The Fetter Lane Fleece Read online

  The Fetter Lane Fleece

  A Red Ned Tudor Mystery

  By Gregory House

  Published by Gregory House at Amazon

  Copyright 2012 Gregory House

  Discover other titles by Gregory House at www.amazon.com or www.amazon.co.uk

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  All artwork copyright Alexander House 2012

  Archaeology, Peter Wilkes and other diverse matters blogged at

  http://prognosticationsandpouting.blogspot.com

  Red Ned, the Reluctant Tudor Detective blog at

  http://rednedtudormysteries.blogspot.com/

  Stories in the Red Ned Tudor Mysteries Series

  Amazon UK

  The Liberties of London

  The Queen’s Oranges

  The Cardinal’s Angels

  Amazon US/Australia

  The Liberties of London

  The Queen’s Oranges

  The Cardinal’s Angels

  Soon to be released in the Red Ned Tudor Mysteries Series on Amazon

  The Smithfield Shambles

  The Trade of the Thames

  The King’s Counsel

  The Dark Devices Historical Fantasy Series on Amazon

  Darkness Divined

  The Peter Wilks Archaeological Mysteries Series on Amazon

  Terra Australis Templar

  Soon to be released in the Peter Wilks Series

  The Gold Coast Glyphs

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (mechanical, photocopying, recording of otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with another please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Please respect the author’s rights to this work.

  The Wool’s Fleece Fetter Lane

  Contents

  The Wool’s Fleece Fetter Lane

  Contents

  Dramatis Personae

  The Royal Court

  Historical Note on Red Ned Tudor Mysteries

  Tudor Names and Language

  Map London and the Liberties

  Prologue. Fleeing the Fleece

  Chapter One A Festive Gathering, The Sixth Day of Christmas 1529

  Chapter Two. Strange Tidings

  Chapter Three. Memory Lane—Fetter Lane

  Chapter Four. The Wool’s Fleece

  Chapter Five. Flaunty Phil’s Friendship

  Chapter Six. The Delights of Delphina

  Chapter Seven. The Fleetest on Fleete Street.

  Chapter Eight. An Unlikely Rescue

  Chapter Nine. Reward?

  Historical Note about Cosenage

  Religion and spirituality in the Tudor Age as portrayed in the Red Ned Tudor Mysteries

  Tudor Coinage and values

  Common Tudor Terms

  The Liberties of London, A Tudor Christmas Frolic

  Prologue A Perilous Position

  Chapter One: A Christmas Revel Christmas Eve London 1529

  Dramatis Personae

  Edward Bedwell or as he prefers Red Ned—an apprentice lawyer at Gray’s Inn and organiser of the Christmas Revels.

  Margaret or Meg Black—apprentice apothecary, amateur surgeon and sometime smuggler of illicit literature. Suspected subverter of the Christmas Revels.

  Robert Black—older brother of Meg. Apprentice artificer and Ned’s partner in the Revels scheme.

  Gruesome Roger—retainer to the Black family. A fellow with secrets who likes to loom menacingly over Ned ruining his Christmas.

  Richard Rich—Commissioner of Sewers for London and uncle to Red Ned. A lawyer climbing the ladder of patronage, and a good friend of Thomas Cromwell

  Canting Michael—a gang lord of Southwark who would like Red Ned’s ‘company’ for an hour or two.

  Earless Nick (Throckmore)—self–proclaimed Master of Masterless men and Lord of the Liberties. Always ready for good company and a game.

  Lady Dellingham—an ardent church reformer and ally of Cromwell. She holds firm views on the performance of good works in the sinkholes of London. Soon to leave for Geneva, though probably now soon enough for Ned’s liking.

  Walter Dellingham—a young innocent reformist lad of interesting dispositions and talents, luckily soon to leave for Geneva.

  John Reedman—a legal clerk at Gray’s Inn cursed with foolish relations.

  Richard Reedman—a young country lad with a bad choice of companions.

  Phil Flydman—Flaunty Phil to his drinking friends and fellow dicemen.

  Delphina—a redheaded punk of the Liberties, of flaming red hair, emerald green eyes and, ahem, other attractions.

  As well as a host of revelling clerks, apprentice lawyers and assorted punks, minions and rogues of the Liberties and the City of London

  The Royal Court

  King Henry VIII—a sovereign in desperate need of a male heir.

  Katherine of Aragon—Queen of England, at least for now.

  Lady Anne Boleyn—a Howard niece and supporter of Lutherans who the King wants to marry.

  Thomas Cromwell—former secretary to Cardinal Wolsey now serving the King on the Privy Council.

  Sir Thomas More—Lord Chancellor of England and pursuer of heretics. Formerly the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster.

  Cardinal Thomas Wolsey—disgraced former Lord Chancellor now living in exile from the Royal Court.

  Historical Note on Red Ned Tudor Mysteries

  The Fetter Lane Fleece is a work of fiction. However most of the main points of the story are based around historical Tudor London of 1529–30 and the setting is derived from period documents and accounts. I have endeavoured to give contemporary readers a window into the daily thoughts, and attitudes of the people in their positions in the Tudor hierarchy. All the main characters of this work are fictional, though as much as research allows, they do express the mood, passions and concerns of the time. These views or actions do not necessarily represent those of the author.

  Tudor Names and Language

  To all my readers. As a writer of historical fiction, I strive to bring forth a contemporary and understandable view of the Tudor Age during the reign of Henry VIII. The English language of the Tudor period is both maddeningly close and at the same time frustratingly different to our modern usages. For instance a number of placenames, titles and phrases may appear differently since they’ve been written in their earlier Tudor forms. To aid the story flow and provide a period flavour I’ve made some efforts which to render dialects and phrasing into more modern standards to take account of the many regional and class differences in accent and pronunciation. Hopefully this will give the reader a taste of Tudor English without sounding like a player at a Ren Fair. In Ned’s time there was nothing like standard English in either speech or spelling. This idea only gained prominence in the 1800’s after universal education and dictionaries. For anyone who would like to look a little deeper into where our language came from I can highly recommend Bill Bryson’s The Mother Tongue, an extremely amusing account of accent, eccentricity and English. Finally, apart from a good tale of adventure, as a historian and researcher I’m trying to give the reader as accurate a portrayal of Tudor life, culture and attitudes as possible based on the surviving records and accounts.

  Regards

  Gregory House

  Map London and the Liberties

  Prologue. Fleeing the Fleece

  The snow covered mound on the rough cobbles crunched with the solid impact of his body and Ned whimpered
as he rolled. Oh Christ that…that stung! The icy crystals set the skin of his bare back aflame, especially the long bloody scratches from that cursed sign. Well he hoped it was only the shock of the snow and ice that aggravated his current condition. It didn’t pay to investigate too closely what lay under the few inches of snow in a Liberties street. Dead dogs, piles of mouldering rushes and steaming kitchen waste where amongst the lesser ills. At least, remarked his daemon, it wasn’t the Fleete Ditch, a river of turds and tanner’s discharge. He’d dangled over that last week, seemingly for hours, on the brink of imminent death by drowning, as had Earless Nick’s luckless minion. No, no fear of that fate tonight. Instead he only had to worry about daggers, swords, cudgels, a butcher’s cleaver or two and the savage fury of an irate punk. See, said his daemon, nothing to worry about.

  Rolling with the momentum of his sudden exit Ned staggered to his feet, and rendered slightly unsteady by his too solid landing, began to stagger off down Fetter Lane towards Fleete Street. A loud chorus of howls and curses from the Wool’s Fleece informed him that his solo sojourn was going to be of a very short duration. Damn. Ned hopped on one foot as he tried to continue his forward passage while at the same time attempting to pull on his left shoe. As for the rest of his clothes, his better angel may scold him for looking more naked than the wild Irish or bare breeched Scots, but unlike them he did have the ability to cloth his present nakedness. Just not now, thank the blessed saints for the shroud of night, even if the extra cold was shrinking his cods and setting his skin a prickle with goose bumps. If he continued much further in this ‘exposed condition’, his bollocks would be lumps either side of his neck and not even an hours delightful cajoling by Mistress Adeline could draw his pizzle out from its hiding spot.

  Oh by the blessed saints why did the Twelve days of Christmas have to be so damnedly cold? Or Reedman’s brother, the stupid measle, so bereft of brains or commonsense?

  Ned’s foot stamped down upon a thin layer of ice instantly breaking through the crust and he sank knee deep into the resulting pothole. Oh Christ! Oh Christ! Oh…Of a sudden his mind froze over in white pain as the water and muddy ice, chilled by weeks of Lord Frost’s breath, fountained up drenching his not so dangling nearest and dearest cods. The world around him blurred and he tried to draw breath to scream. Richard Reedman, you miserable bastard! If his cods were damaged or blighted the fool was going to suffer.

  An angry cry from behind told Ned he didn’t have time to cater for clutching his frosty manhood. He needed to move, or else. The motivation of a prime kicking and thumping plus sundry assaults with cudgels and knives prompted his flagging efforts, and shivering as if he had the ague, Ned pushed on. The cries though increased in volume as the foisters of the Fleece rallied for a chase. Damn, damn, damn! This plan looked so good back at the Sign of the Spread Eagle. His angel remarked waspishly that it was warm in there by the blazing fire and he’d a full tankard of Rhenish in hand, so...

  “Ere’s t’ stinking measle who ‘it me!” the fair Delphina screeched.

  “A shillin’ ta the one what brings ‘im down!” The slightly muffled nasally voice of Flaunty Phil added. A hand over his broken nose may have hindered his speech, though an eager roar and cheer still answered the call.

  Ned ignored his other shoe, gave up any further attempt at pulling on his shirt, doublet and hose and instead found a new burst of speed. Damn this! He just had to stop this dreadful habit of helping out friends with their Liberties follies. It was proving to be dangerous to his health, and by Satan’s great black hairy balls, so perishingly cold!

  Chapter One. A Festive Gathering, The Sixth Day of Christmas 1529

  As the icy spray of Lord Frost’s breath made manifest the chill toll of the winter season, hope and joy warmed the heart in the Christian domain of England. It was the very centre of the Twelve days of Christmas and a time of solemn celebration in church, as families and local guilds gave thanks for the birth of the Saviour. However not all were inclined to the gravitas of the season. The twelve days heralded the triumph of a more mischievous spirit as well, one enthroned on an ale barrel, cloaked in gaudy rags and tinsel with a wooden spoon as a sceptre. For this was the reign of the Lord of Misrule, where apprentices could act as their masters and the solemnity of the church was ridiculed, its faults, greed and hypocrisy exposed. The normal rules of position and privilege that tightly bound the obedience of the Tudor kingdom for a brief span of time were set aside. On the whole the gentry accepted the jibes and bestowed the traditional festival rewards, smiling at the ribald humour of the plays and japes. After all it was only for twelve days.

  In the cheery warmth of a private room at the Sign of the Spread Eagle tavern in Wood Street such concerns about the brevity of Misrule’s reign were banished amongst the joys and pleasures of the Christmas Revels. The snow may have been falling steadily outside, shrouding the rutted city street and the higgledy piggledy line of the thatch and tile roofs in a mantle of velvet white, but as picturesque a scene as it was to set any poet to a sighing and a scribbling of its pristine beauty, the company present cared not a fart. Nor did they spare much consideration for the religious and symbolic meaning of the festivities. No. The twenty odd apprentice clerks and lawyers from the Inns of Court were solely focused on the trays of freshly baked and steaming mutton pies and the jugs of mulled Rhenish at hand, that was except for a cluster at the gaming table or the two fellows lost in sighing admiration of the trio of diaphanously clad maidens singing sweetly of Maying time pleasures.

  In the feast’s chair of state at the head of the main table was Red Ned Bedwell, apprentice lawyer, and as he would have his fellows believe, a very successful aspiring gentleman on the rise. He was feeling very relaxed not to mention pleased at the course of his Christmas Revels. Though there were some who’d reckon Ned was in manner and habits closer to a measly rogue, a common foister or tosspotting dice man. Luckily for Ned the main prompter of these views and arch disrupter of his ‘ahem’ plans, Mistress Meg Black, wasn’t invited to the Revels. A good thing too whispered Ned’s daemon as he noticed the ready and very attractive smile of the scantily clad harpist in the corner. It was such a very enticing smile, the rosy lips and dark fluttering eyelashes full of promise. Ned felt his cods become somewhat restricted in accommodation as the harpist winked slowly at him.

  A sudden and heavy wallop temporarily distracted the direction of his thoughts and brought Ned, cods and all, abruptly back to the Revels. “Ned, this is as fine a feast as those at the Guildhall. You certainly have a gift.”

  The large hand of his friend Rob Black gripped Ned’s shoulder with almost eye–watering strength. Good fortune or timing favoured Ned, for this was perhaps the only time that evening he was not holding the pewter cup of sweet sack, and so it didn’t drench his neighbour in an inopportune spray of wine. Wincing slightly Ned thanked his feasting companion for his compliments. As he’d found last year the apprentice smith and foundry man was an excellent lad to have at one’s side in a brawl, for all his brotherly relationship to the indomitable and suspicious minded Meg. However working amongst other fellows of equal breadth and stature, Rob frequently forgot the effect of his size and strength on mere mortals. Ned boasted some six feet in height with as he thought decent shoulders and fine legs thanks to the rigorous training provided Master Sylver, and in his own mind felt himself the epitome of manly physic. When Rob clapped a heavy hand on his back Ned felt as weak as any hunch–shouldered, crab–fisted clerk of his Uncle Richard’s at Middle Temple Inns. It was a humbling reminder that despite brawl, affray and a handy need for speed from irate swains or outraged husbands, he just wasn’t going to be able to wrestle a recalcitrant carthorse like Rob.

  Ned smiled and with a shrug eased his sore shoulder. Hanging from the Fleete Bridge the other night had strained a muscle or two. They still ached when he stretched to roll the dice. At his visible wince during yesterday’s Dellingham sojourn the keen eyed Mistress Black had quickly whipped out some
gooey, stinking ointment from that bottomless magickal apothecary’s satchel she perpetually hauled about wherever she ventured. Ned wasn’t sure if it worked or not, but damn hadn’t the stuff burned like the wind from Satan’s arse when he’d rubbed it in.

  Even in the midst of the celebration as the aromatic pies approached, at the reminder of yesterday’s jaunt Ned quickly glanced over at their own guest and captive. Hmm yes, ‘lamb’ Walter was safely shadowed by his fair escort over at the gaming table, so at least for tonight there was little likelihood of mischief. Ned dismissed any forebodings, and exchanging a jest with John Reedman set to this latest serving for the revels. His daemon purred that this was his most excellent scheme—good wine, good company, attractively and scantily dressed musicians, and the satisfied jingle of a full purse. If this was the life of a gentleman then he could get used to it. Not even the waspish warning of his better angel diminished his warm glow of triumph and adulation of the companies cheers. Damn but this was a fine Revel!

  As if summoned by the ill chanced wish or the dark herald of Christmas Repentance, a loud knocking sounded at the door, seeking entrance to blight Ned’s latest pleasure.

  Chapter Two. Strange Tidings

  Ned relaxed back into his chair with a dramatic sigh of relief as the thumping of his heart wound back from the frantic beat of alarum to its more measured pace. By the blessed saints and Lady Fortuna it was just some scruffy urchin bearing a message for one of their company. For a moment there he’d thought the Revels were going to be raided by Sir Thomas More’s pursuivants and wouldn’t that have been ironic. While there was probably an abundance of evangelical sympathisers in the room, with the Revels in full flood none would’ve shown the least interest in reading the latest serving of heretical literature—a fact which if she’d known would have set Mistress Meg Black a frowning and a cursing at the missed opportunity of ‘religious improvement’ amongst the fellows of the Inns of Court. Whether the Lord Chancellor’s men would have bothered with the niceties of inquiry was another question. Ned had crossed their path last year when Sir Thomas was just the relatively lowly Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster responsible for, amongst his other duties, the repair of Fleete Ditch bridge, and which to Ned’s personal testament was the shoddiest of jobs, almost costing this aspiring gentlemen and apprentice lawyer a fatal tumble into the icy turd–choked depths.