Gregory House - The Liberties of London

Rising up from his perch by the fire, Ned sauntered over to the long table, and clapped his charge on the shoulder. “Walter, care to join us in a simple game of chance?” Ned put down a horn cup containing two carved dice and gave it the slightest rattle.

Walter looked up at him with those bulging eyes of his and blinked nervously. “Ahh how…how do you play it Ned? Is it complicated?”

“There’s nothing to it Walter. If you can count then you’ve got it.” Ned’s angel chastised him for the lie.

Hazard was not a game for those of poor memory, so the usual ploy for cross biters and cony-catchers was to ply their marks with brandy wine or distract them with low bloused punks. As it was, Ned quickly outlined the game. You could only have two players, a caster and a fader, though the audience could place side bets on each plays outcome. First, the players of Hazard placed side bets amongst themselves, ‘laying’ and ‘taking’ the odds as to whether the "caster's" or "fader's" point would be thrown first, since the odds against a six being thrown first before a five, were different from those of a five being thrown before a seven or a nine before a ten, and so on.

As Walter still appeared puzzled, Ned played a demonstration game with Brett Harrison, one of his fellows from Gray’s Inn and a passable expert of the game. “Watch this Walter. I place my bet, in this case tuppence, within this circle we’ve drawn in chalk. Now I tap the cup with the pair of dice over at Harrison’s circle and we’ll assume he agrees to the wager. Then I cast the dice.”

Ned did so and the pair of bone dice rolled in the open space on the table. A dozen of the company bent over to read the play. Some clapped while a few groaned at their loss.

“See Walter, I rolled a seven so it’s the fader’s point. Now I have to play for my own point.” It was a reasonable chance that Harrison would get the first point. He won on any number from five to nine. Ned replaced the dice in the horn cup and rattled them again. He shook out the dice and smiled as they came to a stop. “You see that I scored a nine. Well that gives a point to me as would any roll from four to ten. Simple isn’t it.”

Walter gave an interested but hesitant smile and nodded. Ned could see that the meek little cony was hooked and quickly took him through a few of the other more complicated practices of the game. Like if the ‘caster’ trying to throw a point for himself and scored a two or three, he’d lose his stake. That also happened if he rolled an eleven or twelve, if the ‘faders’ point was five to nine. However, if the ‘caster’ scored the ‘faders’ named point, or a twelve if the fader’s point was six or eight, and an eleven when the point was seven, the caster won the pot in the ‘faders’ circle with what was called a ‘nick’. It was a very fast paced game and only those with a steady head and good concentration won out.

Ned smiled pleasantly at Walter at the conclusion of his display. “See it’s not so hard is it? Care for a few rounds?”

Walter pinched his lip for a minute or so, then responding to the surrounding encouragement, he tentatively pulled out five shillings from his purse and put them down on the table. To a round of cheering and shoulder thumping, Walter bent forward, an eager grin on his face. “All right Ned. Count…count me in!”

Ned gave a half bow and slipped one penny into his circle. No need to get greedy his daemon reminded him. He had all night.

***

“Arghhh…Getoff! Ned swatted vainly at the hand tugging at his shoulder.

It continued to shake him and a loud voice echoed painfully in his skull. “Ned…Ned! You’ve got to wake up, Ned! Come on Ned!”

Reluctantly he rolled over and put up a hand over his eyes to block out the blinding light of day. Groaning he blearily rubbed his face, and looked up into the out of focus features of Rob Black. His friend had that deeply concerned look on his face again that spoke of more problems. “Rob, is the tavern on fire?”

“Ahh… no?”

“Are the French sailing up the Thames?”

“What? No, of course not!”

“Has the queen miraculously given birth to a son?”

“I…I don’t think so.”

“It’s not that damn sister of yours, again is it?”

“What? Certainly not. I mean I didn’t…”

“Good, then I’m going back to sleep.” With that Ned turned away from the unfriendly winter sunlight and nuzzled into the warm blankets. Moments later a pair of large hands tugged the covers off him and before he could complain, a deluge of ice cold water drenched his face. Ned instinctively shot up, eyes wide open at the shock. The light hurt like daggers driven into his eyeballs and his head returned its own measure of painful distress, pounding away like a tambour.

“Christ…Christ! What was tha…that?”

Before him was a very apologetic Rob Black with an empty pitcher in his hand. “I’m sorry Ned. I had to do it. We’ve got another messenger from Cromwell!”

Ned shook his head. Not again! Some people obliviously got to enjoy Christmas but it looked like Ned Bedwell wasn’t going to be one of them. He swung his legs off the bed. The other two inhabitants continued to snore away, unconcerned with the sudden arrival of morning. Ned cast them a regretful glance and struggled into his doublet. Then the matter of his duty struck him and he blurted out a desperate question. “Oh Christ, where’s Walter?”

Rob Black waved his hand in the direction of the end of the revels common room. “He’s still playing, Ned.”

“What, still?”

“All night. Only stopped to grab a firkin of ale, a few pies and manchet loaf.”

Ned wearily rubbed his hand over a bristly face. Well, well. Young Walter the lamb had certainly taken to the life of London. Ned pulled on his doublet, buckled on his sword and shrugged his heavy mantle over his shoulders. If all this to-ing and fro-ing continued he’d be better off camping in Westminster. Grabbing his hat on the way out the door, Ned abruptly skidded to a halt and lent back, hand on doorjamb. “Rob, can you keep and eye on our friend, Walter. See that he isn’t fleeced too badly.”

His friend gave an encouraging shrug that Ned took for ascent and, waving a hand in farewell, hopped off down the hallway tugging on the pair of borrowed riding boots. A few months in the service of Councillor Cromwell had taught him that the former secretary to Cardinal Wolsey didn’t tolerate tardiness.

By the time he’d made it to the top of the stairs, Ned had finally managed to pull on his last boot, and now came to a cursing, skidding halt. The damned messenger! He’d almost tripped over several steps and a sleeping dog in his haste and what did he find? Once more, at the bottom of stairs, was that thrice damned Gruesome Roger Hawkins.

“About time Bedwell. Cromwell’d be finished several masses afore y’re finished using the pot, given it a loving shake an tied y’r cods.”

This sneering welcome to the day wasn’t what Ned needed as he stomped down the stairs. His morning mood was already made fragile by a lack of revelling, a midnight summons from Meg damned be her name Black, too little sleep, no damned breakfast and being drenched in ice water. “Damn you, Hawkins. Go and hump your St Paul’s punk till your wizened maggot of a cock rots of the canker. I don’t care if you’re the Pope’s blessed uncle come to give me a Cardinal’s cap. Summon me like this again and even Meg Black’s skirt won’t save you!”

Ned put his hand on sword hilt and stepped forward into the half crouch he’d learnt from a master of defence. If here was the time to settle this sneering affront from a cursed, measly, fly blown servant, then damn Cromwell and his summons!