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Authors: Gregory House
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a calamity as much feared as the coming of the Anti–Christ or the Sultan’s Mussulmen hordes! Meg always smirked when she heard those foaming fulminations from the city prelates and clerics. Of course displaying due humility and proper virtue as befits a modest apothecary’s apprentice, these heartfelt hosannas were usually kept to the privacy of her thoughts. And to think they considered her just a silly young girl, fit only for sewing and herb simples. Well damn them, all those addle–pated, measle brained fools could rot in the very bowels of Hell. Come the time they’d regret those slights and sneers!
If they knew the truth mayhap the greybeards would suffer an apoplexy and meet their horned master all the sooner, because every day her secret efforts bore fruit. Each book and heretical script that came into the work worn hands of the commons of England served to chip at the rotted structure of the church, as stone by stone it crumbed away.
Meg’s fingers lightly traced over the fine script on the page, her face glowing with the satisfaction of the righteous. As her father had said, the most important secrets are best kept in the open where all could see them, but only a few could understand, so that’s the prescript she followed. Substitution, a most fitting practice. Thus by using the names of herbs like St John’s Wort for some items, and tansy and hyssop for shipments, it was so easily hidden along with their schedule and lists of agents scattered amongst the proportions and compounds. As for the treasured load, the consignments of books and loose unbound sheets were smuggled in from the Low Country secreted in shipments of the most mundane products. Her most favoured were bundles wrapped in tarred cloth and suspended in barrels of French wine or hopped Hansa beer. Thus she had cause to be thankful for the prodigious thirst of Englishmen that aided her task. Not that it was always necessary to go to such extreme efforts at discretion, the tide waiters and other customs officials were always ready to accept a gift for selective blindness.
Yes, Meg mused, it was much more satisfying to think on those subversive successes. The Lord clearly favoured their purpose. Even that suspected dabbler in dark arts and necromancy Dr Agryppa had played his part. Only yesterday he’d sent word that the frozen Thames was a ripe place to sow her dragon’s teeth of faith. How was yet to be resolved, but Agryppa, or as she’d previously known him, Dr Caerleon, was a firm if unpredictable and wayward friend to her family and their quest for reform.
That cryptic missive also contained a secondary warning though that had extinguished her usual enthusiasm for the cause. The lamed lad she’d treated earlier had mentioned another message and quoted a section from the New Testament; Mathew fourteen, verses seven and eleven. Once returned to her uncle’s house Meg had immediately looked up the reference in her hidden translated copy. It spoke of the slaying of John the Baptist by King Herod.
7 Wherfore he promised wt an oth that he wolde geve hir whatsoever she wolde axe.
8 And she beinge informed of her mother before sayde: geve me here Ihon baptistes heed in a platter.
9 And ye kynge sorowed. Neverthelesse for his othes sake and for their sakis which sate also at ye table he comaunded yt to be geven hir:
10 and sent and beheeded Ihon in the preson
11 and his heed was brought in a platter and geven to the damsell and she brought it to her mother.
Now there was an unsubtle warning. Whom it related to she couldn’t be absolutely certain. One hint had been in the lamed messenger’s eyes. They had flickered in Ned’s direction before the lad shrank back in alarm at Bedwell’s approach. Meg tapped the page in thought. Who could possibly want to harm Ned Bedwell, apprentice lawyer? Oh yes and also rogue, dicer and cony catcher par excellence. My, my, wasn’t that a foolish question—half the Liberties at a
If they knew the truth mayhap the greybeards would suffer an apoplexy and meet their horned master all the sooner, because every day her secret efforts bore fruit. Each book and heretical script that came into the work worn hands of the commons of England served to chip at the rotted structure of the church, as stone by stone it crumbed away.
Meg’s fingers lightly traced over the fine script on the page, her face glowing with the satisfaction of the righteous. As her father had said, the most important secrets are best kept in the open where all could see them, but only a few could understand, so that’s the prescript she followed. Substitution, a most fitting practice. Thus by using the names of herbs like St John’s Wort for some items, and tansy and hyssop for shipments, it was so easily hidden along with their schedule and lists of agents scattered amongst the proportions and compounds. As for the treasured load, the consignments of books and loose unbound sheets were smuggled in from the Low Country secreted in shipments of the most mundane products. Her most favoured were bundles wrapped in tarred cloth and suspended in barrels of French wine or hopped Hansa beer. Thus she had cause to be thankful for the prodigious thirst of Englishmen that aided her task. Not that it was always necessary to go to such extreme efforts at discretion, the tide waiters and other customs officials were always ready to accept a gift for selective blindness.
Yes, Meg mused, it was much more satisfying to think on those subversive successes. The Lord clearly favoured their purpose. Even that suspected dabbler in dark arts and necromancy Dr Agryppa had played his part. Only yesterday he’d sent word that the frozen Thames was a ripe place to sow her dragon’s teeth of faith. How was yet to be resolved, but Agryppa, or as she’d previously known him, Dr Caerleon, was a firm if unpredictable and wayward friend to her family and their quest for reform.
That cryptic missive also contained a secondary warning though that had extinguished her usual enthusiasm for the cause. The lamed lad she’d treated earlier had mentioned another message and quoted a section from the New Testament; Mathew fourteen, verses seven and eleven. Once returned to her uncle’s house Meg had immediately looked up the reference in her hidden translated copy. It spoke of the slaying of John the Baptist by King Herod.
7 Wherfore he promised wt an oth that he wolde geve hir whatsoever she wolde axe.
8 And she beinge informed of her mother before sayde: geve me here Ihon baptistes heed in a platter.
9 And ye kynge sorowed. Neverthelesse for his othes sake and for their sakis which sate also at ye table he comaunded yt to be geven hir:
10 and sent and beheeded Ihon in the preson
11 and his heed was brought in a platter and geven to the damsell and she brought it to her mother.
Now there was an unsubtle warning. Whom it related to she couldn’t be absolutely certain. One hint had been in the lamed messenger’s eyes. They had flickered in Ned’s direction before the lad shrank back in alarm at Bedwell’s approach. Meg tapped the page in thought. Who could possibly want to harm Ned Bedwell, apprentice lawyer? Oh yes and also rogue, dicer and cony catcher par excellence. My, my, wasn’t that a foolish question—half the Liberties at a
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