The Fetter Lane Fleece Read Free

infested with lovers of Luther. Unless of course they were convinced of the company’s undoubted respect for His Sovereign Majesty the Lord Chancellor and the Church via a discrete transfer of silver,—four shillings from the tattling Ned had heard last week.
    If not More’s men there had been another dreadful possibility. Yet one more supposedly urgent demand from Mistress Black. Damn her for an interfering shrew! The last ‘loving missives’ had summoned Ned to a cascading series of disasters that ended up with him hanging from the Fleete Ditch Bridge. That wasn’t an occasion a young lad was likely to forget any time soon. Even worse they’d been delivered by that haughtily sneering retainer of hers, Gruesome Roger Hawkins. Now there was a fellow who deserved a hanging or flogging—and twice over! During the most recent occasion the scarred retainer’s surly manner towards him had precipitated a challenge from Ned to ‘have it out’. And to heap degradation upon insult Gruesome Roger had turned away with his usual sneer and refused! Ned was still nonplussed at that gross behaviour. After all how could you refuse to defend your honour? His daemon had assured him that the fellow was no doubt afear’d of being on the wrong end of a thrashing delivered by his mistress’s ‘friend’. His better angel had dismissed this dissemblance, labelling it a fantasy worthy of Sir Thomas More’s Utopia . Rather it blithely suggested Gruesome Roger declined due to common sense. After all it wouldn’t look very good reporting back to Mistress Black covered in bloody splatter from beating her ‘friend’ into several reddish colours of snot.
    But this latest interruption didn’t concern him and this Christmas tide he was clear of duties, worthless charges and dubious enterprises. In celebration and to shake off the taste of ill musings and unpleasant reminders of those few days past, Ned poured himself a generous serving of the Rhenish slowly letting the reviving liquor slide down his throat. Ah that taste of red velvet with just a hint of orange! This Revel was proving a real success. His fortune and reputation for the next few months were made. No fellow clerk at the Inns would sneer at him for being the bastard nephew of Richard Rich, and on another front his status with Meg Black was bound to improve. There were a few lads who now owed Ned Bedwell a favour or two. All he had to do was arrange a little incident, of course somewhere free of Gruesome Roger’s baleful presence, where Ned could step in and, ‘ahem’, save the day thus putting Meg Black in a suitably grateful frame of mind. For all her forward nature she did possess the most beguiling grey blue eyes and when she moved, ah yes, the sway of her hips was wont to have the most constricting effect on his cod piece.
    “Ahh Ned, Ned! Could I have a private word with you?” The urgent whisper of John Reedman brought him back to earth from an exceedingly pleasant reverie.
    Bending close the law clerk and appointed ‘master’ of the Revels games placed a hand on his arm. The fellow looked deeply disturbed, a heavy frown settling over his dark eyes, his lips clenched tight in dismay. Curious as to the request Ned nodded his acquiescence and seizing one parting bite from the mutton pie followed the law clerk into the adjoining private room. On this occasion the large bed against the wall was vacant since all the Revellers as well as Walter were at the feast. All to the good. A private meeting didn’t need an attentive audience a puffing and moaning behind the drawn bed curtains.
    Reedman walked over to the small diamond–paned glass window and peered out westwards. The wintery sun was setting and its last gleam could be seen giving a brief and pallid wash of colour to the white humps of the city roofs. His clenched left hand smote the wall in a solid blow in what Ned knew was a display of suppressed anger. Then as if gaining strength from the Christmas scene