Free The Fetter Lane Fleece by Gregory House Page A

his hand. And just think, during these twelve nights of Christmas, didn’t he have so much to be thankful for. Now he was hanging off the Fleete Ditch Bridge. Oh, how could it be better?
    Ned wedged his hand further into the unyielding stone and mortar. Let him see. Of course, Mistress damn her arrogance Black, she could be here instead of him. Oh wait no, no. What would be more fitting was that meepish little rat, the reformist lost lamb, Walter Dellingham! But wait, his daemon supplied one name above all, one name that well and truly deserved to be here; Gruesome Roger Hawkins. It was the fault of that surly retainer of the Black’s that Ned was here swinging off a piece of iron, waiting to plunge to an ignominious end. Oh Christ on the Cross no, not drowned in turds!
    As Ned made an effort to remember a prayer, any prayer, he heard the scraping of a boot on the cobbles of the bridge above him. Slowly the scuffing came closer. Damn—more of Earless Nick’s minions. He’d already gone through three—wasn’t that enough? Anyway that complaint was moot. It was not as if he could get to his dagger or sword—they were up there on the bridge. Possibly he could push himself hard against the stone wall. It was damned dark down here and the bridge lanterns didn’t cast even a smidgen of light this way. The boots hit his sword and the metal chimed on the cobbles. The outline of a figure peered over the edge as if looking straight at him. Ned wasn’t sure whether or not he should call out.
    Then a low voice spoke above him. “Well bless me, it really is Christmas. Fancy finding y’ here Bedwell. Wotcha doin’ down there? Is Walter with y’?”
    Ned closed his eyes for a moment and, to keep his temper in check, slowly counted up to ten—in Latin. “No. No, I don’t have lost lamb Walter here! Now for the love of all the saints, Roger bloody Hawkins, get me up!”
    “Tch tch. That’s a fair nasty tongue on y’ this evening, Red Ned Bedwell.”
    At the wryly amused tone, Ned ground his teeth and sent up another prayer, this time calling on forbearance. “Forgive me Master Hawkins. I’m cold, my arms hurt and damn Walter’s slipped off again.”
    The shadow changed shape as Gruesome Roger Hawkins squatted by the broken wall, no doubt to help him up. “Yeah remember, Bedwell, the day when y’ challenged me at the tavern?”
    “Yes, yes I do.” How could he forget it? That instant in time, just a few days ago was the very harbinger of his hanging off a rusty iron staple on Fleete Street Bridge.
    “ Yeah, well so do I Bedwell, an’ I’ll remind y’ of what my reply was. By God’s Blood, afore the week’s out y’ goin’ to rue those words, y’ll be wadin’ through a river o’ shit to beg my forgiveness.”
    Ned sighed. Oh yes he remembered that part.
    “Well Bedwell, here we are, an’ I’m waiting.”
    Ned blinked a few times in sheer surprise. This damned retainer was expecting him to apologise? What of his honour, his dignity, his natural superiority as an apprentice lawyer? As an instance of poor timing, the iron staple, which former Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster should have replaced along with repairing the broken wall, chose now to ease out from its mortared hole. “Ahh Meg Black isn’t nearby by, is she?”
    At this point even the shrewish comments of an ungrateful Mistress Black were preferable to what awaited below. Even in the dull gloom of the lanterns Ned could see the glint of Gruesome Roger’s smile and the shake of his head. “No, she’s tending someone down the road. I’s can go an’ get her if y’ want.”
    The iron squealed and Ned’s heart thumped rapidly. “No, ahh it’s fine!”
    “I can come back later if’n y’ want Bedwell.”
    If there was one aspect of his character, apart from his intelligence, that Ned was justifiably proud of, it was his practicality. After all, when hanging twenty foot over a frozen river of ordure, practicality was practically a