dropped to the bench and shook his head wearily. Damn, too cursed late! Walter had been here and once more successfully played the cony–catchers game, no doubt about that. Even Meg Black couldn’t dispute the evidence. Ned took a deep breath and focused on the expectant taverner. “I’m afraid, Tover, this isn’t my pledge. It’s been forged.”
His happy visage sagged, disappeared, and then underwent several more variations before settling on the one Master Milliken employed for indigent clerks who didn’t cough up the gilt. “Damn y’ Red Ned Bedwell. I’m down one angel, eight shillin’s and four pence for food and drink. Who’s goin’ to pay for that?”
It was a very good question. Right now Ned wanted Walter really, really badly just so he could grab the little worm by the doublet and shake him until sufficient spare coins rattled loose. In the meantime he passed the bill to Meg Black. “Yours, I think.”
Gone was the mutual forbearance of the last twenty minutes. Now Mistress Black folded her arms and refused the tainted bill. “What cozenage trick is this, Ned Bedwell? It’s got your name and signature on it. You sort it out – you lost him.”
Oh how predictable! This was obviously, at least to him, a well planned cony–catchers play, and he was the cony. Either Walter or his puppet–master was going to regret this. With a frowning glare in the direction of Meg Black and Gruesome Roger, Ned slowly reached into his doublet, pulled out his purse and held it up thoughtfully in his hand. “I will pay this single bill, but you know Meg, past all your rancour and upon your Christian conscience, it’s not mine, and Rob and all the Christmas Revels company will back me up.”
For once Meg Black’s guilty conscience forced her to look away and Ned gave a small, tight smile. At last, a victory of sorts. “However, this comes at a price. I want Roger here, to spill on Anthea the punk and Earless Nick, because I think he knows exactly where Walter is, right now.”
***
Chapter Nine: A Christmas Carolling
Cautiously Ned slipped around the corner of Bride Lane. In one respect he thanked the saints, that it was dark enough since the onset of the early winter night so he could move unseen towards his target. On the other hand he cursed the darkness for its ability to similarly hide any threats. As for his companions in stealth, the less said about them the better. Meg Black moved quietly enough, but Ned wondered in the event of an affray just where she’d produce the hot poker from. Because, it wasn’t as if this particular gathering of the Liberties miscreants would be cowed by her shrewish tongue or bitingly sarcastic manner.
Then there was Gruesome Roger. Ahh yes good old ‘Hawks’. Hadn’t he proved to be a veritable mine of information once his mistress had ‘convinced’ him to confess his prior employment. Roger Hawkins, the loyal, sour faced, dependable retainer of a thorough going, reformist minded lass – didn’t he come from a very murky background indeed. It had proved a real eye opener to even Ned’s apprentice lawyerly cynicism and soundly convinced his daemon that challenging Gruesome Roger was a short cut to a shroud.
In his prior service, before somehow linking up with the Black family, good old faithful Roger had been a very wicked lad. In fact the retainer’s previous devotion to the darker aspects of the Liberties life had left Ned deeply awed. It was amazing how much of a potted history could be fitted into ten minutes. A good analogue was the breaching of prison walls. Out poured a life–story’s worth of dread deeds and deepest sin, let loose in one cathartic confession.
It was Mistress Black’s reaction that had amazed Ned the most. At the litany of ‘wickedness’, she’d blanched occasionally at some of Rogers reports, then bade him remember that he had voluntarily turned away from that life and sort redemption. That act, she said, spoke of the
His happy visage sagged, disappeared, and then underwent several more variations before settling on the one Master Milliken employed for indigent clerks who didn’t cough up the gilt. “Damn y’ Red Ned Bedwell. I’m down one angel, eight shillin’s and four pence for food and drink. Who’s goin’ to pay for that?”
It was a very good question. Right now Ned wanted Walter really, really badly just so he could grab the little worm by the doublet and shake him until sufficient spare coins rattled loose. In the meantime he passed the bill to Meg Black. “Yours, I think.”
Gone was the mutual forbearance of the last twenty minutes. Now Mistress Black folded her arms and refused the tainted bill. “What cozenage trick is this, Ned Bedwell? It’s got your name and signature on it. You sort it out – you lost him.”
Oh how predictable! This was obviously, at least to him, a well planned cony–catchers play, and he was the cony. Either Walter or his puppet–master was going to regret this. With a frowning glare in the direction of Meg Black and Gruesome Roger, Ned slowly reached into his doublet, pulled out his purse and held it up thoughtfully in his hand. “I will pay this single bill, but you know Meg, past all your rancour and upon your Christian conscience, it’s not mine, and Rob and all the Christmas Revels company will back me up.”
For once Meg Black’s guilty conscience forced her to look away and Ned gave a small, tight smile. At last, a victory of sorts. “However, this comes at a price. I want Roger here, to spill on Anthea the punk and Earless Nick, because I think he knows exactly where Walter is, right now.”
***
Chapter Nine: A Christmas Carolling
Cautiously Ned slipped around the corner of Bride Lane. In one respect he thanked the saints, that it was dark enough since the onset of the early winter night so he could move unseen towards his target. On the other hand he cursed the darkness for its ability to similarly hide any threats. As for his companions in stealth, the less said about them the better. Meg Black moved quietly enough, but Ned wondered in the event of an affray just where she’d produce the hot poker from. Because, it wasn’t as if this particular gathering of the Liberties miscreants would be cowed by her shrewish tongue or bitingly sarcastic manner.
Then there was Gruesome Roger. Ahh yes good old ‘Hawks’. Hadn’t he proved to be a veritable mine of information once his mistress had ‘convinced’ him to confess his prior employment. Roger Hawkins, the loyal, sour faced, dependable retainer of a thorough going, reformist minded lass – didn’t he come from a very murky background indeed. It had proved a real eye opener to even Ned’s apprentice lawyerly cynicism and soundly convinced his daemon that challenging Gruesome Roger was a short cut to a shroud.
In his prior service, before somehow linking up with the Black family, good old faithful Roger had been a very wicked lad. In fact the retainer’s previous devotion to the darker aspects of the Liberties life had left Ned deeply awed. It was amazing how much of a potted history could be fitted into ten minutes. A good analogue was the breaching of prison walls. Out poured a life–story’s worth of dread deeds and deepest sin, let loose in one cathartic confession.
It was Mistress Black’s reaction that had amazed Ned the most. At the litany of ‘wickedness’, she’d blanched occasionally at some of Rogers reports, then bade him remember that he had voluntarily turned away from that life and sort redemption. That act, she said, spoke of the
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