The Liberties of London Read Online Free PDF Page A

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    She also had visitors, a pair of them both sitting on the carved chairs Master Williams reserved for his more important customers. From their clothing alone they’d have merited a host of bowing flunkeys as well. A large built woman of middling years sat closest to the fire. She was arrayed in the sort of dress that Ned had lately seen around the Inns of Court. It was without excessive trim, ornament or colours, in fact the veritable plain plumaged magpie of modern fashion. However, as Ned had noticed, it took an awful lot of very expensive material to appear so unadorned. Any merchant tailor would quiver in ecstasy if she crossed their threshold as a customer. If that wasn’t enough of a clue to status, a ruby on a gold chain hung from her fur shrouded neck. Ned immediately turned his skidding halt into a low bow.

    “My lady, this is Master Edward Bedwell.” The introduction came from a curtseying Meg Black.

    “Ahemmm, I see.” It was a reluctant admission of fact, from the kind of disapproving face of the devoted lemon sucker.

    Meg Black undeterred by the sour tone continued with the introductions. “Ned, I have the honour to present Lady Dellingham and her son Walter. They’re good friends of Councillor Cromwell and my Uncle Williams.”

    At that none too subtle hint, Ned doffed his cap and gave an extra flourish as he pushed his bow that bit further. The effort gained a snorted harrumph. Whether that was approval or disdain was hard to tell. The cluster of the shivering liverymen outside was explained, though not the reason. Roger had been his usual jocular, voluble self and inferred nought of this on the journey through the London slush and snow. How remiss of him. He was probably laughing fit to burst outside.

    Ned straightened up. “My lady, I am honoured to be your servant.” Well not really but politeness and manners still prevailed, even after being dragged from a roasted pig and venison pie, not to mention the diaphanous clad trio, then half way across the city in the mud and snow, at Mistress Black’s damned summons. In the pause between courtesies Ned gave the apothecary’s guests a rapid peruse.

    The lad she’d named as Walter sat relatively close to his mother in the same plain, finely cut, dark clothing with not even a touch of velvet for decoration. At a guess he was about sixteen, tall and thin and, to Ned, the meekest looking lad he’d ever seen. His hair was butter yellow like his mothers, but whereas hers was primly tucked into a gable hood, Walter’s straggled down to his shoulder in limp tendrils. It framed the very essence of a forgettable face, washed out grey eyes that bulged and appeared to regard the world around as a mournful and melancholy place. Currently he had his walking stick clenched between his knees and clutched desperately at the silver knob as if it were a child’s sucket that was about to taken away. Ned’s daemon supplied an appropriate label, ‘ Walter wouldn’t say boo to a goose and was the most perfect cony’ .

    His mother, Lady Dellingham, gave one of those arch coughs that Ned was starting to associate with another forthcoming statement. “So you’re Master Bedwell. Councillor Cromwell spoke of you.” If you went by the tone of voice, it sounded like Lady Dellingham had equated him as only slightly better than a privy cleaner. Her throat thrummed in a cross between a growl and a harrumph. “Ahemm! He said your understanding of reform and piety was still in need of some work, though he stated you were a man who knew well the perils of a large city.”

    Ned gave another courtly bow at the evaluation. It may have been a compliment. However he knew how Cromwell’s mind ticked and his daemon quivered in alarum. “Councillor Cromwell is the lodestone of my conscience.” Ned’s daemon and better angel agreed. That sounded perfectly acceptable and had the benefit of being true. He’d be the simplest lackwit if he didn’t keep a watch on