For a moment Ned thought he was going to go for it. Then the Black retainer abruptly turned and strode stiff legged towards the tavern door. “I’ve not the time to waste fo’ y’r foolery Bedwell. Cromwell’s waiting.”
Ned blinked in surprise. That was a challenge, wasn’t it? A man of honour didn’t refuse a challenge, did he? Even a lowly servant. Ned pondered on the question for a moment then, as if not trailing after like a humble lackey, nonchalantly followed the Black’s retainer.
All the way to Westminster, over the Fleete and past Temple Bar, through the mounded drifts of snow Ned tried to work out whether he’d just faced down Gruesome Roger and thus ‘won’ or in fact been even more grossly insulted. His mood wasn’t improved by the fact that due to the very large chunks of ice in the river, a comfortable wherry trip was out of the question. Thus his resort to borrowed boots again, which created their own problems. While they kept his feet relatively dry, boots such as these were properly meant for riding, so striding through the slush–hidden ruts and cobbles of London streets risked a twisted ankle at every step.
And then there was the vexing problem of Gruesome Roger. The Black’s retainer had consistently refused any further comment or reply to his many questions or imputations during the journey. Now Ned wasn’t so puffed up with pride to think that Gruesome Roger was afraid of him. The liveryman took all and every occasion to express his sneering disdain of his mistress’s ‘acquaintance’. So Ned had to ask why was today any different? This was something that too frequently occupied his thoughts instead of, as his better angel reminded him, working out what Cromwell wanted.
Ned’s better angel primly added that getting more sleep last night might have helped his present situation. His daemon countered with the suggestion of another good round of dicing or cards. Surely roistering would have improved his mood. But, by all the devils, imps and demons of the nine circles of Hell, what he really hadn’t needed last night was another of those cursed summons by Meg Black! He’d just settled down to a nice long dicing session with Walter and a few other lads and it was all going so well. Then, as he was in the middle of a winning streak, another messenger had called for him. For once it wasn’t Gruesome Roger, though it did concern Meg Black.
A young boy had been waiting nervously at the foot of the stairs. Ned had seen him around at the apothecaries, one of several who did the fetching and carrying amongst other household duties. The poor lamb was all afrightened with news that the Lord Chancellor’s men were going to raid one of the ‘night schools’ and Meg begged his aid.
Now that had been a real quandary. Ned would like nothing better than to inconvenience Meg Black, especially after she dragged him into Walter minding and this strangely devised pageant of hers. And of course her disturbance of his Christmas Revels begged for revenge. However, and he cursed as he considered it, the ‘night schools’ or ‘nests of heresy’ as Sir Thomas More called them, were secret gatherings of Lollards and evangelicals where they studied heretical texts and the Bible translated into English. The Bishop of London, with the assistance of the new Lord Chancellor, hunted them mercilessly, to root out the growing protests against the Church. Anyone captured could expect to spend some time in the Lollard tower of St Paul’s before being hauled before Foxford, the London Vicar General. Now there was a cleric without a drop of Christian compassion. You either confessed and were burnt or died in prison of the ‘sweats’. It was all the same to him. His better angel pricked his conscience. Was he really going to stand aside and let this happen? Actually no. While Red Ned Bedwell wasn’t strictly one of their number, during the Cardinal’s Angels affair, Lady Anne had spread her cloak of
Ned blinked in surprise. That was a challenge, wasn’t it? A man of honour didn’t refuse a challenge, did he? Even a lowly servant. Ned pondered on the question for a moment then, as if not trailing after like a humble lackey, nonchalantly followed the Black’s retainer.
All the way to Westminster, over the Fleete and past Temple Bar, through the mounded drifts of snow Ned tried to work out whether he’d just faced down Gruesome Roger and thus ‘won’ or in fact been even more grossly insulted. His mood wasn’t improved by the fact that due to the very large chunks of ice in the river, a comfortable wherry trip was out of the question. Thus his resort to borrowed boots again, which created their own problems. While they kept his feet relatively dry, boots such as these were properly meant for riding, so striding through the slush–hidden ruts and cobbles of London streets risked a twisted ankle at every step.
And then there was the vexing problem of Gruesome Roger. The Black’s retainer had consistently refused any further comment or reply to his many questions or imputations during the journey. Now Ned wasn’t so puffed up with pride to think that Gruesome Roger was afraid of him. The liveryman took all and every occasion to express his sneering disdain of his mistress’s ‘acquaintance’. So Ned had to ask why was today any different? This was something that too frequently occupied his thoughts instead of, as his better angel reminded him, working out what Cromwell wanted.
Ned’s better angel primly added that getting more sleep last night might have helped his present situation. His daemon countered with the suggestion of another good round of dicing or cards. Surely roistering would have improved his mood. But, by all the devils, imps and demons of the nine circles of Hell, what he really hadn’t needed last night was another of those cursed summons by Meg Black! He’d just settled down to a nice long dicing session with Walter and a few other lads and it was all going so well. Then, as he was in the middle of a winning streak, another messenger had called for him. For once it wasn’t Gruesome Roger, though it did concern Meg Black.
A young boy had been waiting nervously at the foot of the stairs. Ned had seen him around at the apothecaries, one of several who did the fetching and carrying amongst other household duties. The poor lamb was all afrightened with news that the Lord Chancellor’s men were going to raid one of the ‘night schools’ and Meg begged his aid.
Now that had been a real quandary. Ned would like nothing better than to inconvenience Meg Black, especially after she dragged him into Walter minding and this strangely devised pageant of hers. And of course her disturbance of his Christmas Revels begged for revenge. However, and he cursed as he considered it, the ‘night schools’ or ‘nests of heresy’ as Sir Thomas More called them, were secret gatherings of Lollards and evangelicals where they studied heretical texts and the Bible translated into English. The Bishop of London, with the assistance of the new Lord Chancellor, hunted them mercilessly, to root out the growing protests against the Church. Anyone captured could expect to spend some time in the Lollard tower of St Paul’s before being hauled before Foxford, the London Vicar General. Now there was a cleric without a drop of Christian compassion. You either confessed and were burnt or died in prison of the ‘sweats’. It was all the same to him. His better angel pricked his conscience. Was he really going to stand aside and let this happen? Actually no. While Red Ned Bedwell wasn’t strictly one of their number, during the Cardinal’s Angels affair, Lady Anne had spread her cloak of
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