The Fetter Lane Fleece now
Free on Amazon
To all my friends and readers I wish you
all the best for this Yuletide season, and as my season’s gift to you my
novella The Fetter Lance Fleece will be available to be downloaded free
from the 22 – 25 December. In the meantime I hope that this festive
season brings you all the true joys of family, love and fellowship that are the
foundations of Yuletide. On must not
forget the feasting, carousing and partying that remain at the core of the
celebrations but without friends and family to share them they lack a certain
sparkle. Though for my character Red
Ned, The Twelve Days of Christmas do represent a certain opportunity to acquire
some much needed extra gilt to pad out the purse of an apprentice lawyer and
aspiring rogue. To set the scene of his
lofty ambitions I've included Chapter 1 of The Liberties of London a tale of
nefarious Yuletide doings involving Ned, his wayward and suddenly missing charge
Walter, his none too pleased ‘almost
sweetheart’ Meg, her brother Rob and a set of crooked dice. As the scene shifts to the dangerous Liberties
of London even Ned’s not too sure if he’s going to get away with
trading his purse or his life to survive the Christmas season.
If you cannot
access this novella in your location through the given links I suggest that you
check your region’s Amazon address.
As a note to my readers regarding
continuity, The Fetter Lance Fleece takes place a few days after the
conclusion of the Liberties of London and just before A Comfit of Rogues. All three stories occur during the Twelve
Days of Christmas.
The Liberties of London
Chapter One: A Christmas Revel Christmas
Eve London 1529
The trilling notes of
a harp chimed gently behind him as Ned rubbed his hands in front of the blazing
fire. The sounds were echoed a moment later by the throaty laugh of a girl and
the soft clink of a cup of sweet sack wine bumping the table. A glance out the
diamond paned window told him that they’d made it here in good time. The usual
mounds of street refuse were now being steadily covered in a hefty layer of
white snow. No doubt even the water tubs that stood under the building’s eaves
now had a surface of ice an inch thick. Despite the chill he found the scene
alluring. London looked so much different in the white velvet blanket, almost
as if it was donning its Twelfth Night mask apparel. Thus in one day she
transformed into a pale fair mistress, rather than as some court wit had it, a
pock marked crone with the fetid stench of the Fleete Ditch. The improved
aspect and the subduing of the foul city airs were to Ned only the first of the
benefits the winter snow had bestowed on him.
The second had been
the growling dismissal by his master, Richard Rich, that year’s esteemed Autumn
reader at Lincoln Inn. Most prentice lawyers were worked hard by their masters,
eager to screw the last ounce of worth from the winter’s light, before having
to resort to rush lights or expensive candles. So Ned shouldn’t complain too
much because his fingers were cramped from his laboured task of writing up
pleas for the upcoming law term. Or that the room’s meagre fire put out so
little warmth that the ink in its brass pot frequently froze over and he had to
chaff it warm to write. However in his case it was worse, since his master was
also inconveniently his uncle. In this season it was a common joke around the
Inns that Master Rich’s filial regard for his ‘worthless’ nephew bordered on
that of His Sovereign Majesty’s for his recently dismissed former chancellor,
Cardinal Wolsey. Thus, despite the difficulties, Ned’s better angel kept reminding
him it could be worse. He could be serving his patron, Councillor Cromwell, out
in the biting cold on some thankless task. However speculation didn’t aid his
plans as his frustrated daemon whispered.
As it transpired, he
needn’t have fretted. Lady Fortuna in the guise of his Aunt Elizabeth swept in
to remind his ‘honoured’ guardian that he’d promised to take her and the
children to the first of the Christmas celebrations at the Mercers Hall. That
was just as well. Three hours of enduring Uncle Richard’s disapproving snorts
at his efforts had strained the bonds of service. If the old fool had sneered
at his transcribing one more time Ned would thrown the pile of papers and the
frozen ink pot at him and be damned. However a miracle had happened and the Christmas
piety had penetrated his uncle’s hard and flinty heart. Thus he was released.
At the news Ned’s oldest cousin, little Henry, some seven years old, had
capered, jumped and squealed in excitement. Young Hugh though just chuckled and
gurgled at the performance. At barely a year he wriggled and kicked bundled in
a warm blanket. Luckily Ned had remembered to plead a prior rendezvous with his
friend of last year, Rob Black, over at Williams the Apothecary. So apart from
a suspicious glare from Uncle Richard, he was exempted from the chaos of the
family jaunt. While Ned still chortled at the mummers’ plays, his more mature
seventeen years gave him the desire to seek out the more refined pleasures
London had to offer.
Just as well. He had
plans for this afternoon to increase his share of festive cheer. And they
didn’t involve the Rich clan. Since the conclusion of the Cardinal’s
Angels affair two months ago, Ned had done some serious thinking
regarding his prospects for the winter. That significant success had improved
the weight of his formerly lean and starved purse. If he wanted to be regarded
as a gentleman, it behoved him to look the part. Witness the heavy green
woollen mantle with fur edging, new black hose and a velvet–edged and lined
doublet of the best scarlet cloth. This sartorial splendour, apart from keeping
him a great deal warmer, had raised his status amongst the other apprentice
lawyers, as did the rumours of his part in Cardinal Wolsey’s fall. The result
was the enacting of his Christmas plan. Of long standing custom, come the
twelve days of celebration, the apprentice lawyers tended to scatter to their
homes, though a few gained lodgings in the city with the relatives and patrons
family in the city. This usually left fifty or so lads at a loose end. While it
was true that the various Masters of the Inns had made provision for their
comfort, it tended to be under a watchful eye, so the festival cheer was
usually rather muted.
Ned, being a kind and
generous fellow, had commiserated with his companions in misery and suggested a
possible solution to their woes. If perhaps several of them pooled their
resources, a ‘friend’ with connections might arrange a set of private rooms
above a reputable tavern. Then that ‘friend’ could also supply the party with
all the necessities of cheer, roasted capons, venison pies, sweet berry
subtleties, and of course a goodly quantity of the finest sack. Also to
complete the scene of Roman Idylls, a bevy of well disposed maidens skilled in
harp and song would be at hand. Also for those wishing to compete in a
gentlemanly fashion, there was bowls, or chancing the Hazards at
dice or even the friendly card game of Ruff and Honour. In fact for
accommodation, diversions, drink or provender, Ned reckoned he had it all covered,
unless one of the more bucolic of the students began to pine for the dubious
woolly pleasures of the country.
After all that pitch,
Ned had laid out the final incentive – a spot at this magnificent repast could
be had for the modest price of only one angel. The response had been
astounding. Some thirty had handed over the required sum, while he’d accepted
four shillings and a pledge from three more keen to join. That alone gave him a
clear profit of ten angels after the expenses of room, company and provender,
though the retention of one of Captaine Gryne’s more presentable retainers had
been a little pricy. Despite the fact that his ‘friends’ were gentleman of a
sort, the towering presence of Tam Bourke should provide sufficient incentive
for a peaceable companionship, no matter how much sack was downed.
A flourish of harp
strings and a drum roll on the tambour announced their arrival along with a
resounding chorus of cheers. Ned turned with a ready smile and breathed deep
the rich aroma, as his Christmas company left off their diversions and
clustered round the table. The first of several trays appeared, borne by the
tavern’s servitors. Ned walked over towards the repast and on the way accepted
congratulations from several of his guests. It was only an hour or so in and
already the good cheer was spread liberally around.
A pewter cup of sack
was thrust into his hand by a large lad with brown tousled hair and blue eyes.
The cup bearer towered over most of the gathering and unlike them was dressed
in plainer clothes of a dark blue hue, though it wasn’t just his lack of
lawyer’s garb that set Rob Black apart. For one thing, his appearance was
extremely unlawyerly – at over six foot in height and with broad shoulders that
looked strong enough to lift an ox. While Ned had a similar height, his hands
only had the calluses’ and ink stains of a clerk. Though he was justifiably
proud of his physical skill in a brawl, it couldn’t compete with the heavy
craftsman’s trained muscles of his friend. Work with iron and foundry had
fleshed out Rob’s build to that of a young Hercules. What’s more he also had a
clear honest face, untrammelled by the daily deceits of the courts, as well as
a pleasant disposition that had the girls sighing in raptures over his
welcoming smile. Ned had found that aspect mildly frustrating when they’d gone
drinking in the city taverns. All the girls and punks instantly fell for Rob
with his cornflower blue eyes, while Ned Bedwell, handsome, well dressed
apprentice lawyer, as his daemon sourly affirmed, was an after thought – though
Rob was too good a company so he ignored his daemon’s whining.
A now freed heavy hand
thumped him companionably on the shoulder. “Ned, this private Christmas feast
is excellent, thanks for inviting me!”
Ned returned the
smile. Asking Rob Black to be his business partner in this venture didn’t need
any consideration. Lady Fortuna had blessed him last year when he’d been at his
most desperate with barely two groats to rub together. Rob had been rescuing a
poor abused country goodwife from the rough frolics of some city apprentices,
as Ned had been passing by. In that glorious moment Ned had seen the golden
gift of opportunity. He’d put across a credible story and immediately enrolled
Rob in a cony catching play, all to recoup a hundred angels from the notorious
Paris Bear Gardens owner and Southwark gang lord, Canting Michael.
It had worked
brilliantly and despite what Rob’s sister, Meg Black, continually claimed, Ned
couldn’t be held to blame if the immediate aftermath had involved a number of
unforeseen complications. After all, how was he to know they’d be accused of
the murder of a Royal official? Or have an urgent need to clear their names of
treason by consorting with a supposedly deceased doctor who was a practitioner
of the dark arts of divination? It was said that the politics of the Royal
Court under their beloved sovereign, King Henry VIII, could be dangerous. That
had proved to be an understatement. It was mercilessly vicious with friendship
and loyalty only smile deep.
Though that peril was
now consigned to the past, here and now was a time of celebration. Ned raised
his cup. “My good friends and companions, I give you a toast, on this, the eve
of Our Saviour’s birth. Good health, good cheer, good company and may we all be
as drunk as bishops by Twelfth Night!”
A rousing cheer rang
through the feasting room and the assorted apprentice lawyers and clerks
hammered the table in a drum roll as the rest of the trays were laid out. The
loudest cry came as the roasted pig made its way through the door. Ned had
planned the revels to begin with a well laid feast of some fifteen courses,
including poached salmon, venison pies and a march pane, almond sugar centre
piece in the manner of the gate house of Gray’s Inn. That had been particularly
difficult to organise. However Meg Black surprisingly offered to solve the
problem. No doubt in her position as an apprentice apothecary she’d have sugar
and spices by the pound, as well as access to more extensive kitchens. As the
three foot tall subtlety was carefully displayed on the two tier buffet table
Ned consoled himself that Rob’s annoying sister had come through and without
levering an invitation. That was convenient. He didn’t know how he would have
explained the diaphanously clad maidens playing the harp, shawm and tambour in
the corner. She wasn’t the kind of lass who’d accepted the excuse of a
Christmas tableaux in the manner of Ancient Romans.
Since he was host, Ned
had taken a seat at the head of the table and after one of their number intoned
an appropriate pray for the day, began to tuck into the first course, the
venison pies. It was one of the specialties of the Spread Eagle Tavern. Henry
Simkins, the taverner, was known to supply the Barber Surgeon’s Hall at Muggle
Street. As all the lads at the Chancery knew the provender at their
celebrations was almost as fine as the Mercers Guild, the wealthiest of the
London guilds.
Ned was happily
swapping the latest tale of Cardinal Wolsey’s woes with John Reedman, one the
Chancery clerks, when Tam Bourke, their intimidating door warden, lumbered over
to him and bending down, whispering loudly in his ear. “Ned there’s a’
messenger fo’ yea at the stairs.”
“Do you know him?
Who’s he from?”
“Oh aye. He’s that
grim faced livery man o’ the apothecary lass yea sweet on.”
Ned stifled an
immediate retort denying the fact. Any rumours of his affairs of the heart or
otherwise were not something he wanted bandied about amongst the gossips of the
Inns. By the description, that could only be one person, Meg Black’s looming
henchman, Roger Hawkins or as Ned preferred to think of him, Gruesome Roger.
“Tam, is it a tall,
scar faced fellow with an iron shod cudgel hanging from his belt?”
“Aye that be him.”
Ned pursed his lips in
thought. When he’d called around earlier, Meg Black had been busy with her
common apothecary duties mixing herbs and the like. She hadn’t expressed any
need for his company and apart from a brief snippy jibe at his propensity for including
her brother in dubious enterprises, she’d been passably friendly for a change.
Ned leant across the
table and asked Reedman to play the host while he dealt with his caller. His
fellow clerk from Gray’s was reasonably dependable and had a good reputation at
the Inns for solving arguments of precedence.
He’d left Tam on the
landing as he made his way down to the bottom of the stairs. The Blacks’
retainer was standing on his own by the fire, giving the tavern’s customers a
quizzical scowl. The recent snow melted and steamed off his cloak giving him
the appearance of a visitor from the nether regions, an image not improved by
the scar that ran across his face half closing his right eye. That was Hawkins
all right. No one else in London could match that cynical visage, not even the
leering grotesque carvings in the parish churches.
The retainer’s roving
eye quickly caught sight of Ned and he strode over to the foot of the stairs
and growled out his message. “Hey Bedwell. Y’re wanted at the apothecaries immediately,
so stop guzzling wine and stuffing your face.”
Ned stepped off the
last tread and consciously straightened up. They were of similar height, though
Gruesome Roger had the lean and rangy appearance of wolf. In Ned’s opinions the
lupine cousin had more manners. “I do not come or go at the beckoning of
Mistress Black! I have business here this evening. Kindly give her my regrets.”
Ned made an effort to put all the disdain he felt into that rebuff, though the
answer didn’t appear to sit well with Meg her retainer.
Gruesome Roger frowned
and shook his head. “Y’ right, of course Bedwell. What am I saying? Y’r y’r own
master o’course. By the way y’r cods are unlaced.”
Instinctively Ned
glanced down to check. The evil cackle of Gruesome Roger told him he’d been
cony catched.
“So yea haven’t
started with the bevy o’ punks y’ got up there? Just as well Mistress Margaret
told me to fetch y’. Whether you got your hose on or around your ankles makes
no difference ta me.”
Ned’s temper, never on
much of a tight rein, spurred him to lash out with his own retort. “You
loathsome lewdster, Hawkins. That’s a gathering of gentlemen up there, not some
tumbledown ale house, like you inhabit where they hump poxed punks against the
wall ‘cause they can’t find any sheep that’ll have them!”
Gruesome Roger was
still for a moment, then his sneering grin returned. “Oh Bedwell, by God’s
Blood, afore the weeks out, y’ goin’ to rue those words. Y’ll be wading through
a river o’shit to beg my forgiveness.”
“If wishes were
fishes, Hawkins, your net’d still be empty.” Ned turned his back on the
unwanted messenger and began to head back up the stairs. A hand grabbed his
sleeve pulling him backwards.
Ned spun around put a
hand on his dagger and snarled. “Unhand me Hawkins. The Blacks may treat you as
family, but damned if I don’t know you for a common foister!”
“Y’know Bedwell, any
time you want, it take only a moment to tumble y’ in a ditch. Anyway enough
cosseting, are y’ coming or do I tell Cromwell you refused his summons?”
Ned froze. Cromwell
was involved? Silently he cursed Gruesome Roger. The cozener had played him and
he’d fallen for it. Ned ground his teeth in suppressed anger. By all the damned
saints and cursed devils! Gruesome Roger gave him one of his gloating grins and
nodded at the unasked questioned. Damn, damn, damn! That cunning trickster had
trapped him. Ned knew he had no choice. Uncle Richard may have been his master,
but Thomas Cromwell, newest member of King Henry VIII’s Privy Council, was his
patron and good lord. From what Ned had learnt of his new lord’s habits,
Councillor Cromwell didn’t like tardy servants.
If this snippet wetted your interest I
invite you to down load the full book from any Amazon site
Wasshail
my friends! Regards Greg
