“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 suppr
essed 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 f
orward 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.
A Comfit of Rogues (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries) Page 7