Meg pulled herself back from that lingering image and strived for a more credible reason. “No we need Bedwell. His signature is on the deed for the purchase of the Ruyter of Bremen, not to mention several requests for export licences.”
And now it was Roger’s turn to look surprised. “I–I thought y’ didn’t want him involved in the bringing in o’ ta books fro’ the Low Country.”
“Well, uhh…I don’t. Ned wouldn’t understand…that is not yet. His good lord suggested it as a common merchant’s ruse.”
“What, Rich? Y’ asked Master Richard Rich, that coin cozening lawyer of Middle Temple?” Her retainer was clearly shocked.
Meg waved off the accusation with an abrupt flick of her hand as if removing clinging street filth. “By the blessed saviour no, not him. It came as a suggestion from the Lady via Cromwell.”
Roger still shook his head as if doubtful of its wisdom though he did appear relieved the connection with Ned’s uncle was to remain a distant one. Her retainer though was clearly displeased. “He’s a Rich by blood if’n not name. I’d sooner trust that slippery courtier, More.”
“Whoever it came from is irrelevant,” snapped Meg, angered at her servant’s intransigence. “What concerns us now is what to do about saving Ned…ah, I mean Master Bedwell from this foul plot.”
Roger still appeared reluctant to accept this latest commandment. His face was the very mirror of disappointment. Meg pursed her lips in concern. She wasn’t blind to the interaction between her faithful retainer and ‘Red Ned’. The whole situation smouldered of rancour and jealousy. They were as prickly as a pair of hounds snarling over the same bitch. At this none too subtle allusion her frown deepened. That wasn’t going to happen…ever!
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.”
&n
bsp; 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 Ruff and Honour.
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 scrupulous
ly 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.
The Lord Of Misrule Page 24