few errors such as when poor Walter had accidentally written twenty five instead of forty five, and then added an addendum of four shillings fee for the bearer.

At the conclusion Ned stood up, thumped on the cell door, and called out through the grill. “Ho, bailiff. My friend here has recovered his memory. Tell Warder Locksley its settled.”

Instead of the pocked face of the grumbling warder, Rob’s worried features reappeared at the grill. “Ned, by the saints hurry up. Lady Dellingham and Cromwell have finished chatting with the Warder. I don’t think Meg can delay them any longer.”

Ned silently cursed. This was much sooner than he’d expected. Why couldn’t they have visited Newgate? There was no way to get Walter out of the Compter before her ladyship’s inspection — goals had only one gate for a reason. Damn, they were still trapped! How was he going to get out of this?

Providentially his daemon unfurled the tendril of a solution, and Ned considered it held a certain symmetry that even an astrologer would applaud. He pulled out another scrap of paper and furiously scribbled out a message. Then he dug into his purse and pulled out a handful of coins and thrust them at Rob along with the signed bill. “Get this note to Roger and beg him to deliver it to Reedman at the Spread Eagle. Then remind Warder Locksley of our agreement.”

Ned bent close to the grill and whispered intently. Rob’s face acquired a concerned expression and he shook his head doubtfully. “Ned, are you sure it’s going to work?”

Ned shrugged. They were out of options.

“I think that considering it’s the Christmas season, we should live in the confident hope of a miracle.”

***

For Meg Black, this was not the twelve days of Christmas she’d been anticipating. For a start, her plans concerning the humbling of that arrogant apprentice lawyer, Ned Bedwell, had gone completely awry. Secondly, she hadn’t expected to be chasing an errant Walter Dellingham through the Liberties of London, as he cut a swathe across the pestholes of vice and immorality. That wasn’t the sort of pursuits she expected of a learned lad who was about to leave and study under one of the fathers of reform, Zwingli. Thirdly, Lady Dellingham was getting on her nerves. She understood that the purifiers of religion were a diverse tapestry brought together by their opposition to the corruption of the Pope and his Church. But on long exposure the woman was extremely grating. For instance during the tour of the city prisons or Compters, her response to the deserving poor seemed to consist only of regular cold salt baths and more work to concentrate their thoughts on their imperilled souls. Why she was an escort wasn’t quite so much a mystery. Uncle Williams was concerned with keeping a valuable client, while Councillor Cromwell’s motivation was…was unclear. However Lady Anne trusted him so that was enough for her.

In the meantime she was growing tired of repeating the continual ‘yes my lady’, ‘certainly my lady’, like those gaudy mimicking birds from the Indies. Now here they were at the Bread Street Compter, the last stop before the party made what she suspected was to be a very fateful return to her uncle’s apothecary, where Ned had faithfully promised Walter would be lodged by the evening. Now, while it’d be extremely gratifying to see that full of himself, prentice lawyer grovelling for forgiveness at losing ‘little lamb’ Walter, the ramifications mightn't be so pleasant. In the meantime, as the note had pleaded, the tour continued as slowly as she could manage. All the while Meg consoled herself with imagining the ‘talk’ she was going to have with Ned when this fiasco was over.

Finally, having dragged out the questioning of Warder Locksley for minutes longer than was polite, and probably giving everyone the firm impression she was a silly, light-headed, prattling lass, (that was going to be another count against Master Bedwell!) they began to inspect the cells of the prison. On one aspect she was firm. For this indignity, Ned Bedwell was going to suffer! Eventually they arrived at the set of dank cells that made up the Compter’s pitiful excuse for an infirmary. In her trade she was used to the fetid aromas of sick rooms, but this place was in a class of its own. The stench had a physical presence that rammed itself up the nose, almost clawing its way down the throat.

As Lady Dellingham stepped through the narrow doorway, she shoved the cloved orange pomander closer to her nose and stopped so abruptly that Councillor Cromwell almost ran into her. Lady Dellingham’s free hand thrust out and pointed imperiously at a trio of figures by the opposite wall. An old man, thin and scrawny, his beard grey and matted, was lying on a filthy straw pallet being spoon fed from a bowl of pottage. The ministering angel was a young man with bulging eyes and limp yellow hair, dressed in a dark gown that had recently been cleaner.

That perhaps wasn’t the scene that had Meg Black wide eyed in shock. Instead it was on the other side of the pallet. A familiar, tallish, young lad with reddish hair was kneeling in prayer and quietly reading from a small book. It was impossible, just impossible! She’d never seen Red Ned Bedwell pray for anything, except the providential fall of a dice! And…and Meg’s stare narrowed to the simple book cover. That, she was almost certain was one of a recent shipment from Antwerp. How ever did he get one of those?