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Authors: Gregory House
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continued in almost a musing fashion. “You know Master Bedwell, the devil sets snares for us every day. Sin and temptation dog our footsteps. According to some learned men, it is how we grapple with these demon’s traps that gives us the chance of salvation. As we know, every man, even the veriest sinner can gain the grace of our loving God by their justification of faith.”
Ned was somewhat lost. He didn’t have a clue what his patron was talking about. Salvation, sin he’d been dragged all the way across a bitterly chill London to hear cryptic homilies? To play safe he murmured profound agreement and humble thanks for the advice. After that and a longer silence, Ned was given a simple waved dismissal as Cromwell, staring out the window at the falling snow, ignored him. With a hopefully graceful half bow, Ned turned on his heel and exited the room. He once more pulled on his cap to ward against the chill of Westminster’s corridors. Damn, now he had to walk all the way back and the point of this summons was, well put simply, look after Walter. He shook his head and rubbed his face in exasperation. Damn, damn, damn! He had to trudge back all that way and it was snowing and for company he had the surly Gruesome Roger. So much for the pleasant idylls of the Christmas Revels!
***
Chapter Six: Where’s Walter?
“I’m telling you, he can’t be down there Rob!” He was sure the shout came out muffled, but Ned wasn’t going to remove the sack soaked kerchief from his face. The stench was strong enough to drop an ox. Only the Fleete Ditch would be worse. Instead Ned thumped Rob on the shoulder, then grabbing a handful of doublet, pulled him out of the room of easement. Both of them lent against the opposite wall and gulped in drafts of fresher air, less tainted by the fetid stench of the privy, as their breath steamed in the winter air.
“But Ned, he as to be!” Rob sounded almost plaintive.
Ned shook his head. No, it just wasn’t possible, even for a foolish lamb like Walter. His friend, however, kept on clutching a single shoe and peering fretfully into the dark recess below the four hole privy. While Ned had heard stories of the odd unfortunate who’d been so taken with drink that they’d tumbled into the privy pit and expired, that couldn’t have happened to Walter. Could it? The forlorn shoe in Rob’s hand hinted at the dreadful fate. Ned shivered as a chill breeze whistled under the tavern gate. It was freezing here and even his gloved hands felt frozen in the short time they’d spent in the tavern’s small courtyard. By the saints, what was Cromwell going to say? He’d just left him, swearing that the Dellingham lad was in safe hands. Christ on the Cross, it’d be a cruel turn of Fortuna’s wheel to have him drown in a privy. Ned stamped his feet on the frozen slush as his stomach complained of ill treatment. His unhappy daemon prodded his thoughts. This was a damned foolish task.
“We’ll find nothing here. I’m going in for an ale!” So abruptly turning on his heel, Ned walked back down the narrow passage through the doorway into the cheery warmth of the common room of the Sign of the Spread Eagle. Rob lingered an extra few seconds and gave the privy a last quick inspection then promptly followed after.
Plunking himself down on the bench, Ned wearily rubbed his aching forehead. All this damned excitement and racing around before breakfast. Damn Cromwell and Meg Black to the fiends of Hell. His Christmas Revels were being ruined. In the meantime various members of the Christmas Company drifted down stairs to sup on the morning offering. The tavern keeper had laid out small beer, fresh manchet loafs and a honey sweetened porridge. Ned eagerly broke off a piece of bread and dipped it in the steaming bowl. By the saints it tasted good. All the way to Westminster and back with a growling stomach, the sacrifices he made for duty and now this. Encouragingly he poured a horn cup of mulled ale
Ned was somewhat lost. He didn’t have a clue what his patron was talking about. Salvation, sin he’d been dragged all the way across a bitterly chill London to hear cryptic homilies? To play safe he murmured profound agreement and humble thanks for the advice. After that and a longer silence, Ned was given a simple waved dismissal as Cromwell, staring out the window at the falling snow, ignored him. With a hopefully graceful half bow, Ned turned on his heel and exited the room. He once more pulled on his cap to ward against the chill of Westminster’s corridors. Damn, now he had to walk all the way back and the point of this summons was, well put simply, look after Walter. He shook his head and rubbed his face in exasperation. Damn, damn, damn! He had to trudge back all that way and it was snowing and for company he had the surly Gruesome Roger. So much for the pleasant idylls of the Christmas Revels!
***
Chapter Six: Where’s Walter?
“I’m telling you, he can’t be down there Rob!” He was sure the shout came out muffled, but Ned wasn’t going to remove the sack soaked kerchief from his face. The stench was strong enough to drop an ox. Only the Fleete Ditch would be worse. Instead Ned thumped Rob on the shoulder, then grabbing a handful of doublet, pulled him out of the room of easement. Both of them lent against the opposite wall and gulped in drafts of fresher air, less tainted by the fetid stench of the privy, as their breath steamed in the winter air.
“But Ned, he as to be!” Rob sounded almost plaintive.
Ned shook his head. No, it just wasn’t possible, even for a foolish lamb like Walter. His friend, however, kept on clutching a single shoe and peering fretfully into the dark recess below the four hole privy. While Ned had heard stories of the odd unfortunate who’d been so taken with drink that they’d tumbled into the privy pit and expired, that couldn’t have happened to Walter. Could it? The forlorn shoe in Rob’s hand hinted at the dreadful fate. Ned shivered as a chill breeze whistled under the tavern gate. It was freezing here and even his gloved hands felt frozen in the short time they’d spent in the tavern’s small courtyard. By the saints, what was Cromwell going to say? He’d just left him, swearing that the Dellingham lad was in safe hands. Christ on the Cross, it’d be a cruel turn of Fortuna’s wheel to have him drown in a privy. Ned stamped his feet on the frozen slush as his stomach complained of ill treatment. His unhappy daemon prodded his thoughts. This was a damned foolish task.
“We’ll find nothing here. I’m going in for an ale!” So abruptly turning on his heel, Ned walked back down the narrow passage through the doorway into the cheery warmth of the common room of the Sign of the Spread Eagle. Rob lingered an extra few seconds and gave the privy a last quick inspection then promptly followed after.
Plunking himself down on the bench, Ned wearily rubbed his aching forehead. All this damned excitement and racing around before breakfast. Damn Cromwell and Meg Black to the fiends of Hell. His Christmas Revels were being ruined. In the meantime various members of the Christmas Company drifted down stairs to sup on the morning offering. The tavern keeper had laid out small beer, fresh manchet loafs and a honey sweetened porridge. Ned eagerly broke off a piece of bread and dipped it in the steaming bowl. By the saints it tasted good. All the way to Westminster and back with a growling stomach, the sacrifices he made for duty and now this. Encouragingly he poured a horn cup of mulled ale
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