A Comfit Of Rogues (4 page)

Authors: Gregory House

BOOK: A Comfit Of Rogues

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Meg crossed her arms and stared at Roger intently. If she had any say in the matter that arrogant attitude would be banished from both men. She didn’t need this bickering. The two of them held so much promise for the cause.

Inspiration it was said had a divine source, and in the midst of her growing anger the spark of reason shone forth, lighting a path to salvation. Her furrowed brow cleared and Meg smiled all kind solicitude. “Master Hawkins, I believe I have a task most fitting for your skills…and for our cause.”

Chapter Eight. A Chance goes Begging

Though the day was briskly chill and the breeze ruffled his ragged cloak Hugh didn’t mind. He was out of the
Labours of Ajax
and despite the stinging punishment for his errors had been given another important duty by his lord and master Old Bent Bart. He’d been sent to the Farrington Without Liberties a hunting one of the Lords of Mischief with an offer for alliance. How this chance came about he’d no idea, though there was his slightly blurry memory of the strange discussion last night between the Beggar master and the old Prioress of Paternoster Priory. That his betters routinely dealt with the weighty matters of high politics in the city hadn’t really occurred to him before. The daily concerns of a beggar, gaining enough food to fill out a lean belly, and escaping cuffs and curses kept him centred on the gutter level of existence. Now it was different and he strutted or at least hobbled with a certain puff–chested pride. Kut Karl might still glare at him with undisguised longing to inflict those forgiven lashes, but as ‘chosen messenger’ he still stood high in his master’s esteem.

Despite the chill day this honour gave Hugh a warm glow and given a morning’s respite as well as the blessed relief of the cooling ointment on his stripes, he now reckoned the slip in quality of service had been forgiven. Maybe even a chance of redemption. Old Bent Bart was favouring him with this choicest assignments and it must be a sure and certain sign of his value and growing stature amongst the ranks of the beggarly fraternity. Who knew what could happen? One Hobblin’ Hugh could sit at the right hand of his master at the May Day Revels, honoured and esteemed by his grovelling compatriots. Soon he’d earn enough for a less worn and tatty scarlet gown, something with substance that could more easily keep out the cold. Maybe if this current task went well his rewards could be a newer pair of shoes. To Hugh puffing and wheezing through the winter world of the Lords Frost and Misrule, where the season had once looked to be full of pain and privation, now it shone with promise and opportunity.

A flurry of snow whipped up at the corner of Seacoal Lane and Hugh bent low into the steep slope of road from Holburne Bridge seeking shelter. The icy impact of the crystals wiped away his daydreaming fancies and Hugh concentrated on the slippery footing of the road. The muck of the piss channel had overflowed then frozen sheeting the cobbles in a treacherous layer of ice. His iron–tipped crutch cautiously probed each step prodding the deceptive slick for a firm footing. All the while he had to hurry. It was vital he reach the Newgate Goal by the eleven o’ clock chimes of St Paul’s.

His sight was so locked on a safe and fast path up Snow Hill that his usual beggarly instincts were submerged by the effort not to slip over and tumble down the hill. So it was probably understandable why he missed the little clues like the soft crunch of snow behind him.

“Why if’n it ain’t me favoured limping little rat, Hugh o’ St Paul’s!” The long remembered and unwelcome voice hissed in his ear.

All a tremble Hugh spun around and made to hare off. An unwanted hand grasped his shoulder halting the attempted flight. Then a second easily swung him around and slammed his body into a nearby wall.

“How’s y’ been Hugh? The word on the streets is y’ been a busy lad an’ is graced wit’ such favour o’ ta Southwark wit, Old Bent Bart, and even messenger fo’ Captaine Gryne.”

Hugh flinched and tried to shrink away from the leering face of Roger Hawkins. Even the evil grin of Kut Karl was preferable to that of his current captor.

“Y’know I thought that were yea on the pallet at Greyfriars hospice yesterday, y’ twitching little nose poking out o’ them blankets. Then I wonders what would a limpin’ rat like yea be scurrying all over the Liberties?” Hawkins’s scarred face gave the most gruesome smile, full of the promise of torment and pain.

Hugh’s trembling made him shake like a leaf in an autumn storm. The tales of
Hawk’s
deeds were spoken in fearful hushed tones. Forty souls stood the tally, men, women and some whispered babes still suckling at the breast wrenched from the world by his bloody hand. Hugh’s mouth dried up like an abbot’s charity and rather than words he gasped out a rattling wheeze.

Hawks took that as a pleasant greeting and lent closer in a seemingly comradely manner. Hugh gulped in terror and shook his head trying to wedge his shoulders deeper into the unyielding wattle wall behind him as if seeking to burrow out of the trap. The pain of yesterday’s beating was forgotten in his urgent desire to be away from the most dangerous knifeman of London and the Liberties.

Whether mistaking his silence as reluctance to answer Hawks lent even close, his breath warm on Hugh’s face. “Now y’ miserable scurrying rat, y’ wouldn’t like ta end up at Wapping would yea?”

Like every lad in the city Hugh had hobbled past the Tower and over St Katherine’s bridge to view the display of captured pirates who suffering punishment for their crimes were chained to stakes at Wapping shore below the high water mark. They were suffered to undergo two turnings of the tide. It’d been hours o’ fun watching the water creep up their chests, then necks, and hearing the pleas and curses of the condemned. The chilling look in Hawks’ eyes hinted at a far from comforting familiarity with this particular form of punishment.

“N…N…No, no Master Hawks!” Hugh’s stammered reply must have had some effect because the evil promise of that smile receded and his assailant eased his tight grip then patted him on the head.

“There a good little rat. Now where’s y’ headin’ in such a rush?”

Hawks may have adopted a less menacing tone, but Hugh could sense that the former Liberties knifeman had his bloody beast only lightly tethered. So while considerations of loyalty to his master swayed one way, the demands of self–preservation pushed another. “I…I were going to Newgate.”

Hugh might have felt a rush of shame for this easy confession and his cheeks might even have reddened. However the chill and fear kept him pale and compliant.

“Really little rat? Now why would that be?”

Though evasion and artifice was the beggar’s stock in trade Hugh readily cast them aside in favour of the truth. “I’m ta spy the way.”

Hawks gave what Hugh hoped was a satisfied smile. “Is that so my scurrier? Who for?”

And Hugh paused swallowing loudly. Whether it was fear induced or an unexpected rush of bravery he couldn’t have said but his jaw clenched shut locking away any more words.

His captor though grinned with a knowing sneer and bent closer until he was almost eye to eye. “Ho, ho little rat, has the catkin got y’ tongue?”

Hugh tried to shake his head but fright or boldness still had its grip tightly upon him and Hawks gave a slow nod. “Y’ were comin’ from the Liberties and I’s only knows two rogues who y’d be a messengering to for Old Bart.”

Hugh swallowed his eyes wide in stunned surprise again.

Hawks gave a single nod as if Hugh had answered and asked his next question. “And were it Earless Nick?”

He couldn’t have told how his reaction gave the secret away but Hawks straightened up with a very satisfied glow in his eyes and dragged Hugh back into the street heading up the hill.

“But…but I’ve told you everything I knows!” Hugh wailed as he struggled to be free of the firm grip on his shoulder.

“Oh aye y’ ave little rat but now y’ goin’ ta help me with a little task. That’s nay asking ta much from y’ is it?”

This wasn’t a question to be answered and still shivering in gut wrenching terror Hugh limped as fast as he could to keep up with the long strides of Hawks. And every halting step he prayed fervently for a chance to see the morrow. As for his former good fortune he’s trade it two times over to be elsewhere. The glowering snarl of Kut Karl and the sting of his metal tipped lash suddenly seemed almost friendly.

Chapter Nine. A Cuddling Comfit

Jemmy sat on the bench by the blazing fire with a broad smile on his face and a brimming tankard in hand. To his eye life this Christmas season during the celebrations of the Lord of Misrule was packed full of amusement and entertainment. If pushed make judgement, it even beat the variety and opportunity of the St Bartholomew Great Fair and as Canting used to say that
‘were a very Cornucopia of Cosenage’
. What a Cornucopia was his lord hadn’t bothered to explain, just giving instead that enigmatic twitch of a smile.

Full of curiosity afterwards he’d stood the Bedwell lad a jug of Rhenish wine to give forth upon the perplexing phrase. As far as he could make out it had something to do with the antique Romans or Greeks and some kind of magical horn from which flowed a never ending supply of food and drink. Now would that be a source of gilt for any tavern keeper!

As it stood Jemmy felt like he had one of those horns now. The table in front of him groaned with roast beef, capons in almond douce sauce, smothered rabbits and onions, fine white manchet loaves, an array of savoury pottages and the lower half of a sugar plate subtlety of what he thought might have been a castle. All of it fair and free range for his enjoyment.

He took another pull at his tankard then cast a sideways glance at the rest of his escort. Young Will was seated at the next table. For once the lad wasn’t all a tremble and knock–kneed with terror. No, instead he had a perplexed frown on his face and was giving his lower lip a good gnaw as he inspected his hand of Hazard.

Jemmy shook his head and appeared to play closer attention to the feast before him than the card play across the way. Young Will had to learn sometime, and here in the Black Goat on Bride Lane was as good a place as anywhere. For one thing his opponents were unlikely to respect the lad’s kin relationship with Canting Michael, and if the lad got cony catched by One–eyed Cheswick and John Plybone then he deserved the stinging lesson to his purse. And most importantly in all of the Liberties under Earless Nick’s sway, two more ham fisted dicemen or clumsy cozeners were not to be found.

Anyway there was another deeper reason he allowed the current progress of the game with all its obvious flaws of deception and trickery. While they sat at leisure in the heart of Earless Nick’s demesne he wanted the Lord of the Liberties’ followers to think that the envoy party from Southwark were as gormless and naïve as could be possible and still manage to unlace a codpiece for a piss. As Canting had wryly suggested before their departure on this mission, it was better to appear dumber than a bucket of pig’s dribble than to be so. Jemmy fervently hoped that young Will was doing his best to fulfil this requirement because the alternative was too risky to joke about within earshot of Canting.

In the meantime to distract from the trio of woeful gamers Jemmy cast his eye over the common room of the Black Goat.
It was a cosy place boasting a decent sized stone–faced fireplace. Five tables filled the common area and from the several wall sconces evening’s light was by thick tallow rushes. Hmm, so Earless was prepared to spend a bit on decent lighting—that was intriguing. The self–proclaimed Lord of the Liberties had a reputation for skill with dice and cards. Maybe he wanted the extra illumination to enhance his chances at the gaming table. All of London had heard the rumours that the source of Master Throckmore’s wealth was via his success at games of chance.

A pair of ornate and expensive painted cloth panels hanging on the walls also hinted of a fellow with spare gilt and pretensions to real lordship. There were of course a few minor smudges to tarnish the gilding or in this case the faux tapestry. At present the yards of cloth were being very carefully sponged to remove the dark charcoal coloured swathes of smoke damage. Jemmy suppressed a knowing grin. Yet one more facet of the recent Bedwell tale clicked into place. To be cozened in his own den must have fair rankled Earless Nick and set off the recent gnawing canker for revenge.

As if these thoughts themselves had summoned the devil himself, Earless Nick stepped into the tavern and shook off the loose flakes of snow clinging to the lapin furred collar of his fine woollen gown. Now Jemmy had his cue, and rising to his feet he leaned across to clip young Will across the back of his head, no doubt saving him from deserved drubbing at Hazard. The rest of his party weren’t as slow and clustered behind Jemmy where, as in unison as could be expected, they bowed to the Lord of the Liberties. It may have been more ragged and clumsy than the polished fellows at court though Earless Nick took it as a sign of due deference and inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment as he swept past.

At a guess the Lord of the Liberties had been out surveying his domain, reminding merchants of their ‘fealty and rents’, since his party included Wall–eyed Willis and several other ‘lads’ of similar nasty indisposition. Earless also had that favoured punk of his on his arm. From what Jemmy recalled her name was Anthea and she ‘captained’ the punks of St Paul’s, as right a pack of spitting hellions as could be dredged up from the bowels of Newgate Gaol. To any fellow with the knowing of the habits of the Lords of Mischief, the promenading of this particular ‘escort’ was a curious act.

Continuing to mask his thoughts Jemmy kept up his usual cheeky grin as cap still in hand he approached the now occupied cloth covered chair of state. Anthea had given him a mildly curious passing glance then after a quiet word from her lord disappeared up the stairs at the end of the common room. This left Earless Nick very much enthroned in his domain, as lordly as any bishop and no doubt twice as arrogant.

“M’lord, I’s come with a message fo’ yea from my master Canting Michael.”

His humble deference received a short nod in reply and Earless beckoned him closer with a languid wave of his be ringed fingers. A servitor approached with a small stool and bowing his thanks Jemmy took up the offer seating himself almost opposite Earless Nick. As courtesy stood amongst the gentry of the rogues this was a visible display of honour, nay even an open hint of equality between Lords of Mischief via proxy. A second flicker of those scrupulously clean fingers set another minion scurrying, this time to approach with a platter holding a pair of gilt cups and a silver ewer. Making a nervous effort the scruffy servant mostly managed to pour the blood red wine into the matched cups without too much slopping over, and making much of the act, Earless himself passed one to his guest.

For a change Jemmy took only a shallow sip, and smacked his lips in open appreciation. The Lord of the Liberties must have as fine a cellar as old Cardinal Wolsey. As they both made the accustomed exchange of minor pleasantries Jemmy knew that Earless was sizing up this not quite unexpected presence in his lair. That was fine for he was doing the same.

Similar to the Bear Inn meeting, Earless was making a clear display of his wealth, topped by his usual velvet cap worn fashionably in a rakish tilt over those well combed golden locks, and as per his custom, hiding the scars of a pair of missing ear lugs. Broad shoulders supported a heavy scarlet gown in deep blue over a casually displayed shot silk doublet and white cambric shirt, the collar of which was picked out in fine black thread trace embroidery. Yes indeed, as gaudy as any gentleman at Court. By Jemmy’s estimation the ensemble would be easily worth a few pounds, enough to set any tailor a trembling with anticipation. It was also, Jemmy noticed, a different set from that worn at the Bear Inn the other day, an open statement of position and rank, as if any were needed.

Giving a cleansing and prodigious belch of satisfaction Jemmy casually, if somewhat clumsily, moved onto the meat of his visit. “M’ Master Canting was much impressed with yr’ reasoning an’ argument the tother day in Southwark. He’s had a while ta reflect on yr’ words an’ agrees that tis well past time the city had an Upright Man to stand for us against the puffed and preening cocks of Guildhall.”

Earless smiled pleasantly displaying as fine a set of teeth as any shark could boast. “I’m honoured that Master Canting thought so well of my little speech. He is a gentleman renowned throughout the city for his deep wisdom and clear foresight.”

Jemmy nodded readily at the praise as would any sensible lieutenant keen to keep his position…and unbroken bones, though he’d be prepared to wager that not many in Southwark considered Canting as a ‘bestower of wisdom’. Bruises and cracked heads more like. Jemmy pushed that wry consideration aside, as smiling openly he delivered the second weightier part of his message “Oh aye. Well yr’ see, Canting believes his own pushing for the title could be more a burden than boon. He’s a Southwark lad born and bred an’ the rogues o’ the city would nay be inclined to give him respect. Instead he’d be supping from a bitter cup of tribulations and unending dispute.”

Jemmy paused at this point, crumpling his face in sad and earnest regret. Earless Nick’s displayed a similarly reflected dismay but his ice blue eyes glittered with interest. “Hmm, I’m grieved to hear this. How can I ease Canting’s concerns?”

Jemmy sighed, playing it up as though carrying Job’s own burden of strife. “Y’ see, tis Captaine Gryne. Between his ‘rents’ and rowdy rogues Canting finds himself in a tight bind. Anytime he steps beyond Southwark he’s afeard that Gryne will slip in behind and snap up all the Bankside. So he feels a mite crowded with obligations and responsibilities already.”

Earless made a sympathetic tsk tsking sound and lent forward to put a friendly and consoling hand on Jemmy’s shoulder. “I see. That must be a sore trial for Canting. However if he had a
‘friend’
in the city would that ease his concerns?”

As if on cue Jemmy nodded like the veriest country cony. “Oh
aye
, Master Throckmore, t’would indeed an’ o’ course Canting would be right grateful to any such
‘friend’
.”

As is said, between rogues of the city a nod’s as good as a wink for the kind of agreement that needn’t be spoken. Earless Nick lent back into his chair his face aglow with the exact replica of a smile possessed by a cat with the buttery key and tapped his long fingers together. “Gulping Jemmy, as a sign of my mutual regard for your master, would you care to accompany me to watch a Misrule mummer’s play by Newgate Markets this noon time?”

This was neither an invitation nor a request. Jemmy raised his gilt cup in toast and downed its contents in a single swallow.

If possible Earless Nick’s smile widened and the first touch of a fierce passion warmed his chilling eyes. “By the bye, I’d recommend your lads have their cudgels to hand. I’ve heard that the Misrule Plays are rife with rogues and roisters this Yuletide.”

Since Jemmy was a wagering fellow, he’d be double damned if he couldn’t lay a bet that by nightfall several London lads would be nursing cracked pates. What’s more if Earless Nick’s plans held true, three shillings said one of them would be named Bedwell.

Chapter Ten. All’s Fair at the Frost Fair

Stepping cautiously onto the rough ice from the Fish Street river stairs Meg slowly surveyed the layout of the Thames Frost Fair. It was larger than she’d imagined, stretching some two hundred yards upriver from the starlings of the bridge, and tailing off towards Baynard’s Castle in a stray scatter of stalls. Despite the hundreds of people casually strolling over the frozen river she gave the ice a good stomp with her foot while still holding onto the rough timber of the pier. Ahh yes, no hollow boom or soft screeching tinkle of treacherous cracks answered her. It barely seemed possible that the majestic Thames, the steady pulse of the city’s blood, could be halted by the chilling breath of Lord Winter. She’d heard of this happening before in tales from her father but until the two firm feet of reality stepped upon the frozen waves, it was as difficult to credit as anything other than some old beggar’s moon spun tale.

Trusting to the evidence of her eyes and feet, and rejecting the shrill nervous warnings of her innermost fears, Meg stepped forward onto the frozen river. All it took was an act of faith. She kept on repeating to herself that the Good Lord her shepherd wasn’t about to melt this frosted Faerie realm with his breath just as his faithful servant apprentice apothecary Meg Black was about to chance another venture in his name. The surface by the stair was rough and slippery and Meg suppressed the urge to shriek in fright and panic as her footing attempted to skid from beneath her. Perhaps she may have gripped the shoulder of young Robin too hard, but the scullery lad had a short metal pointed staff which he dug into the ice at every step.

Several paces later she regained her normal composure. They’d reached one of the laid out trails of straw and she apologised to Robin for discomforting him. The young knave just grinned back at her and she suppressed her natural instinct to cuff the impudent lad. Meg shook her head and concentrated on the task at hand, anger banished by a quick prayer, though as her spirit warned, the devil set snares for even the most faithful. It had to be this dreadful business with Bedwell that was so distracting.

Concentration, that was it. Deal with the task before her. Meg smiled at the memory of her mother’s admonishments for straying from her duties, distracted by dew on a spider’s web or the flight of a wren.

Whoever had conceived of the Frost Fair was damned clever. The stalls and booths were arranged in four rough lines that imitated the layout of a parish market. Using the side of the booth Meg boosted herself up a few feet and surveyed the scene. From this level the Fair more closely resembled a pair of streets that ran parallel to each other and so the crowd would travel Westminster wards and then back before drifting off either towards Fish Street or Southwark.

Now the question was why had she been so dramatically summoned here? Ignoring the decorum of her status Meg climbed further up the rickety support of the stall, eliciting a number of squealing complaints from the stall owner and disapproving frowns and comments from a passing cluster of street gossips. There were times like this that she was greenly envious of the extra height of her brother Rob and that cursed rogue Bedwell, let alone the natural swaggering arrogance of all codpiece stuffers.

Meg shook her head dismissing the constant annoyance of men and their loathsome habits. Now where would a messenger be? That oh so difficult of tasks took less than a minute. She could have pinched herself at the obviousness of it. Hopping down she wove her way to the largest stall with a bound brush of holly tied to a pole. Of course, where else to look but in an instant ale house?

She’d cast loose Robin with a penny in hand and instructions meet her here at the tolling of the bells for ten o’ clock. By her estimate this wasn’t due for some half hour or so thus giving the lad enough time to stroll around the Fair but not enough to get lost. In the meantime Meg gained a measure of privacy for her meeting. Once inside the rowdy stall her target was easy to spot. Not many men in London could claim to exceed the height of the Duke of Suffolk or His Sovereign Majesty. Anyway even sitting down Captaine Gryne stood out in any crowd. His sweeping forked red beard guaranteed that.

A nervously looking stallholder with a greasy leather apron and lanky black hair was reluctantly sliding a few clipped silver pennies across the table towards the smiling Captaine. Seeing her approach he turned aside and muttered a few words to his clerk then leant across the table and slapped a hand on the stall holder’s shoulder. “Nay ta worry Lankin. Yr’ as safe as is if’n yr were m’ own bairn.”

From Meg’s viewpoint that cheerful reassurance didn’t seem to inspire poor Lankin who slunk off looking as if he’d sold his soul as well as that of his oldest child to Satan and only got a slab of board hard dried cod in return.

Her welcome though was a little different. The Captaine slapped the table with his large hand, sounding off like one of the Great Gonnes at the Tower during one of his Majesties celebrations. “A flagon o’ ta best for my guest and I’s reckons everyone ‘ere needs a spell o’ sunshine.”

Whether the small crowd felt a sudden need for the bitingly chill air and snowflakes or not they got the message. Between one breath and the next the ale house emptied. Meg watched slightly bemused and took a seat at the now empty bench. She’d heard more than a few tales about the Captaine’s business methods.

“So lass, I sees ya’ got my message.”

While she was bursting to ask about the cryptic message culled from the bible, Meg held firm to her priorities and pulling out a small weighted purse dropped it on the rough–hewn table before the smiling Captaine Gryne. “I want protection for Bedwell. That purse contains ten angels, double the bounty on him.”

For a moment the Captaine sat there blinking in amazement then once more his hand hit the table in a loud crack and he threw his head back in a loud rumbling laugh.

Meg was none too impressed by this reception of her ‘gift’, and frowned darkly before throwing down another clinking purse. It bounced and come to rest next to its twin. “That’s twenty angels Gryne, and double next week if you deal with these rogues!”

The Captain’s laughter slowly rumbled to a halt as still smiling he shook his head. “Sae much gilt fa one lad! Young Bedwell must hae the very harp o’ the queen o’ the Sidhe to enchant y’r heart so.”

Meg took a deep calming breath and tried to tell herself she wasn’t blushing at the jest. Her teeth locked tight on her first impulsive response and she whispered a short prayer, then folding her hands on the table spoke quietly and without heat. “No Captaine Gryne, that is not so. I…I hold Ned Bedwell in only the normal regard of one Christian to another. It is just that his de…ah I mean his removal would cause terrible harm to our current, ahh shall we say, venture.”

Gryne kept up that infuriating smile that Meg thought hovered on the edge of smirking insolence. However the Captaine of mercenaries didn’t laugh. Instead he slowly shook his head and for an instant Meg’s breath froze in apprehension. “Nay lass, if’n that’s how yea have y’r friendship then I’ll nay speak against it.”

They may have been kind words but Gryne’s actions spoke louder and chilled her soul. He pushed back the two purses of coin. “I can nay take this, lass.”

“What! Why not? My coins are untainted by assaying or clipping, as well you know!”

“Y’r gilt is nay the cause.”

“What then,
Captaine
Gryne?” It seemed to Meg that Gryne flinched slightly at the hard tones of her question.

“Ahh y’r see, there’s a comfit an’ compact between the Masters o’ Rogues o’ the city ta settle the matter o’ the Upright Man between us.”

“So?”

“Ahh, Bedwell’s head is the prize o’ the lordship.”

The silence after this reluctant answer stretched long and icy. Gryne appeared to fidget nervously and his eyes refused to meet hers. For her part Meg gritted her teeth and hissed a long and mostly silent plea for divine aid regarding the stupidity of measle brained men. Finally holding on to her temper by the merest width of a fingernail she voiced her coldly angry incredulity. “And you signed this
Comfit of Rogues
?”

Gryne made smacking noises with his lips and folded his arms across a broad chest before hesitantly rumbling out an answer. “Ahh…Aye… y’ see ta my thinking was safer for Bedwell ta be in the hunt than out of it.”

Meg frowned in deep disdain at this explanation and held back from commenting on what she thought of this clearly Bedlamite reasoning.

Gryne though must have taken her glower for understanding and continued. “I’d nay worry lass. I suspect this bill on Bedwell will nay run for long. Ta my mind this comfit is like a parcel o’ cats an’ a large fish. Sooner or later one o’ the catkins takes it into his mind that the others are eating the finest parts an ‘es left with naught but the bones an’ scales. Then they set to a bickerin’ an’ a brawlin’.”

With that Captaine Gryne gave a short nod and a smile, obviously satisfied with his comparison.

Meg though was still sceptical. It sounded awfully simplistic to her ear even if it did involve rogues puffed up with conceit and arrogance.

“Ahh, by the byes, where’s the lad now?”

“Why?” Her abrupt reply was so weighted and double shot with suspicion it could have been fired from a great Gonne.

Gryne chewed over his answer for a moment or so then made a casual wave with his hand. “Nay reason in particular lass.”

Meg paused a moment to consider his airy answer. Was Gryne fishing for information or giving an oblique warning? With a face like his so covered in beard it was hard to tell. Giving rein to her suspicions Meg temporised. “As we speak Ned Bedwell is no doubt dicing, gaming an’ playing the tosspot at the Sign of the Spread Eagle. Tam Bourke, one of your men I think, is the Revels’ door warden.”

There, let him work that out. The word in the city was that Gryne held a contract as sacred as holy writ. If retained, his lads would readily spend their blood in a patron’s defence, or at least so it was said. Meg hadn’t come across any disgruntled customer. However a nagging doubt whispered, well you wouldn’t would you. They’d be dead.

The Captaine though seemed to take that statement in good part and nodded, stroking at this beard. “Oh aye? Good ta hear. He could nay be safer in the Tower.”

Hmm now where did that come from? Meg felt a sense of growing unease. Had she in fact been lured here as a distraction?

She knew for a fact that Ned was close locked with that slimy weasel Walter Dellingham. He’d warned her that their precocious charge was jibing at his chains, both physical and metaphorical, and as a treat for two days good behaviour Ned had promised to take him to a small cock fight near Newgate Goal. According to his reports it’d be sometime towards the one o’ clock chimes then they’d meet her by the Redd Lyon by Newgate markets for a sup of the tavern’s ordinary, after which they’d all head off on their mission to succour the poor souls in Newgate Gaol.

The arrangement was fair enough. Reedman and two others from the Revels had promised to be escort, but now…Meg shook her head to clear the phantoms and giving the table her own thump with a fist, pressed on with the other purpose of the visit. “Captain Gryne, the missive I received made a suggestion regarding an advantage for my present venture.
A Southwark friend says Lord Frost’s Fair blessing tis a fertile field ta plough ta seed o’ ta spirit.
Let’s cut through all the cryptic word games that so amuse Dr Agryppa. What’s it mean?”

Once more Gryne’s chuckle rumbled and his face spilt into a wide and decidedly wicked grin. “Why lass, I should nay have thought I’d have ta tell yea.”

A pointed silence, a raised eyebrow and an impatient tap of her fingers on the table was all the answer she’d give to that.

“The Frost Fair lass, is nay covered by London or Southwark, an’ nay the church either. So it sits in the midst o’ the Lord o’ Misrule’s domain with no appointed fair wardens or constables save Gryne’s Men.”

His eye twinkled at the last few words and Meg didn’t need the hint. A whole fair packed to the gunwales with players, mummers, balladeers, minstrels and all manner of entertainers, each and every one of them free of the hovering menace of the Bishop of London and the Church courts. And all during the topsy–turvy time and lordship of Misrule. Every one of them keen for ready silver.

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