Black. His friend had that deeply concerned look on his face again that spoke of more problems. “Rob, is the tavern on fire?”
“Ahh… no?”
“Are the French sailing up the Thames?”
“What? No, of course not!”
“Has the queen miraculously given birth to a son?”
“I…I don’t think so.”
“It’s not that damn sister of yours, again is it?”
“What? Certainly not. I mean I didn’t…”
“Good, then I’m going back to sleep.” With that Ned turned away from the unfriendly winter sunlight and nuzzled into the warm blankets. Moments later a pair of large hands tugged the covers off him and before he could complain, a deluge of ice cold water drenched his face. Ned instinctively shot up, eyes wide open at the shock. The light hurt like daggers driven into his eyeballs and his head returned its own measure of painful distress, pounding away like a tambour.
“Christ…Christ! What was tha…that?”
Before him was a very apologetic Rob Black with an empty pitcher in his hand. “I’m sorry Ned. I had to do it. We’ve got another messenger from Cromwell!”
Ned shook his head. Not again! Some people obliviously got to enjoy Christmas but it looked like Ned Bedwell wasn’t going to be one of them. He swung his legs off the bed. The other two inhabitants continued to snore away, unconcerned with the sudden arrival of morning. Ned cast them a regretful glance and struggled into his doublet. Then the matter of his duty struck him and he blurted out a desperate question. “Oh Christ, where’s Walter?”
Rob Black waved his hand in the direction of the end of the revels common room. “He’s still playing, Ned.”
“What, still?”
“All night. Only stopped to grab a firkin of ale, a few pies and manchet loaf.”
Ned wearily rubbed his hand over a bristly face. Well, well. Young Walter the lamb had certainly taken to the life of London. Ned pulled on his doublet, buckled on his sword and shrugged his heavy mantle over his shoulders. If all this to–ing and fro–ing continued he’d be better off camping in Westminster. Grabbing his hat on the way out the door, Ned abruptly skidded to a halt and lent back, hand on doorjamb. “Rob, can you keep and eye on our friend, Walter. See that he isn’t fleeced too badly.”
His friend gave an encouraging shrug that Ned took for ascent and, waving a hand in farewell, hopped off down the hallway tugging on the pair of borrowed riding boots. A few months in the service of Councillor Cromwell had taught him that the former secretary to Cardinal Wolsey didn’t tolerate tardiness.
By the time he’d made it to the top of the stairs, Ned had finally managed to pull on his last boot, and now came to a cursing, skidding halt. The damned messenger! He’d almost tripped over several steps and a sleeping dog in his haste and what did he find? Once more, at the bottom of stairs, was that thrice damned Gruesome Roger Hawkins.
“About time Bedwell. Cromwell’d be finished several masses afore y’re finished using the pot, given it a loving shake an tied y’r cods.”
This sneering welcome to the day wasn’t what Ned needed as he stomped down the stairs. His morning mood was already made fragile by a lack of revelling, a midnight summons from Meg damned be her name Black, too little sleep, no damned breakfast and being drenched in ice water. “Damn you, Hawkins. Go and hump your St Paul’s punk till your wizened maggot of a cock rots of the canker. I don’t care if you’re the Pope’s blessed uncle come to give me a Cardinal’s cap. Summon me like this again and even Meg Black’s skirt won’t save you!”
Ned put his hand on sword hilt and stepped forward into the half crouch he’d learnt from a master of defence. If here was the time to settle this sneering affront from a cursed, measly, fly blown servant, then damn Cromwell and his summons!
Gruesome Roger’s eyes narrowed and his hand clenched tight around his cudgel.
“Ahh… no?”
“Are the French sailing up the Thames?”
“What? No, of course not!”
“Has the queen miraculously given birth to a son?”
“I…I don’t think so.”
“It’s not that damn sister of yours, again is it?”
“What? Certainly not. I mean I didn’t…”
“Good, then I’m going back to sleep.” With that Ned turned away from the unfriendly winter sunlight and nuzzled into the warm blankets. Moments later a pair of large hands tugged the covers off him and before he could complain, a deluge of ice cold water drenched his face. Ned instinctively shot up, eyes wide open at the shock. The light hurt like daggers driven into his eyeballs and his head returned its own measure of painful distress, pounding away like a tambour.
“Christ…Christ! What was tha…that?”
Before him was a very apologetic Rob Black with an empty pitcher in his hand. “I’m sorry Ned. I had to do it. We’ve got another messenger from Cromwell!”
Ned shook his head. Not again! Some people obliviously got to enjoy Christmas but it looked like Ned Bedwell wasn’t going to be one of them. He swung his legs off the bed. The other two inhabitants continued to snore away, unconcerned with the sudden arrival of morning. Ned cast them a regretful glance and struggled into his doublet. Then the matter of his duty struck him and he blurted out a desperate question. “Oh Christ, where’s Walter?”
Rob Black waved his hand in the direction of the end of the revels common room. “He’s still playing, Ned.”
“What, still?”
“All night. Only stopped to grab a firkin of ale, a few pies and manchet loaf.”
Ned wearily rubbed his hand over a bristly face. Well, well. Young Walter the lamb had certainly taken to the life of London. Ned pulled on his doublet, buckled on his sword and shrugged his heavy mantle over his shoulders. If all this to–ing and fro–ing continued he’d be better off camping in Westminster. Grabbing his hat on the way out the door, Ned abruptly skidded to a halt and lent back, hand on doorjamb. “Rob, can you keep and eye on our friend, Walter. See that he isn’t fleeced too badly.”
His friend gave an encouraging shrug that Ned took for ascent and, waving a hand in farewell, hopped off down the hallway tugging on the pair of borrowed riding boots. A few months in the service of Councillor Cromwell had taught him that the former secretary to Cardinal Wolsey didn’t tolerate tardiness.
By the time he’d made it to the top of the stairs, Ned had finally managed to pull on his last boot, and now came to a cursing, skidding halt. The damned messenger! He’d almost tripped over several steps and a sleeping dog in his haste and what did he find? Once more, at the bottom of stairs, was that thrice damned Gruesome Roger Hawkins.
“About time Bedwell. Cromwell’d be finished several masses afore y’re finished using the pot, given it a loving shake an tied y’r cods.”
This sneering welcome to the day wasn’t what Ned needed as he stomped down the stairs. His morning mood was already made fragile by a lack of revelling, a midnight summons from Meg damned be her name Black, too little sleep, no damned breakfast and being drenched in ice water. “Damn you, Hawkins. Go and hump your St Paul’s punk till your wizened maggot of a cock rots of the canker. I don’t care if you’re the Pope’s blessed uncle come to give me a Cardinal’s cap. Summon me like this again and even Meg Black’s skirt won’t save you!”
Ned put his hand on sword hilt and stepped forward into the half crouch he’d learnt from a master of defence. If here was the time to settle this sneering affront from a cursed, measly, fly blown servant, then damn Cromwell and his summons!
Gruesome Roger’s eyes narrowed and his hand clenched tight around his cudgel.
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