The Lord Of Misrule

by House, Gregory

  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 float
ing 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.