The Fetter Lane Fleece Read Free Page A

Reedman drew a long breath, regaining his composure and turned to face his curious fellow clerk. “Ned, I’ve a damnable problem and…and I’ve none else in the city to turn to for this cursed difficulty.” It had come out in a frantic gasped rush as if escaping clenched teeth.
    Still unsure of the situation Ned spread his hands apart and gave an encouraging shrug.
    Reedman rubbed at the solid planes of his face with a free hand as if trying to massage away an unpleasant reminder. “Ned I’ve just received this cursed letter!”
    The previously hidden right hand now appeared and in its tight grasp were the remnants of a letter, thread and seal dandling like the neck of a dead capon at a butchers stall, the broken seal the very imitation of a cocks comb. In a clerk’s line of work letters were as life’s blood, ranging from demands, petitions and requests to bearers of grimmer tidings. That this scrap of paper impelled the normally steady and dependable Reedman to such a fit of choleric temper boded ill news.
    Suddenly alarmed Ned blurted the first thought that came to mind. “By the blessed saints John, it isn’t your family! Not…not the sweats or the plague ?” This last word came out as a strangled gasp. These days urgent letters in the night often presaged one or more sudden deaths in the family. Summer usually brought with it the first signs of pestilence, but as Ned had seen, the Sweats could sweep through a community at anytime. Worst still you could be fine in the morning, come down with a headache around midday and dead at sunset.
    Reedman forced a wry smile but shook his head. “Hmm, what? No…no, it is to do with my family but not illness…unless one counts stupidity as a disrupter of good physick!”
    Ah now that made sense. Stupidity begot so many fruitful problems for clerks and lawyers. Ned attempted what he hoped came across as an commiserating shrug at the foolishness of relatives. This was a tempting opportunity—a problem the respected Reedman couldn’t solve and he’d asked an esteemed friend with a growing reputation for aid. Hmm, why not help a fellow clerk? He’d solved the most complex problems and conundrums for Councillor Cromwell and Meg Black and how likely was it that whatever ailed Reedman was anywhere near as labyrinthine—or dangerous.
    Ned’s silent display of understanding seemed to calm Reedman who after a few low muttered curses continued his explanation. “I’ve three brothers y’see. The oldest of us has a printing press over on Fleete Street with Pynson. That’s Robert. He’s a decent sort. Prints a lot of law manuals and texts plus the usual religious work like The Pylgrimage of Perfection by Bonde for Archbishop Fischer. I...I shouldn’t blame Robert. He does what he can and its hardly his fault, but by all the corrupted devils and monks, he should‘ve known!”
    “Known what? What’s the problem John?”
    “Tis that fool Richard!” Reedman snarled and again smote the wall, this time with fist clenched, clearly still angered by the recitation of family problems.
    Ned just nodded. He well understood the myriad difficulties of relatives particularly the cross he had to bear that was Uncle Richard. “Who’s he?”
    “My stupid measle–brained brother, the youngest in our family. The lackwit’s been here less than a fortnight and he’s got himself grabbed by those foisters and rogues at the Wool’s Fleece in Fetter Lane!”
    “Ahh, I see.” And to be honest Ned did. At the mention of the Wool’s Fleece the whole situation was darkly illuminated. The tavern was as fine a haunt of rogues, foisters, nips and dicemen as you could find anywhere in the Liberties, excepting of course the lair of Earless Nick at the Black Goat.
    His daemon growled at the name while his better angel quailed. The Wool’s Fleece, now didn’t that bring back memories, and none, not a one of them pleasant. Ned leant against the wall, arms crossed and eyes alight with the