The Liberties of London by Gregory House Page B

at Robarts for winning the dice throw that put him here. Grumbled about missing out on the pork and pease pudding was acceptable, but no…not the dice. They were Nick’s own set and you’d have to be seriously piss–drunken to challenge Earless Nick on the roll of his ‘lovely pair o’ducks’. Anyway Nick was in one of his strange fancies this night, so it was probably safer out here in the snow. Once more John stamped his chilled feet. Thankfully, the boots he pulled off that fool last week, allowed enough room to stuff in the extra rags. He gave the black night sky a forlorn glance. The clouds, from what he could see, were low and heavy. It’d be a far dump of snow later, he’d wager. By Christ’s bones, he hoped ol’ Toby had sobered up by then. Twas his turn from the ten o’ the clock chimes. John gave a grimace and coughed. Damned cloak had more holes in it than a whore’s chastity. Slipping off wasn’t an option either. Nick had flogged One eyed Cheswick for that sin last week. So rather than a raw back, he’d suffer the cold.

    In the midst of all this chill, cheerless Christmas, John heard singing, and from the vocals, it was neither angelic nor a wayward choir. No Christmas carolling this, unless it was the style that went on in the many ‘Liberties Nunneries’. As the off tune song warbled closer, John gave a gloating smile. Oh yes, this was a cursed sight more earthly. Most hymns he’d heard didn’t extol the warmth and charity of an abbess’s cony, or the abbot’s fondness for its soft pelt. Now, that was a carolling he could get used to. A fine voice, if somewhat slurred. As the singer wavered into view, John could make out a well dressed gentleman staggering down the lane, giving out his all with a few country ballads. He easily recognised Cakes and Ale.

    “I give ‘er sack, I gave ‘er ale, I gave er cake, I gave ‘er gold.

    “I kiss’t ‘er wonce, an’ kiss’t ‘er twice, an’….an’…an’, oh yes, she gaven me all!”

    “Opppp! Ahhhhhhh!” “God’s blud! Ahhhhhh! By the Devil’s ‘own arse, better ‘ut than in!”

    John blessed his patron saint for putting him on duty. This was a true Christmas gift, a tosspot ready for rolling. Eagerly he stepped out into the lantern’s light. “Ho good clerk, where are y’ bound this cruel night?”

    “What? What? Where are ye, varlet? Can ye tell where…Ahhhhhh! By t’ Devil’s own cod’s, a veritable trumpet! A trumpet I says. What says ye, sirrah?”

    John had stepped forward to catch the unsteady figure, when the gentleman let out a monster of a belch, and he’d been forced to lean back as the wave of consumed brandy wine rolled over him. His grin widened like a shark. This was going to be so easy. The fellow could hardly stand. Having been a nip as a lad, he could still lift a coin or two with practiced ease.

    “What say ye sirrah? Where do I fin’ t’ Bludy Goat?”

    John easily slipped an arm under the swaying figure. This was the best Christmas ever! This tosspot actually wanted to go to the Black Goat. Damn him for a sack soaked fool, Earless Nick would fleece him in a trice and best of all, that were a very, very fine, thick gown the belcher had on, just right for a winter evening on guard.

    “Why, Sir Clerk, lean on me, an I’ll take y’ there, a warm fire and the best sack in all the Liberties.” John chuckled with not so false glee.

    Then five paces from the door, his charge stumbled and dropped towards the snow. John, with his heavy build, steadied the poor drunken cony and reached down to check the purse. As he did so his victim twisted suddenly and a strange puff of dust flew into his face as he breathed in. For an instant he was puzzled, then…then the burning pain clawed up his nose and down his throat. His eyes streamed with tears and all three felt like they’d been scalded with burning ashes. With his hands clutched to his fiery throat, John dropped to the snow desperately pushing his