is also partial to the Bedwell lad. But what does this still mean? Is Canting for the Comfit or no?”
“Who knows where the will o’ the wisp of Canting’s desires bends him, mayhap not even himself, though you have to ask if he’d wanted the lad seized or dead for his cock snooking at the baiting pits, then why is he still strutting the streets, all hale and hearty?”
Old Bent Bart gave a disdainful snort and moved back to his chair “So all these players an’ their conspiracies—where does that leave a humble beggar?”
“That is the question, isn’t it Bartholomew.”
If there were any answers to that Hugh didn’t hear them. The strain of the beating and the warmth of the pallet pulled him back down into darkness. But before he drifted off to sleep he did recall one fact they hadn’t mentioned. There were four Masters of Mischief in the compact. So where was Flaunty Phil?
Chapter Seven. A Need for Ned
Meg Black, apprentice apothecary, sucked her singed thumb and cursed like a Byllynsgate wharf man. Damn that retort—it should’ve cooled by now! Stepping away from the bench she looked for a better distraction than checking the progress of the distillation. Mentally she ticked off the tasks for the following day—remedies for the St Stephen’s chantry hospice and Newgate Gaol, the list of syrups, unguents, remedies for rheum and phlegm. No, her need was greater. Those were easily summoned from her memory like a children’s rhyme. Pacing across the apothecary’s workroom Meg’s eyes played over the shelves of pots and vials until slowed by the stack of leather bound books. Hmm, yes, that should do the trick she mused as her hands tugged out one use–worn tome and brushing clear a space on the work table before slapping it down. A small cloud of shredded and crumpled dried herbs puffed up and swirled away dancing in the warm light of the candles.
After today concentration was her catechism. Giving way to whims and fancies could ruin everything. Meg unclasped the buckle and opened the cover. Flipping past some twenty pages of notes on compounds of remedies and lists of ingredients she finally came to the sheet she wanted. Like all those in the previous pages of the ledger it was composed of a graduation of different herbs detailing proportions, quantities dried, steeping periods and various miscellaneous combinations and stocks. Well to anyone even vaguely conversant with the notations of apothecaries that’d be what was seen. Even the most suspicious cleric a hunting heretics and witches would give it only the briefest of glances.
Which as far as Meg was concerned only went to show how truly stupid and blind some learned men could be. Unbelievably this arrogant attitude was, in this case, worth fostering. Not a day went by that she didn’t give thanks to the good Lord in prayer for clouding the minds of those who opposed reform. It seemed so strangely apt that the most annoying characteristic of such men was to be both praised and encouraged. For her that common male lassitude of thought was usually deeply irritating, leading frequently to the sin of anger and broken pots, especially where one male in particular was concerned. Her prayers for forbearance were no doubt a droning repetition to the Lord God, but still she’d had enough of the pulpit bleating regarding the long and manifest faults of womankind, starting from Eve’s original sin then winding through to the lack of humility, obedience and charity that ‘the modern woman’ exhibited. If you gave it even the slightest credence the woman of the past must have been as of saints incarnate…well except for those who were whores, strumpets or any whom forward and lewdly questioned the Churches dictates.
Currently the holy fathers were raving like moon maddened Bedlamites over the prospect of common men and gasp, even women, being able to read the word of the Lord for themselves in their own language. Wasn’t that terrible,
“Who knows where the will o’ the wisp of Canting’s desires bends him, mayhap not even himself, though you have to ask if he’d wanted the lad seized or dead for his cock snooking at the baiting pits, then why is he still strutting the streets, all hale and hearty?”
Old Bent Bart gave a disdainful snort and moved back to his chair “So all these players an’ their conspiracies—where does that leave a humble beggar?”
“That is the question, isn’t it Bartholomew.”
If there were any answers to that Hugh didn’t hear them. The strain of the beating and the warmth of the pallet pulled him back down into darkness. But before he drifted off to sleep he did recall one fact they hadn’t mentioned. There were four Masters of Mischief in the compact. So where was Flaunty Phil?
Chapter Seven. A Need for Ned
Meg Black, apprentice apothecary, sucked her singed thumb and cursed like a Byllynsgate wharf man. Damn that retort—it should’ve cooled by now! Stepping away from the bench she looked for a better distraction than checking the progress of the distillation. Mentally she ticked off the tasks for the following day—remedies for the St Stephen’s chantry hospice and Newgate Gaol, the list of syrups, unguents, remedies for rheum and phlegm. No, her need was greater. Those were easily summoned from her memory like a children’s rhyme. Pacing across the apothecary’s workroom Meg’s eyes played over the shelves of pots and vials until slowed by the stack of leather bound books. Hmm, yes, that should do the trick she mused as her hands tugged out one use–worn tome and brushing clear a space on the work table before slapping it down. A small cloud of shredded and crumpled dried herbs puffed up and swirled away dancing in the warm light of the candles.
After today concentration was her catechism. Giving way to whims and fancies could ruin everything. Meg unclasped the buckle and opened the cover. Flipping past some twenty pages of notes on compounds of remedies and lists of ingredients she finally came to the sheet she wanted. Like all those in the previous pages of the ledger it was composed of a graduation of different herbs detailing proportions, quantities dried, steeping periods and various miscellaneous combinations and stocks. Well to anyone even vaguely conversant with the notations of apothecaries that’d be what was seen. Even the most suspicious cleric a hunting heretics and witches would give it only the briefest of glances.
Which as far as Meg was concerned only went to show how truly stupid and blind some learned men could be. Unbelievably this arrogant attitude was, in this case, worth fostering. Not a day went by that she didn’t give thanks to the good Lord in prayer for clouding the minds of those who opposed reform. It seemed so strangely apt that the most annoying characteristic of such men was to be both praised and encouraged. For her that common male lassitude of thought was usually deeply irritating, leading frequently to the sin of anger and broken pots, especially where one male in particular was concerned. Her prayers for forbearance were no doubt a droning repetition to the Lord God, but still she’d had enough of the pulpit bleating regarding the long and manifest faults of womankind, starting from Eve’s original sin then winding through to the lack of humility, obedience and charity that ‘the modern woman’ exhibited. If you gave it even the slightest credence the woman of the past must have been as of saints incarnate…well except for those who were whores, strumpets or any whom forward and lewdly questioned the Churches dictates.
Currently the holy fathers were raving like moon maddened Bedlamites over the prospect of common men and gasp, even women, being able to read the word of the Lord for themselves in their own language. Wasn’t that terrible,
Similar Books
