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slightly better than a privy pit shoveller. 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 Counillor Cromwell 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 Cromwell’s machinations.

    At his answer her nostril flared as if she’d tripped over a dead dog. “Ahemm, yes. So Mistress Black has avowed.”

    Ned tried not to glare at the apprentice apothecary to his right. Something was going on, and he had the strongest suspicion the apprentice herb dabbler was about to dump him in the proverbial privy. How did all this concern him?

    “Ahemm. Walter is travelling to Zurich after Twelfth Night. He’s been promised a position in the household of the eminent Pastor, Zwingli.”

    Ned bowed his head in reverence. Ahh yes, that mention gave him all the information he needed to place Lady Dellingham. She was one of the clique of ardent church reformers that were said to be associated with Lady Anne Boleyn. From what he’d heard at the Inns, and from Meg Black, Ulrich Zwingli was reformist enough to be condemned by the church and moderate enough to be lambasted by Luther.

    Lady Dellingham gave another of her distinctive coughs and continued. “Ahemm. His father and I felt it would improve his education to view the city, while we consult with Councillor Cromwell and tour some establishments practicing modern reform.”

    To Ned that sounded like the beginning of a ‘however’ statement. “Ahemm. Poor Walter here has a delicate constitution and Doctor Butts has prescribed a few days of rest and a diet of lettuce and cooling foods to bring his humours into balance. However, since my husband and I have to travel to Hampton Court, Councillor Cromwell said we couldn’t do better than commend Walter to your care.”

    Ned tried very hard not to scream out a refusal. Both his angel and the daemon choked the words into a strangled cough. Remember, they counselled nervously, the Dellinghams are friends of Cromwell.

    “Ahemm. Walter is as ascetic. Like all our family, we model our lives on the early church fathers, and follow the pure unencumbered strictures of Our Saviour as translated by our dear brethren overseas. Back in Shropshire we live a simple life of devotion and prayer.”

    Ned gave what he considered to be a reformer’s tight smile and bowed again, while shooting Meg Black another curious glance. He still wasn’t sure how all this effected him. So this pair was as touched as the maddest Bedlamite. What was the point of dragging him away from the pleasures of his Christmas Revel?

    Lady Dellingham gave forth another of her peculiar throat clearings and started up again. “Ahemm!”

    In the meantime Meg, cursed be her name, Black spoke up. “My lady, it would be an honour to have him as our guest.”

    No it bloody well wouldn’t, screamed Ned’s daemon, though luckily all that come out was a slight strangled gasp. Even that sound gained an instant disapproving glare. Ned apologetically rubbed his throat as though the chill airs of the season were affecting him.

    “Ahemm! Master Bedwell, I hope that is not an ague? Poor Walter’s humours are so easily unbalanced. Even the sight of some poor soul coughing sends him into a deeply melancholy humour.”

    At this bizarre reproof, Ned was momentarily lost for an answer. He needn’t have bothered. Meg Black immediately stepped into the gap. “My lady, Master Bedwell is under the supervision of a most distinguished physician who, in the past, served the