The Fetter Lane Fleece by Gregory House Page B

lumbered over to him and bending down, whispering loudly in his ear. “Ned there’s a’ messenger fo’ yea at the stairs.”
    “Do you know him? Who’s he from?”
    “Oh aye. He’s that grim faced livery man o’ the apothecary lass yea sweet on.”
    Ned stifled an immediate retort denying the fact. Any rumours of his affairs of the heart or otherwise were not something he wanted bandied about amongst the gossips of the Inns. By the description, that could only be one person, Meg Black’s looming henchman, Roger Hawkins or as Ned preferred to think of him, Gruesome Roger.
    “Tam, is it a tall, scar faced fellow with an iron shod cudgel hanging from his belt?”
    “Aye that be him.”
    Ned pursed his lips in thought. When he’d called around earlier, Meg Black had been busy with her common apothecary duties mixing herbs and the like. She hadn’t expressed any need for his company and apart from a brief snippy jibe at his propensity for including her brother in dubious enterprises, she’d been passably friendly for a change.
    Ned leant across the table and asked Reedman to play the host while he dealt with his caller. His fellow clerk from Gray’s was reasonably dependable and had a good reputation at the Inns for solving arguments of precedence.
    He’d left Tam on the landing as he made his way down to the bottom of the stairs. The Blacks’ retainer was standing on his own by the fire, giving the tavern’s customers a quizzical scowl. The recent snow melted and steamed off his cloak giving him the appearance of a visitor from the nether regions, an image not improved by the scar that ran across his face half closing his right eye. That was Hawkins all right. No one else in London could match that cynical visage, not even the leering grotesque carvings in the parish churches.
    The retainer’s roving eye quickly caught sight of Ned and he strode over to the foot of the stairs and growled out his message. “Hey Bedwell. Y’re wanted at the apothecaries immediately, so stop guzzling wine and stuffing your face.”
    Ned stepped off the last tread and consciously straightened up. They were of similar height, though Gruesome Roger had the lean and rangy appearance of wolf. In Ned’s opinions the lupine cousin had more manners. “I do not come or go at the beckoning of Mistress Black! I have business here this evening. Kindly give her my regrets.” Ned made an effort to put all the disdain he felt into that rebuff, though the answer didn’t appear to sit well with Meg her retainer.
    Gruesome Roger frowned and shook his head. “Y’ right, of course Bedwell. What am I saying? Y’r y’r own master o’course. By the way y’r cods are unlaced.”
    Instinctively Ned glanced down to check. The evil cackle of Gruesome Roger told him he’d been cony catched.
    “So yea haven’t started with the bevy o’ punks y’ got up there? Just as well Mistress Margaret told me to fetch y’. Whether you got your hose on or around your ankles makes no difference ta me.”
    Ned’s temper, never on much of a tight rein, spurred him to lash out with his own retort. “You loathsome lewdster, Hawkins. That’s a gathering of gentlemen up there, not some tumbledown ale house, like you inhabit where they hump poxed punks against the wall ‘cause they can’t find any sheep that’ll have them!”
    Gruesome Roger was still for a moment, then his sneering grin returned. “Oh Bedwell, by God’s Blood, afore the weeks out, y’ goin’ to rue those words. Y’ll be wading through a river o’shit to beg my forgiveness.”
    “If wishes were fishes, Hawkins, your net’d still be empty.” Ned turned his back on the unwanted messenger and began to head back up the stairs. A hand grabbed his sleeve pulling him backwards.
    Ned spun around put a hand on his dagger and snarled. “Unhand me Hawkins. The Blacks may treat you as family, but damned if I don’t know you for a common foister!”
    “Y’know Bedwell, any time you want,