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daemon suggested some devious motive, but his better angel vetoed it, instead raising the matter of Christian charity and fellowship. Of the two explanations, Ned tended towards the first.

    A few more strange ideas collided in his imaginings. Those old chivalric tales, with the maiden a–sobbing and a–sighing, always had some manner of rivalry between two contenders for her attentions. Could that be it? Meg Black, the most practical of girls, hadn’t rigged this situation and dragged him away from his Christmas Revels, just to have him enact a storybook competition for the hand of the fair damsel. No, Ned shook his head. It couldn’t be so. After all she’d need another claimant, an opposing rival…and there was none.

    Until Ned’s daemon pointed him to the right of Meg, at Walter. Once more Ned denied the path of his daemon’s snide whispers. Walter wasn’t even vaguely possible as a rival. The weedy lad was from a reform minded family true, but the fellow was humbler than a cony and according to his mother had a diet to match, happy to munch on lettuce and carrots. In spite of the ridiculousness of the suggestion, his daemon continued to niggle. Why not? Wasn’t this all too coincidental? Remember how after they’d been left with Walter, he’d cast his mournful gaze upon Meg and asked in that weak–kneed, wheedling voice if they could ‘please’ go to St Paul’s. Because, as he’d claimed, his family had railed so much against the Bishop of London, if they accompanied him then he’d feel brave enough to see the devil’s lair.

    That was the reason they’d had to endure this two hour session instead of visiting secret bible study classes. Oh, on that point Ned’s recrimination shuddered to a halt. Meg had dragged him along to one, three weeks ago. It had been more of an ordeal than the Christmas Mass. They’d all been so secretively intense, asking him passionately if he’d been saved. No, Christmas Mass, for all its errors was preferable.

    Though once more he bent his gaze Walter–wards, while previously he’d been almost nuzzling up to Meg, now their friend, the cony, was busy craning his neck over his shoulder, peering towards the shadowy back of the building. In the meantime his daemon ticked over a few plans. Kidnapping was out since Cromwell was involved. So was a duel. Public humiliation could work, hmm there was a possibility. His better angel roundly chastised him for the wicked thoughts. He had to agree. Humiliation could create sympathy. Everyone knew how flighty and unpredictable women were.

    However his ever helpful daemon nudged one intriguing idea out into the light. Hmm. Ned gave their ‘guest’ a slit eyed inspection. Yes, yes that could work and would somehow be so appropriate. Ned pushed off from his place by the pillar, shifted towards his target and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Walter, my fine fellow. What say we leave this den of Satan’s imps and get some fresh air? I certainly feel the need to take a piss. My bladder’s fuller than a bishop’s cellar.”

    With that Ned speedily levered his mark away from his fellow guardians and gave them a cheery wave. “Back soon. Let us know what happens at the end of the sermon!”

    Both Gruesome Roger and Meg glared at him. One was puzzled, the other suspicious. Ned ignored them and quickly pushed the compliant Walter out the door.

    Even in the heavy Christmas snow the daily affairs of London didn’t stop. Ned gave a quick glance around and spotted the prominent cluster of colour, sheltering under the eaves of a tavern across from the church. With a hefty grip on the shoulder of his charge, he steered him towards a nearby wall. “Walter my fine fellow, I take it you’ve never been to London before?”

    “Ah… ah, no Master Bedwell. Never. My mother said it was a sink hole of depravity where harlots strutted openly on every street.”

    Ned gave the gaudy gathering several yards away another rapid scan. Hmm, Lady