The Liberties of London (9 page)

As he expected, the sudden glow of illumination revealed a very interesting sight. The bed covers were mounded up over a hunched figure in a long shirt. A pair of bulging, watery blues eyes blinked up at him in the sudden flood of light. Exactly as you’d expect to find behind the curtain of a privy bed, except for the snaking line of a wrought chain that wound from the corner pillar to under the coverlet.

“Morning, Walter. Having trouble sleeping?”

“What! Oh Ned you startled me. I’m sorry, did I disturb you? Pray forgive me. I had to use the privy pot.”

Ned swung the lantern over the shrouded area of the bed. Opposite he could see a second pale figure stretched out. A spill of long, straw–blonde hair trailed over the pillow and drifted along the exposed spine, terminating at the swelling buttock curves. The white skin glowed alluringly.

Ned swallowed slightly at the vision and cleared his throat. “Ahh huh, certainly Walter. Yes, it must have been when you used the pot. However unless you’re pissing nails, I don’t think so.”

Ned put his hand out, palm open, and crooked his finger. “The rasp, Walter.
Now
if you please.”

Walter widened his eyes in well simulated alarm, and his face dropped into its familiar pattern of mopish regret “What rasp, Ned? I’m shocked to think you’d believe that I’d renege on our arrangement. I swore an oath upon the bible!”

Ned gave a sigh and sadly shook his head. He’d thought the two days exemplary behaviour had been too good to be true. “Walter, Walter, what am I going to do with you? You remember the terms of our agreement? I’m afraid, for this breach, that I’ll have to withdraw Rosemund as your ‘companion’.”

Up to this point Walter had kept up his skilled mask of a practiced dissembler, but at the threat, he immediately dissolved into a teary, grovelling wretch, clutching desperately at Ned’s gown. “No, no! Please Ned! I’ll behave. I promise I’ll make a new pledge upon my very salvation. No, don’t take Rosemund away!”

Ned maintained his stern demeanour and continued to hold out his hand. “The rasp, Walter. Come on.”

Eventually the sniffling subsided, and seeing that his play hadn’t made any difference, the penitent Walter reluctantly shuffled across and pushing his hand under the nearby pillow, slowly extracted a battered smith’s rasp and held it out.

Ned took it and shoved it into his belt and shook his head. “Walter, I am disappointed. You’ve been going so well these past few days. Meg Black was full of praise for your work at Newgate Goal yesterday. I fear this act merits another fine of four angels.”

Walter gave a sad droop of his head and muttered agreement.

“Well, get some sleep Walter. You’ve got a busy day coming up. Meg said you’re off to Poultry Compter by nine of the clock.” Ned dropped the curtain and quietly made his way back to his own bed. The minor ruckus hadn’t disturbed the rest of the snoring company. Pulling the rasp out of his belt, Ned placed it next to the lantern and lay down, pillowing his head in his hands.

Well it was going to be busy tomorrow. The revels were nearing their last few days and he’d planned a few surprises for his revellers, including a subtly of goose, stuffed with capons and pigeons. Thanks to Walter’s unforeseen generosity, the celebrations could exceed the original budget. Anyway Ned also owed them for fronting up the gilt at his urgent request, and for the instantly convened bible meeting.

By the time Ned had led Lady Dellingham and her newly regarded Walter back to the sign of the Spread Eagle, the scene of Roman Saturnalia had been miraculously transformed by Reedman and the rest into the most sober of gatherings. One snag had been the doorway still wreathed in holly, which had Lady Dellingham frowning in suspicion until Ned passed it off as righteous deception to protect the gathering. It had been true that he’d held his breath as the door had swung open, and none could fault him that minor sigh of relief at what was revealed inside. At the word of the approach of Cromwell, the company under Reedman had out done themselves. Gone were the decorations and painted canvases of ‘antique carousing’. Instead a simple wooden cross hung from the wall. As for the diaphanous–gowned musicians, their costumes now spoke of sober respectability rather than the prior revels and Reedman himself was at the head of the table, reading aloud from the latest translated New Testament, as the rest of the company listened in rapt attention.

For a moment Lady Dellingham stood in frowning review of the scene, then clapped her hands together and shouted Hallelujah, complimenting both Meg and Ned for bringing Walter ‘unto the bosom of the most Christian community she’d seen in London’. Luckily her ladyship had been too busy exulting to notice the grimace of almost incredulous dismay that crossed the face of Meg Black. Ned was glad the apothecary’s apprentice was restrained by the present company, since he was certain that her ‘views’ on the disguised revels would be forthright and immediately painful.

However it was neither the fearsome Meg nor the reproving Lady Dellingham that had caused him the greatest fear. Oh no that was Councillor Cromwell. His patron had watched all the play with a quiet, tight smile and noted the names of the company, returning to them pleasant replies of known associations and relatives of his acquaintance. That identification had sent chills up Ned’s spine.

Somehow his patron knew that was all this held as much reality as a Twelfth Night player’s revel, though he said very little to Ned until Meg reminded Lady Dellingham of their next call at the Lord Mayor’s feast. Then Ned had escorted them out into the winter evening and left them with their pack of retainers. Finally Cromwell had turned to him, and still with that quietly knowing smile, commended Ned for his efforts and bade him a good night. After that Ned had breathed a great deal easier, since Cromwell had left him with a small purse containing a dozen shillings and a simple murmured reference to the bible,
Romans 6:23.

It left him puzzled for all of five minutes until he’d consulted a much relieved Rob in private, while the company of revels recovered from the visit. Afterwards it had taken several cups of good sack to steady his trembling. The reference had been chillingly accurate.
For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Our Lord Jesus Christ.

The thinly veiled hint had prompted him to seek out Meg Black that evening and sort out an immediate resolution of the ‘Walter’ problem. He’d discussed, in a slightly edited form, the continuing need for ‘strong’ precautions. For once the apprentice apothecary agreed with only a brief argument. That signal occurrence had his daemon momentarily suspicious, but Ned had shrugged it off. Even Mistress Black had to admit life in an imperfect world required unusual remedies. For instance his solution had been to find some comely ‘intelligent’ blonde lass, with an impeccable reputation for reform, from a modest background. Then introduce her to Lady Dellingham as a suitable helpmate for Walter. Despite some frowning disapproval and barbed comments on his bizarre interpretation of religious script, Meg Black had grudgingly gone along with his plan.

Even Walter had mostly complied, especially when he’d been told that fair Rosemund, his ‘intended’, now controlled the sums he’d lodged around the city. Well at least the rump of thirty nine pounds, eight shilling and four pence after expenses, still a hefty dowry for any girl. As far as Ned was concerned a lad of Walter’s peculiar disposition and cunning, required an extra leash, apart from pretty eyes and a firm rounded pair of breasts. Memories of the smooth white skin he’d recently seen had him shift a suddenly tight and uncomfortable cod piece.

All in all, this frantic traipsing through the Liberties of London had turned out rather well. Walter had been ‘persuaded’ that to assuage his imperilled soul, a truly reformed Christian would cough up suitable recompense in coin, which Ned and Meg held in trust. And as a final precaution, Ned had requested that Walter supply the names of his dubious agents and informers. That last one had been a real tussle with demons. Walter had prevaricated and sniffled falsehoods until Ned unveiled his last trump card – an evening with the fair Rosemund. That temptation had outweighed all the others, and as Ned assured Rob, he wasn’t acting as a whoremaster or ruining the reputation of a modest girl. Instead it should be considered as a very legal and binding prenuptial contract, witnessed by thirty members of the Inns of Chancery. In the labyrinthine vagaries of marriage law, in which His Majesty the King was currently entangled, you couldn’t have more certainty unless the bedding was witnessed by three Lords and several Bishops.

This grudgingly revealed information though, caused its own concerns. Earless Nick’s luring of Walter was some months old. The self proclaimed Master of Masterless men had spent a considerable amount of time first courting, then tempting and training Walter. Ned was forced to question, why so much effort? Was the return really worth the investment, or did Nick Throckmore move at another’s behest as he may have hinted? Ned put that from his present thoughts. This was the Christmas season. For at least a week he’d like a break from the rigours of treachery, betrayal and the conspiring of the Court.

There was also one minor but urgent detail to arrange on the morrow. He had to give Joseph, the tavern pot boy, three shillings. The lad had played his part well, though until Walter’s vessel actually sailed, it would be prudent to line up several more ‘agents’ for his reluctant charge to bribe. Ned had some dozen rasps and files at hand, and the coin made useful wagering in his card games with Walter. Now if only Lady Fortuna would grant him similar luck with Mistress Black. Ned gave another sigh and settled into the warm bed and smiled. There was still all winter to pursue that quarry. After all, she had to give up on revenge sometime…didn’t she?

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