The Lord Of Misrule

by House, Gregory

  His hand numb Old Bent Bart struggled almost upright. Another deft blow to his shoulder forced him down to his knees, the chill water of the street slush making his joints ache.

  “Hmm yes, that posture suits yea Master Hunchback. A skulking traitor should be on his knees in the filth before his betters.”

  Old Bent Bart flinched and bowed over as the cudgel prodded him savagely in the gut. Even in the smoke’s gloom he could see the gleam of Earless Nick’s white teeth as the Master of the Liberties grinned, clearly amused by his play. Wheezing from the blow that’d knocked the wind out of him Old Bent Bart shuffled forward still on his knees in the most abject manner. “Oh please, I beg yea Lord o’ the Liberties, don’t hurt me. I’s promise I’ll support yea as the Upright Man!”

  Earless Nick nodded clearly amused at the attempt. “Tsk tsk Master Crookback. Is this the best yea can do? I’d heard ye was a great player o’ the crowds at Bedlam, tugging their heart strings with your piteous cries and lamentations.”

  This remark was punctuated by a heavy strike to his bent back and Old Bent Bart didn’t have to counterfeit his cry of pain. Instead still down in the street muck he clutched at Earless Nick’s boots. The Lord of the Liberties laughed at the scene and tapped his cudgel in contemplation of his next strike.

  Old Bent Bart may have been a good foot or more shorter than other men thanks to his infirmity, but as many a beggar could attest that didn’t mean his strength was as paltry as a child’s. Nor was his cunning. With his hand firmly clasped around Earless Nicks ankles he pulled backwards and the gang lord joined his victim in the filth of the Shambles street, his cudgel clattering off and away from him.

  As any beggar or true roister or rogue could attest no matter what lordly skills a man may possess or how much tutelage in the arts of sword, lance or axe, in a brawl advantage and opportunity trump all. Oh yes and a lack of scruples. Old Bent Bart hadn’t acquired his position by being sweet, gentle and forgiving. The graveyards and ditches of the city were full enough of fools. So with his tormentor now at his level Old Bent Bart didn’t let the chance go a begging. He opened his mouth wide and with all the power of his heavy jaw chomped down upon Earless Nick’s conveniently positioned codpiece.

  *

  From his hiding place Hobblin’ Hugh heard the most gut wrenching scream so close to him that instinct took over and he bolted from his hidey hole. Not the best of moves since three hobbled steps flight had him slam into an unyielding figure. The brawler seized his cap and hair in a strong hand and drew him closer in almost a lover’s embrace and lifting him up without effort shook him just like a hound with a rat. A second strong hand wretched his crutch from him and threw it down the narrow alley where it clattered against the water butt. A gripping hand swung him round like a mummer’s puppet and Hugh beheld the face of his captor. It was his master’s enforcer Kut Karl, the knife man. The Lowlander was as happy as a pig in mud at his catch, though if Hugh were a bold rogue and not shaking and quivering in terror, he may’ve quipped that Kut Karl would be more at home in a sty than a street. He wasn’t and haltingly cursed the grim facts of fate.

  “When I’z saw mine own little maggot wit that arseknudle Hawks I knew that ye would be mine afore ze day were done.”

  “N…n…n…no, tis not what y’ think. Twas Hawks, Hawks did it!”

  Ignoring Hugh’s stammering pleas Kut Karl shook his head and retreated deeper into the shadows of the alley. Hugh tried to struggled and squirmed, but Karl held him tight as the knifeman hissed in satisfaction. “Y’ little maggot, y’s betrayed y’r miester. Naught will save y’ now!”

  Kut Karl’s hand gripped Hugh’s chin with a strength enough to pop his teeth. Hugh tried to speak but the clenched hand trapped his words. He stared up into the face of his master’s most feared henchman from the distance of only a few inches. The knifeman’s pale blue eyes were icier than the Thames and Kut Karl’s grin was full of gloating satisfaction and broken teeth. Hugh knew his last moment on this earth was at hand. He’d have tried to frame a quickly inventive plea or prayer but his mouth was held fast. Not even a whimper escaped. Slowly Karl tucked his cudgel into his belt and then drew out his beloved knife, his precious darling and the reason for his name. Every day in the Labours of Ajax he lovingly skimmed the edge with a whetstone crooning to it with an affection he showed to no living man…or woman.

  Hugh closed his eyes. He didn’t care about honour or bravery or any other foolish pastimes. He didn’t want his last sight to be the gleam of pleasure in Kut Karl’s savage features. The tip of the blade made almost a loving caress along the line of his throat before coming to rest at the spot above his Adam’s apple. Then as if he could feel the pressure of the fingers tighten for the lunge the blade trembled.

  Driven by curiosity Hugh’s eyes slitted open and beheld a strangest sight, in fact a miracle given by one of the archangels. Kut Karl, the bane of his short life, had dropped the dagger. Right now he was trying to talk but all that came out was a stuttering wheeze, then a trickle of foamy red fluid leaking over his lips. Very slowly as if he was a mummer’s doll with its strings cut one by one, Kut Karl sagged and dropped to his knees still trying to speak but his words whatever they were came out as more reddened froth.

  Then as if he was the archangel Michael made flesh and wreathed in smoke and a piercing shaft of cold winter light was a tall figure, bloody dagger in hand. The man or angel reached down and tugged off the sleeve of Kut Karl’s ragged gown before casually cleaning his blade on it and shook his head as if saddened by the act of slaying.

  “Karl always were a fool. I’s never seen a soul so caught up in the act o’ murder that he’d forget ta watch ‘is back in a brawl.”

  Hugh wavered in indecision. By rights he should avenge the slaying of his fraternity brother even if it was the feared and hated Karl but somehow he felt more inclined towards kissing the feet of his saviour. One thing stopped him though, one small thing. It was his tormentor and bane of this Misrule week, the cursed trickster and cozener Hawks.

  *

  Meg dusted the soot from her hands and gave a satisfied nod at her efforts. Those smoke grenadoes were an excellent choice for an affray. She must remember to tell Agryppa that his mixture was so effective especially after she’d added an extra two ounces of sulphur. The whole Shambles was wreathed in the thick clouds of acrid smoke, and the combatants were staggering around coughing, well those that hadn’t fled. Best of all Meg had earned an amused smile and nod of approval from Captaine Gryne, who immediately set his retainers to clearing out the last reluctant pockets of brawling rogues. So at a loss she carefully picked her way amongst the debris of overturned stalls and beast carcasses looking for any injured in need of aid.

  *

  For Flaunty Phil the day had tumbled out of control from its triumphal peak. Now from how his body and face felt he was the very image of a suffering wretch. His nose pulsed with vivid scarlet pain at every heartbeat and he’d swear that a few of his ribs were cracked from some cursed rogue’s boot or cudgel, probably both and then a deal extra. Phil lifted his head up from the reddening puddle and looked around. The brawl was over.

  Whether he’d had his revenge on Old Bent Bart he couldn’t recall. There were so many rogues he’d punched, struck or bit maybe one of them was that miserable, Crookback. No matter! The beggar would be hunted down. In the meantime Phil pulled himself out from under the wrecked stall and using a post to steady himself, regained an almost standing position. His head ached as if it’d been pounded like a drum by one of Satan’s imps. What they’d used his mouth for Flaunty Phil didn’t wish to speculate upon, but by Christ’s blood it was foul. Damn but he could do with a firkin of Brandywine. It didn’t take much thought to sort out that his campaign for the Upright Man was now worth less than punk’s chastity. Blood trickled down over his eyes blurring his vision, and he wept with despair, pain and loss.

  A light hand touched his shoulder and a soft voice spoke in his ear. “Are you
sore hurt friend? Here let me cleanse the blood from your face.”

  Surrendering to the tender ministrations and a cool soothing cloth Flaunty Phil eased himself down to squat on a barrel. His vision cleared and before him stood a small lass. She was young, maybe fifteen or so, attractive and dressed in a fine scarlet kirtle. From its quality he’d say she was perhaps a merchant’s daughter. The girl was holding a satchel in which she was rummaging. In some fuzzy part of his mind she appeared familiar and Phil shook his head attempting to clear if only briefly the last of the muzzy pain. Memory sudden and jagged blazed and he lurched upright throwing out a hand, pointing. “You! You’re Bedwell’s bitch!”

  While possibly true in theory rather than fact, it was an error in the here and now. The swung satchel hit Phil across the side of his recently cleaned face and his head smacked into a timber post. For Flaunty Phil Misrule’s day was over—in a blossom of pain and darkness. Sometimes the right words could be so dangerously hurtful.

  Chapter Seventeen. Ned’s Needs

  Sauntering along towards the Newgate Shambles Ned idly made a play of kicking at the snow–covered ruts. In earlier years he would have skipped along quite merrily, pretending to be a giant from the old tales smashing the walls of rebellious vassals of King Arthur. That was at least a decade ago and it had sort of lost its allure since then. Anyway even if he wanted to indulge in that childish pastime it wasn’t a worthwhile impulse today. His present company would have taken him as either ale sodden or crazed with the sudden onset of the Sweats. Ned scowled briefly as he looked over his shoulder and gave a resigned shrug. Sometime the impulsiveness of a child was so damned tempting, especially after the last few days and even more so after the last two wasted hours. Christ on the Cross he was so cursedly bored!

  It wasn’t right. It shouldn’t be so tedious. He’d the company of Christmas Revels back at the Sign of the Spread Eagle, good cheer by the tankard full, and those oh so diaphanously clad nymphs singing songs of a Maying and other rural idylls. Ahh yes, it was a blessed refuge abounding with games of dice and decent play of Hazard at cards, all honest and free from the common Liberties plays of cozenage. If those diversions waned then he could always stroll off down to the Frost Fair on the Thames. It was said to be a marvellous diversion full of players, mummers and tumblers, as good as the annual St Bartholomew the Great Fair or so one of his fellow revellers claimed.

  Whatever the wicked temptation or lewdly suggestive diversion the Frost Fair might hold it just wasn’t going to pull him out of his current mood—or predicament. The present evening may be full of merriment and diversion, well at least more so since his revolting remedy for the black canker of frostbite was concluded. Having his feet and private parts drenched in warm fresh piss hourly wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination a cheery occasion.

  However that matter aside he was still shackled with another weightier responsibility that dragged down his lighter spirit—that cursed reforming weasel Walter Dellingham! Boon companion of the dicing tables and devotee of the wild Liberties punks, young watery–eyed Walter was still his damned charge. The consolation of a steady stream of silver coming in via ‘fines’ for Walter’s more than frequent misbehaviours didn’t make up for having to watch the arch cozener every blessed minute of the day and night. The strain was beginning to take a dire toll on his joyful humours. Ned found himself called upon almost hourly for the most Christianly restraint and forgiveness, even resorting to muttered prayer to stop him from shoving Walter head first into a privy. His daemon had whispered a few suggestions of a more permanent nature, but to be honest complexly intricate schemes of disposal wouldn’t work. No matter how devious or cunning it was he suspected that Secretary Cromwell would have thought of it first. So though richer in purse he was poorer in spirit.

  Ned cast another short glance over his shoulder. Even to the untrained eye Walter was a devoted and perpetual cozener. Here in the open street of Ivy Lane as they approached the Newgate Markets he was still trying a play on his escorts, John Reedman and his troublesome brother. At the cock fight it’d been an attempt to fiddle the bet and then a mewling whimper that he must needs use the privy urgently. God’s blood you’d think he had the bladder of a babe from the number of times they’d stopped for Walter to water a wall. Then he claimed that having a pair of fellows pressing him betwixt their shoulders made his bladder run dry. As if they’d would let the measle stray a foot outside without a ‘guard’. Anyway for Ned that was a constant drain upon his temper and patience, thus having Meg beg off their morning rounds of the prisons and hospitals was an opportunity for excitement too fleeting to be missed.

  Some lads at the Revels had heard of a much touted cockfight to be held in a small tavern on the comer of Ivy Lane and Paternoster Row and to Ned that sounded a perfect excuse. So they pulled on gowns and cloaks for protection from the biting chill, strapped on swords and daggers for other more or less obvious threats and stomped off through the mounds of frozen slush and snow.

  You’d think from the tavern’s name, ‘The Cock’s Comb’, they’d have the sport all sewn up. Sadly as with so much in this decayed and sinful world it was high on puff and bombast, but lower than the cesspit when it came to sport and diversion. The game fighting cocks proved to be a disappointment. He’d seen pigeons larger and gambolling spring lambs had more fight in them. The half hour spent there was a dreary bore. They’d have had more fun and sport counting rats at Newgate Gaol. To Ned, used to the constant surprises around every city corner, that tawdry bout was only exceptional due to one factor. It must have been the only baiting in town without a resident nip, roister or rogue. Apart from the excitement of the beasts Ned tended to derive more real pleasure in watching the side plays within the audience. Such as the surreptitious cutting of a purse from a distracted patron or any of the several cozenage gambits to cony catch a gull. Today though he was denied even that opportunity. For once a London den was hosting the most honest game ever and he could have expired from tedium.

  Ah well their ‘respite’ had ended at the ringing of the twelve o’ clock bells. By arrangement they were to meet Meg at the entrance to Newgate Gaol and once more take up the guise and mantle of devoted reformers and good Christians. Lady Dellingham, that most dour and joyless embodiment of reformers, was due this afternoon at the prison to witness Walter’s dedication to the cause. So it was the Bread Street Compter cozenage all over again. For his part Ned had to play the devoted friend ‘inspired’ by the Dellingham scion’s example. By the saints he gagged at the thought of having to simper and grasp Walter by the hand as a brother in the Lord. Oh the burdens he took on for Mistress Margaret Black—she’d better be damned thankful for his suffering.

  The strange scattering of limping figures hobbling down the street and slipping into the narrow side lanes may have given Ned pause for thought, though he was too sunk in self misery to notice. Thus it was only as his little company strolled into the street of the Newgate markets that he became aware that anything was amiss. The normally bustling Shambles usually packed with apprentices calling out the freshness of their wares and the noisy haggling of customers was strangely silent and the cobbles of the street were covered with the wreckage of broken stalls, muddy ribbons and discarded shoes. In the centre of the ruins lay the shattered rig of a festival hobby horse and the place reeked worse than a tanner’s yard, thick with a drifting yellow tinged cloud. Ned pulled the sleeve of his gown over his nose to block the sulphurous stench and cautiously picked his way along, trailed by the pair of Reedmans and a watery eyed Walter.

  Some yards along at the high tide mark of the chaos sitting on an upturned barrel was Meg Black frowning in contemplation as if surveying the results of her labours. To one side was her sneering minion Gruesome Roger polishing his cudgel with clear gloating satisfaction, and on the other side the impressive figure of Captaine Gryne was wiping his hands with a large scrap of bloody jerkin as if it was after a feasting.

  “What’s going on, what hap
pened here?” That question may have come out sharper and more strident than he’d intended but Ned’s day which had been so full of promise and so thoroughly soured that his temper had likewise suffered.

  Meg Black looked at him as if he were some strange breed of talking beast, and ignored his question. Captaine Gryne who seemed to be hiding a smirk in that red bushy beard of his glanced between the two and stepped forward. “Ha Bedwell, there was a wee bit o’ an affray here. A couple o’ parish Misrule pageants came ta blows over a disagreement.”

  At the news Ned perked up eagerly looking around for the last of the brawlers. “Really? A brawl, here? By Christ’s blood that would have been real boost for my day if only I’d been present. So far it’s been more boring than a sermon by Bishop Stokesley.”

  At his curse of moping regret Meg Black appeared to lose her previous appearances of introspection and surged to her feet. “Bedwell, you’re a measly ungrateful rogue! This is the last time I’ll raise a finger to save even a scrap of your worthless hide!” Then her satchel of never–ending inventiveness swung towards him in a clearly aimed and deliberate attempt to batter a Bedwell.