The Fetter Lane Fleece by Gregory House Page A

the girls sighing in raptures over his welcoming smile. Ned had found that aspect mildly frustrating when they’d gone drinking in the city taverns. All the girls and punks instantly fell for Rob with his cornflower blue eyes, while Ned Bedwell, handsome, well dressed apprentice lawyer, as his daemon sourly affirmed, was an after thought—though Rob was too good a company so he ignored his daemon’s whining.
    A now freed heavy hand thumped him companionably on the shoulder. “Ned, this private Christmas feast is excellent, thanks for inviting me!”
    Ned returned the smile. Asking Rob Black to be his business partner in this venture didn’t need any consideration. Lady Fortuna had blessed him last year when he’d been at his most desperate with barely two groats to rub together. Rob had been rescuing a poor abused country goodwife from the rough frolics of some city apprentices, as Ned had been passing by. In that glorious moment Ned had seen the golden gift of opportunity. He’d put across a credible story and immediately enrolled Rob in a cony catching play, all to recoup a hundred angels from the notorious Paris Bear Gardens owner and Southwark gang lord, Canting Michael.
    It had worked brilliantly and despite what Rob’s sister, Meg Black, continually claimed, Ned couldn’t be held to blame if the immediate aftermath had involved a number of unforeseen complications. After all, how was he to know they’d be accused of the murder of a Royal official? Or have an urgent need to clear their names of treason by consorting with a supposedly deceased doctor who was a practitioner of the dark arts of divination? It was said that the politics of the Royal Court under their beloved sovereign, King Henry VIII, could be dangerous. That had proved to be an understatement. It was mercilessly vicious with friendship and loyalty only smile deep.
    Though that peril was now consigned to the past, here and now was a time of celebration. Ned raised his cup. “My good friends and companions, I give you a toast, on this, the eve of Our Saviour’s birth. Good health, good cheer, good company and may we all be as drunk as bishops by Twelfth Night!”
    A rousing cheer rang through the feasting room and the assorted apprentice lawyers and clerks hammered the table in a drum roll as the rest of the trays were laid out. The loudest cry came as the roasted pig made its way through the door. Ned had planned the revels to begin with a well laid feast of some fifteen courses, including poached salmon, venison pies and a march pane, almond sugar centre piece in the manner of the gate house of Gray’s Inn. That had been particularly difficult to organise. However Meg Black surprisingly offered to solve the problem. No doubt in her position as an apprentice apothecary she’d have sugar and spices by the pound, as well as access to more extensive kitchens. As the three foot tall subtlety was carefully displayed on the two tier buffet table Ned consoled himself that Rob’s annoying sister had come through and without levering an invitation. That was convenient. He didn’t know how he would have explained the diaphanously clad maidens playing the harp, shawm and tambour in the corner. She wasn’t the kind of lass who’d accepted the excuse of a Christmas tableaux in the manner of Ancient Romans.
    Since he was host, Ned had taken a seat at the head of the table and after one of their number intoned an appropriate pray for the day, began to tuck into the first course, the venison pies. It was one of the specialties of the Spread Eagle Tavern. Henry Simkins, the taverner, was known to supply the Barber Surgeon’s Hall at Muggle Street. As all the lads at the Chancery knew the provender at their celebrations was almost as fine as the Mercers Guild, the wealthiest of the London guilds.
    Ned was happily swapping the latest tale of Cardinal Wolsey’s woes with John Reedman, one the Chancery clerks, when Tam Bourke, their intimidating door warden,