A Comfit Of Rogues (5 page)
Read A Comfit Of Rogues Online
Authors: Gregory House
Meg gasped as ideas blossomed like spring time flowers. The opportunities were astounding and best of all, the Lady would so approve of the sleight of hand to cock a snook at Bishop Stokesley and the dour Archbishop Fischer. Caught up in the inspiration she jumped to her feet. “Captaine, would you care to introduce me to the folk of the Frost Fair?”
“Such a rush lass. Y’ve nay finished y’ wine.”
“There is so much to do here and I’ve patients to tend.” Meg kept it short and brisk as she strode to the canvas doorway with an amused Captaine Gryne struggling to catch up. The one thing Meg didn’t say was that if she hurried there was a good chance she’d beat Bedwell and company to Newgate.
Though the Captaine had said nothing specific, it was that gaping hole in the conversation around Ned’s immediate safety that almost had her rigidly mortified in fearful worry. She prayed fervently that Roger’s current cosenage would keep Ned safe. After all if a Liberties rogue would cut a throat without a moment’s hesitation for six pence, what would they do for five angels?
Chapter Eleven. A Procession To Newgate
It may have a been a chill day with grey lowering clouds and a winter brisk enough to set old men shaking their heads, grimly comparing these frosty visitations to those of a rosier past. Phil Flydman, if he’d heard though, would have laughed at their grumbling. To his view this day was full of the warm spring promise of prosperity. It was the most splendid of days and in the future he’d always mark it with a special celebration and feast. Considering the season of course it’d have to be a revel, with the best Rhenish and sweet brandywine, a roast suckling pig and a sugared subtlety, larger and taller than the one over at the Black Goat. And all in honour of London’s newly acclaimed Lord of Misrule – Flaunty Phil of the Wool’s Fleece.
A few days ago his standing in the company of the Masters of the city was looking to be lower than that of a tosspotting piss carter with the shaking ague and all thanks to that cozening lawyerly rogue Bedwell. In recollection of that night of shame Phil ground his teeth and growled loudly, causing a passing gaggle of chattering street gossips to flinch and quickly cross themselves. He barked a bitter snarling laugh in their direction, setting them a squealing and a fluttering off down the street in frightened panic, their skirts a twitching behind them.
His gang of Wool’s Fleece roisters joined in the merriment as they imitated their leader and with a flurry of lewd hand gestures and ribald suggestions cleared the street of the bothersome women. One old fishwife still gamely standing her ground by the small stall of ice frosted eels returned curse for curse and bid them be off, or else the parish constables would see their heads cracked.
He had to stop. The surge of mirth was too much and Flaunty Phil rocked back and forwards as his bellowing laugh bounced from wall to wall. Eventually after wiping the tears from his eyes he’d regained his normally affable nature and strolling over to the curse–spitting old besom, casually kicked out the props of her small stall. The eels tumbled into the brown slushed snow unleashing a new torrent of invective. At each called phrase Phil smiled and nodded. The old girl certainly had a fine grasp of the riverside slang. She must have humped a clear gross of wharf men to pick up such a full selection.
After a few minutes when the repetition began to bore him Phil slapped the fishwife across the mouth. “Listen y’ old besom, howl all y’ like. Nought a constable, beadle or sergeant will poke their noses out o’ the tavern today. Snow Hill ta Newgate is mine so clear off!”
The fishwife returned a final angry glare as she bundled the road muddied eels into her apron before scurrying off. Phil was tempted to flick an improvised snow ball after her like he used to do as a lad, but refrained at the last instant. That wasn’t an act becoming of his imminent dignity. Instead he sauntered back to his gang of Fleecers with a flutter of his fingers as he’d seen the courtiers employ as a sign of disdain. It was well received with a round of hearty cheers.
Thus having spread the word of his arrival in the most useful fashion, Phil resumed his triumphal progress up Snow Hill. This was a good day and to think it had started so poorly back in the Wool’s Fleece on Fetter Lane. Delphina had been a cursed, whinny punk since that affray by the Fleete Ditch Bridge. All night she’d moaned about what the Bedwell brat had done to her hair. And if that where all, he’d have gritted his teeth and borne it, but the stupid slut had then gone on about how the bruises ruined her complexion. As expected her snarky complaints about his lack of regard blew up into a screaming row with her going on about slights to her honour!
Delphina may be his favourite girl and a fine earner with the bath tub cozenage but Flaunty Phil took abuse from no one and especially not a measly lying punk. The extra bruises would no doubt reduce her price, though his blows had steered clear of her face. He wasn’t a lackbrained fool to damage an asset too much. Delphina would limp for a week or so, not that it mattered for her work. Next time she’d remember who was master of the Fleece.
By Lazarus’s rotten crotch it was as foul a way to greet the dawn as a man could be cursed with. What did he wake to? A piss poor hump and a hefty serve of screeching bitchery. All the fault of that Inns of Court weasel, Bedwell. To be cony catched in his own hall! By the left arm bone of St Anthony he swore he’d have revenge.
He could see it now, Bedwell trussed up on the ground before him, a pleading and a begging for his life. Phil had lovingly replayed the scene over and over in his mind. Yes, first the pleas for mercy and of course he’d consider them and being magnanimous suggest a ‘repayment’ of four pounds value might ease Bedwell’s ‘debts’. He’d even draw up a contract using that tame Gray’s Inn scribbler,
Gylberte Fowlke. Then Bedwell would be stored in Delphina’s secret room—for ‘safety’. Anyway the walls were thick and the screams were rarely heard out in Fetter Lane. Afterwards when the gilt came through Bedwell would be released from the Fleece, bruised, battered and most of all repentant, and by the most unfortunate of mischances be discovered head down in the Fleete Ditch within the hour. So sad, such a promising young life cut short by ‘accident’.
This morning though all those pleasant imaginings were naught but moon gilded fantasies as Phil had morosely munched on his manchet loaf and downed a horn of small ale. The compact betwixt the Masters o’ Rogues had offered the most glittering opportunities. For a start he’d been accorded an equal status to Earless Nick, Old Bent Bart, Canting Michael and Captaine Gryne. That alone was a boost to his pride and standing in the Fleece after the Bedwell incident. Several wavering roisters had fronted up and reaffirmed their loyalty, pledging to spend their blood in his service. He’d smiled at the puffed up strutting, but still it had warmed his downcast heart after the black morning.
There was of course a problem. There always was some stinking dog’s turd in the pottage of pleasure. Flaunty Phil, as master of the Wool’s Fleece and surrounds could call up some twenty lads, roisters and rogues, all fit for a brawl or bloody affray. But that was just the vain crowing of a cockerel compared to the stature of Earless Nick. Forty men he could whistle up without effort or debt. So the compact was as tantalising as faerie gold, fine and glittering afore his eyes but as elusive as mist when grasped. That was until he’d received the limping messenger from Old Bent Bart. From there his morning had bucked up to its current glorious pinnacle. According to the squeakings of that lame lad, the Master of Beggars was as worried as himself over the vaulting pre–eminence of Earless Nick, suspecting the Lord of the Liberties of some deeper cozenage that would put them all in his thrall.
Now some ignorant measles may discount the beggarly fraternity as a company of the maimed, the lame and the blind, fit only for loitering on church steps and conduit corners. Flaunty wasn’t near that stupid. At any rough estimate Old Bent Bart held the fealty of hundreds as well as his backing roisters and knifemen such as the formidable Kut Karl. The German was as savage and bloodthirsty a wretch as ever drew breath. He did in four men in one brawl, throats opened to the air in less time than it took to curse, or so it was said. So an alliance betwixt them made it clear to the other masters, Earless Nick in particular, who had a proper claim to the title, Upright Man of London.
Thus in his estimation the offer from the Beggar master to support Flaunty over Earless wasn’t one to baulk at. So within the hour he’d rallied his lads for the rendezvous at Newgate, wherein the newly forged alliance would deal with the Bedwell brat once and for all.
So as the grey towers of Newgate crested the skyline to the east, Phil smiled. He could almost taste that victory feast now. Between his lads and the best o’ the beggars, Bedwell and any that stood with him would fall like scythed grass. By St Anthony, today was a most excellent day and if his eyes played him aright, his allies were assembling at the top of the hill to cheer on his venture. By tonight Flaunty Phil would be the one to wear the silver crown of the Upright Man!
Chapter Twelve. Mischance on Snow Hill
At the first round of cheers Hugh tried to hide behind the cover of the barrel. A firm hand on his doublet collar dragged him upright then hugged him around the shoulder in a parody of comradeship. Damn but that hurt. “Now, now, my little rat we wants yr’ friends downhill to see y’ plain and clear.”
Hugh still tried to flinch away but Hawks’ strong arm had him locked in place. He shivered and whether in fright or chill it didn’t matter. Hugh fervently prayed to be well away from the feral grin of Hawks. He’d heard some strange stories about the Liberties knife man. Bloody handed deeds were to be had in a fair swag of them, though others hinted at Hawks’ involvement with Lollards, alchemists and dark necromancers over Southwark way. More tales talked of strange disappearances of young minchins and morts from the streets on nights of the dark of the moon. Gone and never seen again, not even floating in the Thames.
Now he couldn’t actually prove any connection, not at least one that’d stand up at the Court of the King’s Bench but the stories of Hawks’ recent activities coincided with the blackest of nights. Hugh most certainly didn’t want to suddenly vanish from his accustomed haunts, lost to all his friends and companions. Thus, as bidden he stood tall and waved and cheered like all the rest. Not even the hot breath of Kut Karl on his neck could’ve swayed Hugh from his present urgent task of keeping Hawks happy and appreciative of the service of this, his most reluctant recruit.
*
The vocal crowd must’ve been having a buoying effect on the party down the hill. Clearly pleased with their reception the company of the Wool’s Fleece headed by the gaudy, colourful figure of their master of rogues waved back at their cheering audience. Even from some thirty yards away Hugh could see the satisfied grin on the face of Flaunty Phil. It was almost like the celebration around the procession of the Misrule boy bishop. Behind them the windows were open and full of figures leaning over to catch a glimpse of the reason for the raucous cheering. More than a few joined in for no better reason than their neighbour was shouting as well. So by the time Flaunty Phil had travelled a dozen more paces up the hill over a hundred spectators had gathered in the spontaneous manner of London crowds. Usually these instant crowds were a boon for the begging fraternity since they provided a bountiful opportunity for scattered coins or cut purses. However unlike every other crowd in the city this one was totally lacking any beggars at all, save Hugh. If he’d had time to mull that fact over it might have worried him. However as it stood he was too terrified of his present company to consider the subtly ominous portents of the near future.
*
Like Hugh, Flaunty Phil was too taken up with the present moment to look any way ahead with clear vision. In contrast though his main emotions were bursting pride and satisfaction rather that codpiece drenching terror. He’d never have credited the commons of the Liberties with such an enthusiastic welcome. More commonly when the Fleecers came out of the tavern for roistering and affray the reaction of the Liberties populous was to bolt the doors and windows and hide in their houses until the screaming and moans had passed. Yet here they were in their hundreds all waving and cheering his arrival. It was then that Flaunty Phil knew his destiny lay in wearing the gold ring and silver circlet of the Upright Man. With so much acclaim and visible support both Earless Nick and Canting Michael would have to yield to his claim or face the wrath of the city.
What pleased him the most was the rank of barrels at the top of the hill, each attended by a tapster with a leather firkin at the ready. It swelled his heart near to bursting to see the loyalty of the inns and taverns of Snow Hill to his cause. Flaunty surreptitiously checked his purse for a suitable spread of pence. It always paid to be seen as generous and lordly. Also a display of munificence would make it so much easier when his lads visited later for a ‘rightful contribution’ to the Upright Man’s coffer chest. Best of all in the midst of these right worthy tapsters was Old Bent Bart’s most recent messenger, the crippled lad Hobblin’ Hugh.
If possible Flaunty Phil’s smile grew broader since the meaning of the ale was as obvious a signal as a great Gonne from the Tower. The Master of Beggars was pledging his support with this display of fealty. Once more lost in his delightful golden dreams of coming lordship Flaunty Phil’s usually sharp perception of the gritty here and now of the London streets was blurred. So it was perfectly understandable that the change in the cries of the crowd didn’t set him off to the upcoming turd in his pottage.
One moment there was Flaunty grinning and waving to the cheers. The next his bruised and broken nose was inches deep in the sloshing mire of the road. It seemed that a spring had burst forth and had drenched the road in a sudden flood and washed away his footing, tumbling him into the muddy onrush. In a suspended moment before his mind could readjust to his sudden lack of a cheering crowd, Flaunty was caught in a terrible dilemma. His body made two instantaneous demands—the first for breath, and the second the need to cradle the sharp throbbing pain of his once more flattened nose. Luckily for him at least part of his brain moved faster and instantly opted for shoving his hands into the stream of street filth and water and thus pushing himself halfway up to gulp a lungful of unmuddied air.
Phil shook his head, staggered upright and gasped as the pain roared out. “By Satan’s flaming arse wha…?”
It was probably for the best that his vision was blurred by mud and blood—he wouldn’t have been able to dodge the empty barrel bouncing its way down the hill that laid him out flat on his back. Thus Flaunty Phil was spared the final indignity of realising that the last wave of water had set him afloat in the piss channel ditch down Snow Hill.
*
Hugh, like the rest of the apprentices gained with the aid of Hawks’ silver, had helped tip up the line of water butts as Flaunty Phil approached. Half–heartedly Hugh joined in the sudden barrage of stone weighted snowballs raining down upon the drenched and tumbling Fleecers. Between the sudden flood and the missiles the rogues and roisters were completely routed either falling due to the now slippery cobbles or the wearing of a rock around the earhole. In true London fashion the crowd now switched from cheers to jeers in between the peals of raucous laughter at the staggering attempts of the Fleecer rogues to stay upright.
Beside him Hawks was the very picture of the gleeful Lord of Misrule as the Liberties knifeman aimed and launched his treacherously deceptive snowballs. At each strike he’d cry out a hurrah and then almost under his breath mutter some strange phrase. “Tumbled another pin! If’n only that were Bedwell I’d be a truly happy man.”
Hugh shivered at each downed Fleecer. That fearsome gleam in Hawks’ eye wasn’t diminished at the smiting of his foes, but rather stoked and puffed like the fire in a blacksmith’s forge. The felling of the Fleecers continued as if it were a Misrule game of bowls. Hugh fervently prayed to all and any saint who chanced to be listening that if they kept this poor soul safe till nightfall he’d swear off stealing church candles for life, as he truly didn’t want to know what cheery diversion Hawks had in mind when this game was ended.
Chapter Thirteen. Old Bent Bart’s Hazard
Stomping along Cheapside Street Old Bent Bart scowled fit to curdle milk and growled for Kut Karl to bend an ear this way. “They’s all been scoured up?”
The stubbly shaved head paused for a moment’s thought and his knifeman nodded slowly. “Ja…I means yes.”
“And the messengers they’ve all returned?”
“They’s ave, meister,” Kut Karl appeared to hesitate at the end of that answer and then abruptly continues as if spitting out wormy bread, “ Cept for Hobblin.”
Bent Bart chewed over that last morsel of news with a deeper frown, he would’ve cast a look over his shoulder to verify the report. However, firstly it didn’t serve to a leader to doubt the word of a faithful minion, well at least not quite so publicly. Secondly an action like that could be misconstrued into the suspicion that the Beggar Master didn’t trust his company to follow him. This could be dangerous, since doubt breed nervousness and hesitation which led along a very short path to treachery. Thirdly his bent back meant it was either painful or impossible to view behind without spinning right around and he’d appear the most comical buffoon, thus losing the hard won dignity of his position. So as if grinding a stone with his teeth Old Bent Bart marched on trailed by a hundred beggars he fervently hoped.
His determined appearance aside his mind was still a broil, seething with unmentioned doubts and stirred with anger and rancour. The previous night’s conversation with Prioress Abyngdon had set him a thinking over the
Comfit of Rogues or Cozenage of Rogues
as the Prioress sneeringly referred to it. The compact had sounded so sensible back at the Bear Inn, each lord or master with a fair chance of victory in the quest, although now he’d had time to mull it over, why had they so easily agreed to the terms of Earless Nick? Was he no better than a tosspotting drunkard? Bent Bart didn’t care a fig about the life of the Bedwell lad though his antics over the past year had been a source of great amusement. If Bedwell cony catched the so called Lord of the Liberties in his own house it was no skin off his nose or other regions of his anatomy if Throckmore bellowed and threatened.
But this wager for the leadership of London, now that was another matter. Bent Bart knew the strengths of his ‘Beggarly Fraternity’. If a mouse farted in the home of a guild master he’d hear of it within the hour. However as rogues and swaggering roisters they lacked the means of menace which Earless Nick possessed in abundance. There was little doubt that if that swaggering scrap of codpiece stuffing won out in this game, a sudden and tragically shortened life for Bent Bart was guaranteed. One heard and noted the stories surrounding Master Throckmore’s rise to Liberties lordship, ruthlessness and an inability to suffer rivals were traits frequently mentioned. And the tale of the loss of his ears was just one example.
According to his sources within Newgate Goal, Nick Throckmore, gentleman of the Court, had seen an opportunity for profit by setting up a coining ring. There was nothing particularly unusual in that. Old Bent Bart knew of and tithed several similar endeavours though due to his ‘interest’ the coiners had stuck to common pence and shillings. Master Throckmore had been oh so much more ambitious. His target had been the golden angels worth officially seven shillings and sixpence. As any fool knew the King’s Majesty liked his gold coins or at least Cardinal Wolsey, his Lord Chancellor of old did. He had been an excessively greedy priest, which Bent Bart and so many others thought had been the real cause of his undoing.
Throckmore had been pursuing a very dangerous if profitable venture and apparently unsatisfied with his cut, had as rumour claimed arranged for his main partner to be drowned in a wherry accident. A second partner was coincidentally murdered by rogues in a tavern, while the third seeing the set of the wind threw himself on the Lord Chancellor’s mercy. And that was a foolish play. All the minions were taken, duly tried and hung, but not Master Throckmore. His fate was somewhat different. He’d been banished from Court and had his ears clipped. One could ask how the originator of this scheme avoided choking his miserable life out at Tyburn? That part at least was easy. Patronage was the answer as it often was, in this case that of a King’s Bench judge, a man of learning and stature, well respected in the King’s Service. And for this reason Old Bent Bart was now stomping along as if his life depended on it. Just like any risky play of Hazard except that he was marking the cards, not Earless Nick.
Last night’s discussion had resolved itself into several possible remedies. Firstly he needed allies. A flurry of messages this morning had settled that problem. And now along with his rallied retinue they marched, limped and hobbled towards the Newgate Markets where he’d been informed the Bedwell lad would be by the midday bells. Then they’d see who should be the Upright Man!
Chapter Fourteen. The Lord of the Liberties
Jemmy sauntered along the street looking as if he hadn’t a care in the world, which was not really true, but his practice of cozenage was so good that his small party from Southwark accepted it as God’s own truth from St Paul’s Cross. Even nervous Will was laughing at some outrageous tale from John Plybourne involving a costermonger, two eels and a country lass. He’d heard it before though this version had a few twists and wiggles that set off howls of laughter from their party, especially when Plybourne made the accompanying gestures with such verisimilitude.
In Jemmy’s experienced view they’d have an ‘interesting’ challenge in openly moving fifty odd roisters, rogues, assorted minions and hangers on down Fleete Street, over the bridge and through the portal of Ludgate and then hence into London City. It was common knowledge that the Common Watch of Farrington Without was partial to not so discrete gifts and open bribes. However for Earless Nick to spread his silver also to the parish beadles and constables, not to mention the officers of the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, would mean a considerable outlay. The lords and gentry had it easy stomping around where they liked since their retinues sported a badged livery. A master of rogues would be dangerously presumptuous to try the same.
The Heralds of the College of Arms weren’t just snotty nosed quill dribblers, with their noses stuck in musty old rolls. They possessed power enough to level anyone who wrongly claimed crest, badge, arms or
retinue
. So it was only good sense to steer their gaze elsewhere.
Earless Nick’s solution to this knotty problem had Jemmy slack mouthed with amazement. It was so damned clever and cunning you could have pasted a tail on it and called it a weasel. All Earless had done was use the simple fact of the season and its festivals. It was the reign of Misrule and thus he’d arranged for his gang of thieves and punks to be decked out in a splendidly colourful array of tassels, baubles and holly wreaths. The feared cudgels and staves usually employed in the cracking of skulls now sported ribbons and twists of ivy. To set the right tone, Wall–eyed Wallis was rigged up like a Hobby Horse and was leading the festive procession. By St Mark what a fearful and gruesome a beast as ever tried to tupp the village girls.
As the uniquely crewed Misrule procession forged its way uphill along Ave Maria Lane pushing past amused and curious Londoners, they received a mixed welcome. Some cheered the Misrule parade, thinking it was a parish celebration from elsewhere in the city. Others somewhat wiser in the ways of the Liberties saw through their festive disguises, and flinched in trepidation then scurried off faster than a rat at a baiting. Jemmy though enjoyed the stroll and found a few opportunities to grab a lass in passing and bestow a kiss. Several taverns along the street seeing a chance at profit instantly set up barrels and trestles out front for the unexpected flood of customers. Or maybe Jemmy considered it’d be a wise attempt at placation. This close to the Liberties every inn, tavern and broken down alehouse had to know Earless Nick and his lads by sight if not by reputation. The constables and sheriffs of the parishes and Guildhall may rule the city by day, but night was another realm and not even a drink sodden fool would depend on the Common Watch for their security.
This Misrule procession and its cheering reception must have put Earless Nick in a generous mood, or maybe it was the plentiful donations of tankards of fine Rhenish. Either way as they approached the bustle of Newgate along the tight confines of Warwick Lane the Lord of the Liberties waved Jemmy closer, gave him a firm buffet on the shoulder and passed across a full firkin. “Gulping, I’s much appreciate your company and the friendship of Canting. Tis the best Yuletide gift any man can receive.”
Gulping gave a self–deprecating shrug and living up to his nickname downed the wine in one long gulp.
Earless nodded and smiled at the demonstration, then arm around Jemmy’s shoulder continued to walk along in a companionable fashion. “I’ve heard that your Canting’s faithful bailiff, collects all his rents and earnings—a veritable paragon of rogues.”
Even under the rack Jemmy couldn’t have said what a paragon was. Maybe it was some kind of fish or bird, but he did understand that Earless was giving out praise. Not that his honesty was all that it was cracked up to be. You’d have to be completely taken in brandywine and keen on suicide to steal off Canting.
“Y’ knows Jemmy, when I’m the Upright Man I’ll need a few steady lads as bailiffs and reeves to do the rounds and see that the beggars, nips and hookmen of the city understand the way of the world.” The friendly hand gave his shoulder a firm squeeze and a hearty slap before Earless Nick moved off quickly towards the front of his festive band.
Jemmy raised his eyes above the common grime and slush of the street, and looked back over his shoulder. The grey horizon was punctured by the spire of St Paul’s standing tall and gleaming in its sheath of ice like the tower of some faerie palace. Jemmy knew that despite the season and imaginings he wasn’t in any other realm than that of his Sovereign Majesty King Henry the Eighth and even with the pretension of the most ambitious gang lord, it was wise not to come to royal attention.
Now this Misrule parade had some hundred yards to run till Newgate. That was fine for Jemmy. He needed a bit of room to mull over the last comment, so unconsciously he slipped back and slowly rounded up his slightly soused crew.
Earless’ last comment had been most intriguing. Jemmy uncharacteristically waved off a jug of ale, and hands tucked into his belt strolled along flogging his mind into action. Yes, he was Canting’s bailiff and had he felt eased the souls of many a worried merchant in Southwark when rents were due by his easy and understanding manner of the difficulties of business. However when a debt fell past due he was also the same bailiff who ensured an easy payment scheme without the bother of the County Assizes, messy legal quibbles or too many broken bones. So he knew his own worth. However by that last hint it was obvious to even Blind Pew that Earless Nick had more on his mind than acquiring the Rogue’s Misrule crown. Such as the imminent replacement of certain gang lords and masters. If a clever lad considered the import of the words of Earless Nick then an ambitious and insightful Gulping could take his pick from a London or Southwark lieutenancy.
Now that was a dangerous ambition for any canny fellow. The question was how was he to deal with it? Newgate Market lay just ahead. With a relaxed smile Jemmy sauntered along, his mind a whirl with possibilities and perils. And all the while his hand lay close to his dagger, because in Misrule’s reign one never knew what lurked around the corner.
Chapter Fifteen. A Meeting at Newgate
The slow chimes of St Paul’s bells rang out in the winter air with a stately solemnity tolling the hour of the day. At each clear peel Old Bent Bart gave an unconscious twitch. The hour was right, as was the place, and all his lads, minchins and morts were at his back ready for their master’s call. As if summoned the hundreds of parish bells rang out in reply telling even the deafest mute the hour had arrived. Despite the sweet crystal clarity the sound echoed in his heart as if it were his mourning dirge. He may cheat, cony catch, thieve and put the odd soul to a sharp, abrupt and sometimes bloody end but essentially Old Bent Bart saw himself as a peaceful man. He attended his parish church every Sunday and saint’s day. Parishioners were always more generous then. He lit candles and paid for masses for his mother and nameless father, as well as giving over gold to his special and most privy charity. Thus the prospect of affray wasn’t one he was either used to or anticipating with any amount of glee. If differences could be talked over he’d be happy enough, though any negotiation needed backing hence his large retinue. If only he didn’t have one remaining nagging worry. Who exactly could he count on as an ally?
The sound of cheering and laughter snapped him out of his reverie of worry and his sight flickered over past the array of moderately crowded market stalls to the junction of Warwick Lane. What was going on? Old Bent Bart’s jaw dropped and he blinked like an owl in shock. Earless Nick was here with all his gang and by the blessed saints and the love of Lord God, the whole party of rogues, punks, roisters and nips were beribboned and gilded up like a Liberties parody of Misrule’s Boy Bishop! Bart shook his head in clear disbelief, during the reign of Misrule the commons could get away with many a prank to the gentry and the church but this lewdness within sight of St Paul’s. Was Earless Nick’s Bedlamite crazed to insult the bishop of London on his own doorstep?
*
Still undecided on his action Jemmy strode into Newgate closely followed by a wilting Will. The lad was a touch unsteady due to a taverner’s generosity and thus was held close at hand and upright by Thomas Weldon, Canting’s trusted knifeman.
Earless had planned well and his colourful procession was led by the infernal squeal and beat of a drum and shawm, not that they kept to any particular rhythm or tune, but it none the less attracted the attention of the crowded market. Waiting ahead was the largest collection of beggars he’d seen outside of the wine drenched celebrations at the slaying of the last White Rose claimant four years ago. At his estimation there must be two hundred at least and in front stood the hunched figure of Old Bent Bart.
To Jemmy’s view the Beggar master appeared stunned at the apparition of Earless Nick’s Misrule procession. At a shouted command the Liberties band came to a shuffling halt. Wall–eyed Wallis made some play of buffoonery at his hobby horse, bucking, stamping and cavorting in the space between the two parties of rogues. The act drew hearty applause from the market crowd and giggles from a clutch of serving girls. Jemmy shook his head in wry amusement and chuckled quietly. If only the fair maids knew what fearsome weapon lurked beneath the ribbons! So both parties stood at each end of the Newgate Shambles, the tinkle of bells and shrill squeak of shawm competing with the cries of the butcher’s lads touting their array of fresh carcase carvings.
In the midst of this silent standoff an unexpected figure casually strolled out from the nearest tavern, then pinching a large lip casually tilted his head back peering up at the grey mass of clouds as if taking in a view of the weather. And so appeared at Newgate market, as if demon summoned the tall, cadaverous, lanky and unexpected figure of Canting Michael. Jemmy was stunned, but unlike the Beggar master he didn’t gape in amazement though only his patron angel knew how he kept up his mask of affable composure.
He had in a way been telling the truth to Earless Nick when he said that Canting was afeared that crossing the river to London would give him too much grief. More honestly it was a matter of several fouled bills that’d see him locked in Newgate Gaol or Bread Street Compter if any constable was brave enough to serve them. Of course it could be that matter of religious dispute betwixt Canting and Bishop Stokesley that made him shy of the city. Either way to cross the Thames for the gang lord of Southwark was unheard of…that was until now.
Earless seemed a little startled by the appearance of his new found ally but after a flickering of a frown raised a hand in greeting calling out his welcome. “I give you good day Master Canting. We’re truly blessed by your presence on this auspicious day!”
Canting gave a short nod in reply and Jemmy pursed his lips. He knew the fickle moods of his master. A clear dozen of the Southwark lads emerged from the tavern’s shelter standing behind their lord and Jemmy made a deliberate effort not to bite his lip in panic. As if finally noticing the distraction of an annoying fly Canting waved his hand, and then puppet like lurched around to face Earless Nick. “Oh aye Throckmore. Tis a blessed day indeed as any that the Lord God grants us life and breath.”
At that statement Earless Nick crossed himself as did a large number of each party. “I understand you are here to support my claim for the title of the Upright Man…?” Earless Nick may have meant that as a bold statement of claim but the last words almost trailed off into a question.
Canting gave a shrug of his shoulders and spread his hands wide in an open gesture. “Lordship is a fickle mistress Earless. She’ll give y’ a kiss an lead y’ on like the veriest punk, a teasing an a tempting y’ then when y’r sceptre tis as hard an’ strong as a pike staff an’ as keen for a hump as any sailor a six weeks at sea, off she flounces wit nay a care.”
Earless appeared puzzled by this obscure reply to his welcome and though still smiling at his allied Southwark gang lord, it was at best shallow and insubstantial, lacking any more sincerity that a punk’s promise. Jemmy from long and close association recognised it for what it truly meant and edged his party cautiously away from the centre of the Liberties gang.
*
Old Bent Bart had quickly recovered from his shock at the number and distinctive plumage of the Liberties gang. Pulling himself up to his full bent height of five foot he was about to temporise over the terms of the agreement to buy some time. Canting Michael’s sudden intrusion had changed that and now despite the Southwark gang lord’s strange words Old Bent Bart was uncertain as to which of the messages or proposals he’d sent out should be honoured. True, it was the three main contenders here and by his estimate they may have been evenly matched depending on who sided with whom. Still they lacked two more important signatories to the charter, so he wavered beset with doubt and for now clamped his jaw shut.
*
Meg’s efforts at the Frost Fair although thorough had been tinged with a measure of urgent rush and vague panic. The Good Lord knew she’d tried to deal fairly with the dozens of mummers, players, mountebanks and animal trainers, though each and every one had started off their reply with a list of difficulties and unfortunately rising costs. She was normally a tolerant and forgiving person, not given to the ill humours of anger and intemperate language. However on this day at this time that resolve had wavered. Meg had skirted very close to the overwhelming impulse to box the ears of these stupid measles and rogues. That’s when the helpful shadow of Captaine Gryne had stepped in, to as he explained ‘smooth over points o’ difference’. While it was true she’d felt some guilt about using the threat of the cudgel or very large fist attached to an arm that’d be capable of felling a draught horse over sweet reason and ready silver, Meg consoled herself that the Lord always placed tools fit for use before his servants in their tasks. Anyway those particularly menaced she’d promised an extra bounty for their efforts. At the end having achieved more for reform in an hour than a dozen translated books and near to running she’d met up with young Robin and headed off towards her appointment with Bedwell and company.
Not alone. Taken by some strange humour Captaine Gryne claimed he had some business to investigate by Newgate and accompanied her. What particular matter Meg didn’t inquire, though since Gryne reckoned he needed the services of a dozen of his armed rogues to ensure a successful transaction, she doubted it was buying a festive bauble or sweet comfits for a Misrule treat. She’d frowned suspiciously at Gryne’s transparent attempt at guile, suspecting some scheme of cozenage or debt collection that required her presence as distraction or cover. Well it was no use complaining or scowling. She wasn’t a babe in skirts and had seen more than enough of the ways of the world. The Captaine and his hidden patron Agryppa had aided her endeavours so despite her worry over Bedwell, Gryne deserved right and proper recompense.
The hourly bells of St Paul’s had begun their usual slow and sonorous chiming by the time Meg and her unexpected party reached Newgate. Along the way her ill humour had evaporated, undoubtedly due to her recounting of Ned’s now notorious Fleete Street race. Her version which she tended to regard as the most accurate one, was based on an amalgam of the two tales of the participants of that doomed escapade. The first part, seriously in need of editing, she’d gained after an intensive grilling of Bedwell while she was applying healing ointments to his ice chafed and cut feet. As a sign of Bedwell’s exaggerations she’d whittled down the numbers he’d faced from a hundred to a more modest and she felt realistic dozen. Meg also had the advantage of a brother who was painfully honest in his telling of the glaring gaps in the plan and his own overly modest rescue of young Reedman. So Meg started at the sorry beginning of the drunken escapade, then on through Ned’s clumsy cozenage at the Fleece and proceeded what she felt was the high point of the story, Ned Bedwell as naked as an Indies savage, teeth chattering like the rattle of drums charging Flaunty Phil’s pursuing Fleecers all the while warbling some strange war cry that to her ears sounded more like the high pitched squeal of a scalded piglet. Her audience was much taken with her imitation of the battle cry and her later description of Ned’s injuries and cure, though between fits of laughter she did assure them that as a demure Christian lass she most certainly didn’t lather Ned’s ballocks with pepper and stinging nettle salve. And now it had been suggested her mind teased at an appropriate list of ingredients—pepper, yes, and maybe cumin and an ounce or two of those dried red peppers newly discovered in the Spanish Indies. Hmm very tempting.
Her consideration of a new ‘regime of physick’ for Bedwell was abruptly halted once Captaine Gryne and his party pushed through the crowd at the corner of Ivy Lane and Newgate Market by the Shambles. The place was packed and not just with the usual clusters of servants, apprentices and gossips. To their right was the largest gathering of beggars she’d ever seen, over a hundred at a guess, while to the left stood a beribboned party of Misrule frolickers looking keenly at the beggars. Opposite Captaine Gryne standing in front of a tavern was tall lanky fellow that she could’ve sworn looked like Canting Michael from Southwark. But no, that just could not be. Even Meg knew Bishop Stokesley had sworn to have Canting burned as a heretic if he caught him in London. What was going on?
Meg’s confusion was soon compounded when an extremely familiar figure slipped out of a side alley. One hand on the shoulder of a thin limping lad the other hefting a weighty purse Roger Hawkins walked straight up to the ugly hunchback in front of the cluster of beggars and tossed him the leather purse. What?
Why
?
Chapter Sixteen. The Shambles of Newgate
Old Bent Bart proved livelier than his hunched figure lead one to believe as the crumpled Liberties rogue now discovered. The Beggar Master had sidestepped the assault and smartly clipped Earless Nick’s minion across the top of his head with a cudgel. Master of fakery and cozenage he may be, but a young beggar lad didn’t rise to the top of his ‘trade’ on deception and wheedling alone. If you didn’t know how to defend your garnishings then within a month you’d waste away and end up in a pauper’s ditch dead, food for worms. The affray swirled past him for a moment and Old Bent Bart stepped back into the relative shelter of a market stall. From the pile of stinking sheep’s guts to one side he’d lay money on it being a butcher’s stall. Well this was the Newgate Shambles after all and the battle raging in front of him certainly lived up to that title. He’d lay an even wager that the owners were not a dozen feet from here laying about with beef bones.
When the affray had broken out as riots were prone to do it naturally acted as a whirlpool, drawing in an extra tithe of locals as keen for mischief as any Liberties rogue, most especially apprentices, the damned scoundrels.
Now this spreading brawl wasn’t even remotely as he’d envisioned. Given this tiny sanctuary out of the battle Old Bent Bart scowled fit to curdle milk and shook his head. His ploy had been going so well until Satan’s own imps and devils had worked their mischief.
Earless Nick was here, somewhat beribboned and festive, true. Even Canting Michael had arrived in response to the message as well as a slightly tardy Captaine Gryne. For a moment the three main leaders of rogues, roisters, beggars and nips in the city and the Liberties had stood there in perfect equilibrium and he’d opened his mouth to speak after Canting’s strange declaration. He’d had the words all practiced thanks to Prioress Abyngdon’s coaching and the moment was there, his to possess.
Curse the crutch of Saint Giles, betwixt one instant and the next it was ruined, all because of that evil grinning bastard, Hawks! The Liberties knifeman and foul murdering swine had suddenly stepped out into the street not five yards away and pushing his own lad Hobblin’ Hugh afore him as bold as anything he strolled over and deposited a weighty purse into his hand much to his surprise. After that Hawks had the bold faced effrontery to thank him for the assistance in this Bedwell business in as clear and loud a voice that would reach the spire of St Paul’s. Damn him, the pestilent cozener!
The whole gathering went silent for a moment as they collectively drew breath, and no doubt made what cursed connections their God rotted souls were inclined to. Even so a few words might have smoothed over the flaring suspicions, if it hadn’t been for that mud befouled fool, Flaunty Phil. He’d pushed his way through Earless Nick’s men followed by a half dozen similarly ragged and bruised rogues and on sight of Hawks’ payment, screamed out that this was damned treachery. After that the Newgate Shambles dissolved into chaos.
*
As if by some arcane instinct Jemmy could sense the brewing trouble as soon as he’d seen the scar faced lanky rogue and the hobbling beggar lad walking towards Old Bent Bart. He’d also remembered where he’d seen that evil faced bastard before. He was the grim shadow that lurked at the beck and call of Bedwell’s sweetheart, Mistress Black the apothecary. What’s more the sneering smile and coldly amused glint in the rogue’s eyes also jolted loose a few other memories. The fellow’s name was Hawkins, Roger Hawkins, a former knife man of the Liberties who’d carved his way through fifty men, or so it was said. Jemmy grabbed the swaying Will and with his small cluster of lads tried to push through the gaily dressed Liberties gang. He didn’t get far. Some filthy and grimy rogue with his face a mess of mud and blood shoved past to the front of the Misrule party and knocked Jemmy off his feet. Several similarly muddy feet came close to treading him into the brown sludge of the snow. Long practiced moves of street brawling came to his aid and Jemmy lashed out with foot catching an interloper behind the knee, and bringing him down to a more convenient level. A second kick caught the wet and muddy roister under the chin and he spun backwards crashing into some of the colourful Liberties lads. As if to give tongue to the evidence of their eyes the cry of
Treachery
rang out causing a spreading ripple like a rock dropped in a still pond. Jemmy found himself a clear space and scrabbled to his feet, head snapping left and right spying out threats.
The festive mood of the Liberties gang had evaporated. Several were already involved in scuffles with the interloping gang of wet and bruised rogues. Two paces away with their backs to a handy wall stood the rest of his Southwark lads. Even young wilting Will had his club out making a half decent attempt at being a bold rogue. Jemmy moved towards them until a rough hand grabbed at his shoulder. His elbow jerked backwards in reply eliciting a pained grunt. The Southwark lads had to get out of here and over to the relative safety of Canting. Like a cornered rat Jemmy took a chance and darted through a crack into the midst of his lads, then fists and cudgels out they began to push their way towards the heart of the Shambles.
*
To be a successful player of cozenage you required many skills; deception and cunning, not to mention an ability to read the intent of the cony, but if you dealt with cards and dice, eyesight and a quick hand beat them all. Flaunty Phil possessed all these traits but he was most proud of his ability to see the subtle nicks along the edges of cards which made his cony catching so much easier. Also despite the blood and throbbing pain that glazed his eyes he could see as clear as a knave on pasteboard that grinning bastard and the lame beggar hand over a clinking purse to that stinking Judas and treacherous dwarf Bent Bart. Rage hotter than that which had driven him up the rest of Snow Hill subdued the flaring agony of his twice broken nose, now launched him yelling through this thick crowd of Misrule revellers. One fool tried to stop his passage. Flaunty gave him a blow across the jaw. The fellow crumpled spitting blood. No man was going to stand between him and revenge! That twisted little hunchback would shortly regret his cozenage. So fuelled by the fires of absolute rage at the ambuscade Flaunty Phil screamed out the accusation. “Treachery!”
*
The rush of events and confusion came about with such rapidity that Meg didn’t have time to cast up even a quick prayer of thanks to the Good Lord for shielding Ned. No’ she was a trifle busy for devotions, burdened a she was with questions, such as why Roger had approached the grotesque looking hunchback. Even that pressing issue was shoved aside though by the sudden cry of
Treachery
and the chaos it unleashed.
A more urgent demand to her attention was the approach of Earless Nick and a dozen of his roisters decked out in ribbons and baubles led by a large man girded in a hobby horse harness. Neither the mock horse nor Earless Nick looked ready for the usual Misrule frolics. Their faces where fixed in that snarly grin of rogues anticipating a ‘bit o’ rough’ not to mention a spot of bloody affray’. Meg automatically stepped back and collided with one of Captaine Gryne’s men who without ceremony grabbed her shoulders and thrust her firmly behind the suddenly closed rank of broad backs and ready cudgels.
Gryne’s commanding voice roared out over the hubbub of the growing brawl. “She’s under my protection Throckmore. If’n y’ want the compact ta hold y’ll step back!”
“God rot you an’ the pact Gryne. Hand her over. That hell cat ruined my house with her trickery. I’ve a claim upon her hide and I means to have it!”
Meg shivered possibly in fear though she’d never admit it and peered nervously between two of Gryne’s men. Earless Nick had a ribbon crossed cudgel in his hand and was striding closer, his eyes burning with a savage fire. The intensity shocked her. The Lord of the Liberties may not be able to get Bedwell but he’d be perfectly satisfied with an apprentice apothecary in his place. Meg clutched her hands together and gave out the most fervent prayer for aid…or inspiration.
*
Dodging a missile Old Bent Bart took cover behind the now upturned butchers stall, Kut Karl’s reassuring bulk by his side. Cautiously he peered over the edge at the scene of riot affray and general commotion. Earless Nick and a clutch of his roisters were thankfully occupied elsewhere, which was fine with him since the Lord of the Liberties at the moment seemed damned keen to use his head as a cudgel’s drum. Old Bent Bart fervently prayed to any saint who happen to be about to keep it so.
Earless Nick had been deflected from his course by two other distractions, a collision with some of Canting Michael’s men and a forlorn assault towards the well–dressed girl standing by Captaine Gryne. Each of those in Old Bent Bart’s opinion was a foolish division of effort. Not that he could claim any better. Most of the beggars had been sucked into the swirling affray. Just who they fought and why didn’t seem to matter anymore. They were here at their master command in case of trouble and thus here it was. Who needed rhyme or reason? Bart had noticed a strange kind of restrain had taken hold of the participants of the affray though. Knives, swords and cleavers though readily at hand where eschewed by all the cursing and grunting combatants. Cudgels it appeared were the weapon of choice, though the useful God–given implements of assault such as fists, knees, elbows and teeth seemed to be equally employed to settle individual affairs.
Wryly he thought about the great compact they’d signed just the other day. Prioress Abyngdon had been right. It was indeed the
Comfit of Rogues
, now chewed up and tattered, not even fit to be used as a privy rag for a leper’s arse.
*
Hobblin’ Hugh squealed in open terror as the rogue’s body thudded down at his feet. He’d no idea what had prompted the Liberties man to head his way with clear intent of violence. However if only for the shortest of seconds he was very glad that Hawks was at his side since it had been his hand that struck down the lunging figure. Before he could frame a stammered thanks, if he were so minded, Hawks seized him by the collar again and threw him into a pile of mounded snow behind a rainwater butt. For whatever reason Hawks had stashed him out of the way of the brawl. Hugh didn’t need any further encouragement and seized the chance to hide, burrowing like a badger deep down into whatever cover he could find, ignoring the icy cold biting into his rag wrapped hands.
*
Like a storm’s wave breaking upon a rocky cliff Earless Nick’s men smashed against the wall of Captaine Gryne’s guards, and like the sea rebuffed, they ebbed away drawing sullenly back for another charge. Meg from her lower and more sheltered vantage point didn’t see all this. There were too many broad shoulders and flailing elbows about to risk a closer view. But she did hear every thud of cudgel on flesh and the accompanying scream or curse and winced as she unconsciously catalogued the impact points and likely damage. In her many tasks as an apothecary’s apprentice she’d seen and heard the work of a barber surgeon as well as caring for the injured and ill. Life in London wasn’t even close to the earthly paradise that her country cousins imagined. As she’d proved a few months ago during Bedwell’s crazed romp through London and eventually all the way to Grafton Regis, Meg Black wasn’t one of those merchants’ daughters who stuck to needlework and sighed over knightly romances. But the sights and sound of this affray made her want to squeeze her eyes shut, muffle her ears with tight clenched hands and maybe utter a quiet whimper or two. However while that strong desire prompted her to cower or flee another part of her spirit wasn’t so timorous. Was this how Judith slew Holofernes or how the early martyrs faced mobs of howling Romans in the arenas? Meg bit her lip and metaphorically chewed over the fact of her cowardly stance. Was this how one of the modern reformers should act, to let her friends and retainers do all the fighting while she swooned prettily from a balcony?
That last pointed reminder of the pallid romance damsels did the trick. Meg unbuckled her ever present satchel and reached inside searching for inspiration. Hmm, a skeleton key. No, nor the set of latch picks, roll of surgeon’s tools or jars of ointments. All these could be utilised in the most devious manner, but not for affray. Then Meg’s fingers grazed a small pottery sphere and then its twin and she smiled in mischievous delight. Oh yes they would do just fine, all she needed was her steel and flint.
*
Jemmy’s lads had proved as fine a set of roisters as any about. By dint of cudgel, fist and knee they’d cleared a path almost all the way to Canting Michael. Whom they fought, wrestled and brawled Jemmy couldn’t tell. A few may have been Earless Nick’s rogues. Others from the odd thump of a crutch and glimpse of a disfigured face, he’d swear were beggars. Mean little rats them, always on the lookout for an unguarded shin or codpiece to wallop. Jemmy winced slightly and tried not to think of the purple bruising spreading along his inner thigh from a skipped blow. He suspected a night with Gentle Alice at the Cardinal’s Cap was probably out of the question for a week or so. He’d heard the cry of ‘clubs’ a few minutes ago and shook his head. Curse this! Just what they didn’t need—a horde of rowdy apprentices keen to join the mischief.
