The Lord Of Misrule

by House, Gregory

  In the meantime Hugh made himself comfortable and sent up an almost silent but earnestly felt prayer that his newly vacant bed hadn’t been made so by the dreaded Sweats or the Plague. He felt sore and feverish as it was, but that had to be due to his recent rough visitation, didn’t it? As a distraction Hugh surveyed the rest of the room. There were some twenty beds or pallets, ten odd a side and they mostly contained only one inhabitant. Compared to the cramped quarters of his room in the ruined house opposite the Labours of Ajax which held over a dozen and where three sharing a pallet was normal, this was positively luxurious. For the first time this week he was actually warm. The fireplace at the end of the room even had a pair of timber benches for the patients to sit at. Hugh was stunned, all this for the ill. He should be half as lucky for the halt and lamed, it’d be like heaven itself.

  As for the blessed denizens of this delightful place, they appeared as diverse a gathering as one would find in the less salubrious care of Newgate Goal. Several were racked by the phlegm ague that was so common this winter season. Two suffered from broken limbs since their leg or arm was strapped and splinted. Others suffered from maladies that couldn’t be readily identified but left them groaning or comatose. Surreptitiously Hugh crossed himself and made a few gestures to avert bad luck and illness. The air was thick with the slightly bitter scent of wormwood so maybe that banished the stenches that brought on sickness. Settling back into the unexpected comfort of his pallet Hugh waited and reflected over his dramatic change in fortunes over the past few days.

  His most treasured memory hugged close for its warmth was still yesterday at the Bear Inn in Southwark. He’d been accorded the rank of herald and trumpeter for the retinue of his master, Old Bent Bart. It still gave him a deeply warming thrill that he, a lowly hobbling beggar, was allowed to witness the greatest meeting of the Masters of Mischief of London in decades. It had been whispered by many at the Labours of Ajax that this could see the crowning of the Upright Man, the absolute lord of all beggars, rogues and players of cozenage within and without the city. Common tales said that there’d been one long ago, before the time of old Henry Tudor who’d battled for the throne. Simon Clifford had been his name, a fellow so canny and skilled he could charm gold out of a Guild master’s purse. But onset of the Sweats and plagues had scythed their ranks and broken them into the many groups, now beset with rivalry and suspicion as he knew only too well. Or so their master had said.

  The meeting though had been an eye opening spectacle for a lad like Hugh. Earless Nick was such a generous host full of solicitous courtesy. He imagined this was how the great lords and churchmen must act. The Lord of the Liberties had presented even lowly Hugh the sweetest wine then made the most amazing offer. Hugh still tingled to think of the opportunity it offered his master. To be acclaimed the Upright Man, a sworn compact of all the captaines, lords and masters present signed and witnessed by a legal notary! It was the stuff of tales and legends like old Thomas Crunner used to tell the children. All that was required was the successful conclusion of a certain peculiar commission. Simple really. His Master, Old Bent Bart, had been if not ecstatic at least satisfied with the results of the Comfit of Rogues as he’d called it. A sweet morsel it would be indeed for the winner.

  Hugh though had been dizzied by the prospect. He knew he stood high in his master’s esteem. There was now a chance he’d be elevated from begging to become a personal servant to Old Bent Bart, so as the Upright Man the prestige and rewards would trickle down bountifully to the most loyal and closest.

  The ringing of a small chime brought Hugh out of his happy reverie and the rest of the inhabitants of the hospice shifted with a sudden surge of energy, at least most of them. Several continued to moan or twitch locked in fever or delirium. Hugh sat up though, still clutching the thin coverlet over his legs and looked towards the entrance.

  A small group came in lead by a monk in the common robes of the Greyfriars. It consisted of three men and a young girl. Hugh recognised them all and devoutly wished he didn’t. After the bald–pated monk in the grey robe the leading member of the company was tall and rangy with a puckered scar across his face that gave his features a mean and predatory cast like that of a wolf pacing out his domain. Those fierce eyes gave the assembly a long steady inspection as if weighing each one up for disposal in the Fleete Ditch. Hugh tried not to cower or cross himself. The tales of ‘Hawks’ and his bloody savagery in brawl and affray had been enough to set the younger beggars whimpering with fright. The second fellow was dressed more like a gentleman in a dark doublet and a matching heavy fur–trimmed gown. Hugh wasn’t even close to being intimidated by him, a lad of about sixteen, tallish and thin with straggly, buttery yellow hair that hung limply over the collar of his gown. If Hugh knew anything at all of the fine art of cozenage this one was the veriest cony. His washed out grey eyes and weak chin just begged to be led into a skimming game of cards and dice.

  However it was the final gentleman bringing up the rear of the party that really pulled at Hugh’s attention. He was maybe a shade under six feet tall, of promising build, not as lean as ‘Hawks’ though with a good set of shoulders. Unlike the more sallow potential gaming coney, he had well combed locks of golden red hair about neck length and a spread of freckles across his face and long nose. The fine quality gown and doublet automatically had Hugh toting up a worth closer to that of the gentry. At a guess it’d be worth a few pounds. He didn’t really need the description. All the beggars of London had heard of Red Ned Bedwell and his battle in the Paris Gardens baiting pits. From the glowing tale of his feats Hugh had expected some strapping giant like the Duke of Suffolk, not this. Hugh shook his head. Old Bent Bart always said clothes gave you the measure of a man’s purse, not his worth. He found it hard though to credit that this apprentice lawyer had set such a flea in Earless Nick’s collar to have declared Bedwell the crowning prize of yesterday’s arrangement. However two of the other Masters of Mischief had been ready enough to agree to the details of the compact even with, as Hugh viewed it, a certain amount of vindictive eagerness.

  It was the last member of the party that drew his real attention. She was some five foot tall and even with winter padding of velvet trimmed gown and cloak was a tasty morsel. She was wearing those fashionable pearl fringed caps he’d seen at the Guildhall pageants and looked every inch the young daughter of a prosperous merchant. No wonder those other two were playing such close attention. She’d be a fine catch for any marriage bed. A girl like that was hard to miss and Hugh had seen her around the city over the last week. It was said by the other beggars that the apprentice of Williams the apothecary was a blessing to an ill man, better than any barber surgeon or doctor of physick. By Saint Jude he’d feel enormously improved with that fair face and bosom by his bedside. Slowly the girl went from one patient to another starting on the opposite side from Hugh, so he had an excellent opportunity to watch his mark.

  Now as a beggar he had picked up more than a few tricks and skills of the trade. As Old Bent Bart was wont to say, you could get all the hints you need for a successful cozenage just by watching how the cony moved and acted in company. This particular company was so packed full of moods and tension that Hugh was wishing he could pull some ploys of his own just to see which way they jumped. For instance the mousey looking gentleman in dark cloth with the watery eyes seemed to be desperately searching for a way out of the room. To make his task more challenging whenever possible he kept his distance from Bedwell and Hawks, almost treading on the hem of the apothecary’s kirtle. As for Bedwell, frequently when he thought no one was looking he’d twitch his lip in a disdainful sneer at the turned back of Hawks. The girl though, she retained most of his attention and by the acclaim of his codpiece she deserved it.

  Eventually the soft swish of the kirtle stopped by his pallet and that delightful face bent down solicitously towards him. “I don’t recall you being here at my last visit. What malady ails you friend and how can we help?”

  Hug
h was suddenly struck with an unaccustomed bout of shame regarding his deformed limb and flushing a deep red dropped his head with an embarrassed mutter.

  “Now, now friend, don’t be like that. The same lord God made us all and shared his son even with the most afflicted.”

  Encouraged Hugh allowed her to view his clubbed foot gently tracing her fingers over his long time infirmity. Made bold by this solicitude Hugh tapped his nose and spoke in a low voice. “Bless y’ mistress but I’ve a message fro’ over Southwark way.”

  “What is it?”

  The question from the mistering angel was asked in the most normal tone of voice as if, Hugh mused, she received secret missives every day. He closed his eyes for a moment and moved his lips in silent recitation, then in what he thought a fair imitation of the original growling accent gave over the message. “Fra Southwark wards a family friend says Lord Frost’s blessing tis a fertile field ta plough ta seed o’ ta spirit.”

  The face of the girl went blankly still for a moment then she nodded and bent closer whispering in his ear. “Anything else friend?”

  At the warm and scented puff of her breath Hugh felt a sudden urging in his ragged codpiece and all the hairs on his neck vibrated delightfully. It took a deep calming breath for him to come back from the paradise he’d briefly visited. “Oh ahh…yea. Ahh, he also said that ye should recall Matthew fourteen, ahh seven and ahh eleven.”

  Those beautiful blue grey eyes blinked at him and Hugh could have sworn he’d melted into the pallet.

  “So, Matthew fourteen, seven and eleven, is that right?”

  “Ahh…ahh yea.”

  “Did the messenger say why?”

  Hugh waggled his head to get his thinking back together. He didn’t have a clue what any of that was about. However he wasn’t a measle brained tosspot and could put a few simple facts together. His eyes quickly darted towards the approaching figure of Bedwell and he pushed himself nervously back against the wall.

  “Mistress Black, is this rogue causing you trouble?”

  “No, no Ned, just recalling the sayings of a wise teacher.”

  Bedwell stopped, hand casually resting on his sword hilt and loomed over Hugh. “You sure, because I could’ve sworn his words disturbed you.”

  Hugh shrank back a little more wishing the wall would open up and swallow him up. Bedwell had a certain look about him that Hugh recognised all too well, that of the parish beadle considering whether to beat him through the streets, or just use the pillory. To his growing alarm there was also a deep flicker in the eyes, as if he were sorting through known faces and trying to find a match.

  A hand from Mistress Black stopped Bedwell’s advance as she ferreted around in a satchel slung from her shoulder, then apparently satisfied with her search she thrust a small pot into his hands. “This will ease the pain at the joint. Rub it on and warm them with a heated compress.” And with a smile his beautiful angel moved on leaving Hugh open mouthed and blushing.

  The rest of her party soon swept along after, though Bedwell paused and gave him a last speculative inspection. Hugh sighed in relief and slumped against the wall his heart hammering almost more than his cods throbbed. After that little adventure a fellow definitely needed a restorative and he knew just the place by Newgate Shambles.

  Hugh gulped down the first draught in one steady swallow. Oh by St Jude and the blessed angels that brought tears to the eyes. At the second cup of Brandywine Hugh’s shakes subsided. It was after all a very successful play. An hour past and he began to acquire a more optimistic view of his recent escapade. True he did get a little bruised and roughed up by Captaine Gryne’s men, but that was wasn’t much worse that the common run of kicks and cuffs he received while begging. Plus there was the consoling gain of six pence for delivering the message and possibly more according to the promise of the Captaine. Just one extra cup and maybe a bowl of the Redd Lyon’s roast ordinary, then he’d be fit for any further duty. Damn but this Christmas was proving to be a time of bounty. Hugh smiled and as if toasting the Lord of Misrule and the Masters of Mischief raised his cup.

  A chillingly familiar voice broke through the pleasant glow of his reverie. “Why me Hobblin’ little maggot here y’ ere. da Miester’s been lookin for y’ all day!”

  The rough and heavy hand of Kut Karl clapped him on the shoulder. “I…I…I can explain!”

  “Oh surely y’ will little maggat, b’ Gott’s son y’ vill!”

  Hugh gave a loud gulp and looked up over his shoulder. Kut Karl was smiling and that was never a good sign.

  Chapter Six. A Rightful Obedience

  “Noo, please noo…ARRRGGHHH! Nooo…nooo.” The scream tapered off to a snivelling whimper as Hugh vainly tried to avoid the impact of the lash on his bare back. His vision clouded as his eyes watered and the face of a sadly disapproving gargoyle swum into view. It was that of his Beggar Master Old Bent Bart and he didn’t look very pleased. “Hugh y’s my best lad. I feels saddened by yer lapse in obedience.”

  “Master…Master Bart, I’s niver meant ta cause offence. Really I didn’t.” Hugh stuttered this out in between gulps of breath and blinding washes of pain from the torment of his back.

  A heavy hand came up and grasped his jaw, moving it from side to side as if absently playing with a child’s poppet. “Yea may have intended ta do me right Hugh but it doesn’t look like that ta me or the rest of our company.”

  Hugh blinked back the tears of excruciating pain and tried to shake his head in denial. “Master Bart I’s hurried ere as soon as I could!” That plea was loaded with all the desperate truthfulness of avoiding more pain.

  Old Bent Bart paused in his close inspection of Hugh’s face, his own heavy features shifting in puzzled rumination. Hugh tried to project that extra ounce of misjudged innocence, as well as convey that what he’d said was God’s own simple truth. And despite his accustomed craft of deception and beggarly cozenage it was. After all how could he know Kut Karl was on the hunt for him, or that his stop at the Redd Lyon at Newgate for a much needed bracing cup of brandywine would be construed as wilful evasion by his lord and master?

  The heavy dark brows of Old Bent Bart shifted closer, almost grazing his cheek as the Master of Beggars seemed to sniff out any falsehoods. Eventually the misshapen head gave a slow steady nod. “That’s as maybe Hugh, but lad y’ still failed yer duty and y’ must be punished for it.”

  The rough hand released its grip and Hugh’s head dropped down. His body would have followed but his arms were tied to a pair of posts in the common room of the Labours of Ajax while he received his punishment. His half–closed eyes followed the pacing short legs of Old Bent Bart as he walked back and forth in the clear space before the fire. Beyond was the audience of his fellow beggaring fraternity watching with the keenest anticipation for the renewal of the punishment. It was always a fine entertainment made all the sweeter since it wasn’t you getting the strips. If he twisted his head to the left he’d be able to see the grinning face of Kut Karl as he carefully shook out the leather thongs of the lash in preparation for the next round of chastisement. That was a sight Hugh didn’t need. Instead he closed his eyes tight and mumbled a short pray to Mary, Mother of God, for her to open Old Bent Ben’s heart to compassion and forgiveness.

  “Another six Karl,” came the chilling reply to his fervent prayer.

  “But Miester the tally calls fr’ a dozen an a ‘alf.” To Hugh’s ear Kut Karl sounded as deeply disappointed as if he’d lost a purse full of shillings.

  “Hmm, yes it does…I’m sure we can find a task fo’ Hugh that’ll balance the scales.”

  Hugh panted with relief—only another six, only six more. Then the first of those final blows landed on his back and he screamed. Karl, cheated of his pleasure, had laid in extra hard to make up for the deficit. The pain burned white hot across his back and struggling for breath to scream at the agony Hugh shuddered and passed into oblivion.

  It may be been an hour later or much longer when the
tendrils of dull ache eased Hugh into a wary consciousness and his eyelids flickered open. The room was dark as if it was an early winter evening and one wall was washed by an orange flickering just past his limit of vision. Very slowly beyond the pain of his lash stripped back it dawned on Hugh that he must be in the inner sanctum of his Master, Old Bent Bart. Cautiously he raised his head. His master was sitting in his usual chair by the fire and opposite was a sight he’d never expected to see in the Labours of Ajax.

  She wore the accustomed dress of a Prioress, though it was difficult to think of that ruined rogue’s refuge of Paternoster Prior as having any relationship to the magnificent palace of York Place Cardinal Wolsey had built. He couldn’t forget that face. It was thin with proudly high cheekbones and a sharp pointy nose that seemed to unerringly seek out mischief. Every time he’d attempting to dip into the small store of comfits and sweetmeats that were hidden in the old priory kitchen, with unerring instinct the Prioress had caught him. That hadn’t been the only thing he recalled either. When angry her eyes burned like the fire of the saints and for all her parchment white skin and seeming aged frailty, Prioress Abyngdon possessed all the righteous strength in walloping of a woman half her years and twice her size.