The Liberties of London Read Online Free Page B

then tottered off to the priory where they caroused and humped the choicest punks till the Compline bells reluctantly dragged them off to mass. As they say, ‘tis only perfect in heaven’ . It is claimed by philosophers and physicians that the physical world can reflect the melancholy or choler of the inner man. That was probably why treatments for illnesses have to be timed so closely to their influencing astronomical signs. Or in layman’s terms, so as above, so below. Well Ned had failed to follow this simple rule, he was bound up in shivering rancour.

    So concentrating on his higher difficulties he lost track of the lower obstructions and tripped over a low mound and sprawled sliding several feet down the street. “Phewwer! By all the damned Saints!” Ned shook his head and spat out a mouthful of snow, while he heard a loud raucous laugh from some way above him.

    It was that double damned Gruesome Roger, and the cursed minion was leaning against a wattle wall for support, in between fits of mirth that almost left him breathless. “By Chris’ Blood Bedwell, y’ make a better play at the tumbling fool than any mummer!”

    Ned pushed himself up from the snow and glared. His gown and over mantle were smeared with some half frozen muck and his borrowed boots had scooped up what felt like a double firkin of snow which was slowly beginning to melt and trickle down his hose. This wasn’t a good day and he loudly cursed Meg Black as a useless hedge fossicker and Roger as her witless worthless minion. His fuming apparently lost its evident meaning for Gruesome Roger was now roaring with laughter, tears even started from his eyes. Giving up on this fruitless cursing, Ned jammed his sodden cap back on his head, and ignoring the mocking stares and chuckles from the few street denizens, stomped off through the snow. Meg Black was going to rue this day!

    Leaning against the door post of Williams the apothecary, Ned made a vain attempt at cleaning off the encrusted semi frozen ordure from his boots. He wasn’t sure whether that reduced the stench or just smeared it over a larger surface. Anyway his effort gave Gruesome Roger almost as good a chuckle as when he’d tripped over the frozen ruts. That mocking laughter was echoed by the small cluster of plainly dressed livery men huddled in the shelter of the doorway of the small ale house across the lane. Ned turned towards them, hand prominently on sword hilt, and snarled. The mirth subsided as they abruptly retreated indoors. After some minutes effort, his condition was as good as it was going to get. So tugging his fur collared over mantle into a less dishevelled condition, he haughtily dismissed Roger’s smirking bow and strode purposefully through the opened door. And came to a precipitous halt.
     
    The scene inside was not one he’d in any way anticipated. Meg Black, the cause of his summoning and current bane of his life, was standing in the centre of the chamber, and looking markedly different. For one thing, as he’d seen a few hours ago when he snagged Rob, Mistress Black, apprentice apothecary, was pounding away at some arcane blend of herbs and spices in a heavy pestle. As you’d expect she was dressed in a more trade orientated apparel, which tended towards a heavy linen apron over her workaday simple blue dress. As befitting the temper of the season, she’d also pulled on a heavy woollen over mantle, probably from her uncle’s wardrobe. Not the most attractive or alluring attire, but Ned understood the requirements of craft. The workroom, stacked with glass retorts, ambics and pottery jars of herbs and unguents, was not a place to flounce around in silk and scarlet.

    Now however Mistress Margaret Black, renowned as the most practical of girls, had somehow transformed into the sort of attire Ned expected to find at court. A pearl studded french hood covered her long hair and she had on a fur collared blue kirtle and bodice with silk trim. What was going