Whoever had conceived of the Frost Fair was damned clever. The stalls and booths were arranged in four rough lines that imitated the layout of a parish market. Using the side of the booth Meg boosted herself up a few feet and surveyed the scene. From this level the Fair more closely resembled a pair of streets that ran parallel to each other and so the crowd would travel Westminster wards and then back before drifting off either towards Fish Street or Southwark.
Now the question was why had she been so dramatically summoned here? Ignoring the decorum of her status Meg climbed further up the rickety support of the stall, eliciting a number of squealing complaints from the stall owner and disapproving frowns and comments from a passing cluster of street gossips. There were times like this that she was greenly envious of the extra height of her brother Rob and that cursed rogue Bedwell, let alone the natural swaggering arrogance of all codpiece stuffers.
Meg shook her head dismissing the constant annoyance of men and their loathsome habits. Now where would a messenger be? That oh so difficult of tasks took less than a minute. She could have pinched herself at the obviousness of it. Hopping down she wove her way to the largest stall with a bound brush of holly tied to a pole. Of course, where else to look but in an instant ale house?
She’d cast loose Robin with a penny in hand and instructions meet her here at the tolling of the bells for ten o’ clock. By her estimate this wasn’t due for some half hour or so thus giving the lad enough time to stroll around the Fair but not enough to get lost. In the meantime Meg gained a measure of privacy for her meeting. Once inside the rowdy stall her target was easy to spot. Not many men in London could claim to exceed the height of the Duke of Suffolk or His Sovereign Majesty. Anyway even sitting down Captaine Gryne stood out in any crowd. His sweeping forked red beard guaranteed that.
A nervously looking stallholder with a greasy leather apron and lanky black hair was reluctantly sliding a few clipped silver pennies across the table towards the smiling Captaine. Seeing her approach he turned aside and muttered a few words to his clerk then leant across the table and slapped a hand on the stall holder’s shoulder. “Nay ta worry Lankin. Yr’ as safe as is if’n yr were m’ own bairn.”
From Meg’s viewpoint that cheerful reassurance didn’t seem to inspire poor Lankin who slunk off looking as if he’d sold his soul as well as that of his oldest child to Satan and only got a slab of board hard dried cod in return.
Her welcome though was a little different. The Captaine slapped the table with his large hand, sounding off like one of the Great Gonnes at the Tower during one of his Majesties celebrations. “A flagon o’ ta best for my guest and I’s reckons everyone ‘ere needs a spell o’ sunshine.”
Whether the small crowd felt a sudden need for the bitingly chill air and snowflakes or not they got the message. Between one breath and the next the ale house emptied. Meg watched slightly bemused and took a seat at the now empty bench. She’d heard more than a few tales about the Captaine’s business methods.
“So lass, I sees ya’ got my message.”
While she was bursting to ask about the cryptic message culled from the bible, Meg held firm to her priorities and pulling out a small weighted purse dropped it on the rough–hewn table before the smiling Captaine Gryne. “I want protection for Bedwell. That purse contains ten angels, double the bounty on him.”
For a moment the Captaine sat there blinking in amazement then once more his hand hit the table in a loud crack and he threw his head back in a loud rumbling laugh.
Meg was none too impressed by this reception of her ‘gift’, and frowned darkly before throwing down another clinking purse. It bounced and come to rest next to its twin. “That’s twenty angels Gryne, and double next week if you deal with these rogues!”
The Captain’s laughter slowly rumbled to a halt as still smiling he shook his head. “Sae much gilt fa one lad! Young Bedwell must hae the very harp o’ the queen o’ the Sidhe to enchant y’r heart so.”
Meg took a deep calming breath and tried to tell herself she wasn’t blushing at the jest. Her teeth locked tight on her first impulsive response and she whispered a short prayer, then folding her hands on the table spoke quietly and without heat. “No Captaine Gryne, that is not so. I…I hold Ned Bedwell in only the normal regard of one Christian to another. It is just that his de…ah I mean his removal would cause terrible harm to our current, ahh shall we say, venture.”
Gryne kept up that infuriating smile that Meg thought hovered on the edge of smirking insolence. However the Captaine of mercenaries didn’t laugh. Instead he slowly shook his head and for an instant Meg’s breath froze in apprehension. “Nay lass, if’n that’s how yea have y’r friendship then I’ll nay speak against it.”
They may have been kind words but Gryne’s actions spoke louder and chilled her soul. He pushed back the two purses of coin. “I can nay take this, lass.”
“What! Why not? My coins are untainted by assaying or clipping, as well you know!”
“Y’r gilt is nay the cause.”
“What then, Captaine Gryne?” It seemed to Meg that Gryne flinched slightly at the hard tones of her question.
“Ahh y’r see, there’s a comfit an’ compact between the Masters o’ Rogues o’ the city ta settle the matter o’ the Upright Man between us.”
“So?”
“Ahh, Bedwell’s head is the prize o’ the lordship.”
The silence after this reluctant answer stretched long and icy. Gryne appeared to fidget nervously and his eyes refused to meet hers. For her part Meg gritted her teeth and hissed a long and mostly silent plea for divine aid regarding the stupidity of measle brained men. Finally holding on to her temper by the merest width of a fingernail she voiced her coldly angry incredulity. “And you signed this Comfit of Rogues?”
Gryne made smacking noises with his lips and folded his arms across a broad chest before hesitantly rumbling out an answer. “Ahh…Aye… y’ see ta my thinking was safer for Bedwell ta be in the hunt than out of it.”
Meg frowned in deep disdain at this explanation and held back from commenting on what she thought of this clearly Bedlamite reasoning.
Gryne though must have taken her glower for understanding and continued. “I’d nay worry lass. I suspect this bill on Bedwell will nay run for long. Ta my mind this comfit is like a parcel o’ cats an’ a large fish. Sooner or later one o’ the catkins takes it into his mind that the others are eating the finest parts an ‘es left with naught but the bones an’ scales. Then they set to a bickerin’ an’ a brawlin’.”
With that Captaine Gryne gave a short nod and a smile, obviously satisfied with his comparison.
Meg though was still sceptical. It sounded awfully simplistic to her ear even if it did involve rogues puffed up with conceit and arrogance.
“Ahh, by the byes, where’s the lad now?”
“Why?” Her abrupt reply was so weighted and double shot with suspicion it could have been fired from a great Gonne.
Gryne chewed over his answer for a moment or so then made a casual wave with his hand. “Nay reason in particular lass.”
Meg paused a moment to consider his airy answer. Was Gryne fishing for information or giving an oblique warning? With a face like his so covered in beard it was hard to tell. Giving rein to her suspicions Meg temporised. “As we speak Ned Bedwell is no doubt dicing, gaming an’ playing the tosspot at the Sign of the Spread Eagle. Tam Bourke, one of your men I think, is the Revels’ door warden.”
There, let him work that out. The word in the city was that Gryne held a contract as sacred as holy writ. If retained, his lads would readily spend their blood in a patron’s defence, or at least so it was said. Meg hadn’t come across any disgruntled customer. However a nagging doubt whispered, well you wouldn’t would you. They’d be dead.
The Captaine though seemed to take that statement in good part and nodded, stroking at this beard. “Oh aye? Good ta hear. He could nay be safer in the Tower.”
Hmm now where d
id that come from? Meg felt a sense of growing unease. Had she in fact been lured here as a distraction?
She knew for a fact that Ned was close locked with that slimy weasel Walter Dellingham. He’d warned her that their precocious charge was jibing at his chains, both physical and metaphorical, and as a treat for two days good behaviour Ned had promised to take him to a small cock fight near Newgate Goal. According to his reports it’d be sometime towards the one o’ clock chimes then they’d meet her by the Redd Lyon by Newgate markets for a sup of the tavern’s ordinary, after which they’d all head off on their mission to succour the poor souls in Newgate Gaol.
The arrangement was fair enough. Reedman and two others from the Revels had promised to be escort, but now…Meg shook her head to clear the phantoms and giving the table her own thump with a fist, pressed on with the other purpose of the visit. “Captain Gryne, the missive I received made a suggestion regarding an advantage for my present venture. A Southwark friend says Lord Frost’s Fair blessing tis a fertile field ta plough ta seed o’ ta spirit. Let’s cut through all the cryptic word games that so amuse Dr Agryppa. What’s it mean?”
Once more Gryne’s chuckle rumbled and his face spilt into a wide and decidedly wicked grin. “Why lass, I should nay have thought I’d have ta tell yea.”
A pointed silence, a raised eyebrow and an impatient tap of her fingers on the table was all the answer she’d give to that.
“The Frost Fair lass, is nay covered by London or Southwark, an’ nay the church either. So it sits in the midst o’ the Lord o’ Misrule’s domain with no appointed fair wardens or constables save Gryne’s Men.”
His eye twinkled at the last few words and Meg didn’t need the hint. A whole fair packed to the gunwales with players, mummers, balladeers, minstrels and all manner of entertainers, each and every one of them free of the hovering menace of the Bishop of London and the Church courts. And all during the topsy–turvy time and lordship of Misrule. Every one of them keen for ready silver.
Meg gasped as ideas blossomed like spring time flowers. The opportunities were astounding and best of all, the Lady would so approve of the sleight of hand to cock a snook at Bishop Stokesley and the dour Archbishop Fischer. Caught up in the inspiration she jumped to her feet. “Captaine, would you care to introduce me to the folk of the Frost Fair?”
“Such a rush lass. Y’ve nay finished y’ wine.”
“There is so much to do here and I’ve patients to tend.” Meg kept it short and brisk as she strode to the canvas doorway with an amused Captaine Gryne struggling to catch up. The one thing Meg didn’t say was that if she hurried there was a good chance she’d beat Bedwell and company to Newgate.
Though the Captaine had said nothing specific, it was that gaping hole in the conversation around Ned’s immediate safety that almost had her rigidly mortified in fearful worry. She prayed fervently that Roger’s current cosenage would keep Ned safe. After all if a Liberties rogue would cut a throat without a moment’s hesitation for six pence, what would they do for five angels?
Chapter Eleven. A Procession To Newgate
It may have a been a chill day with grey lowering clouds and a winter brisk enough to set old men shaking their heads, grimly comparing these frosty visitations to those of a rosier past. Phil Flydman, if he’d heard though, would have laughed at their grumbling. To his view this day was full of the warm spring promise of prosperity. It was the most splendid of days and in the future he’d always mark it with a special celebration and feast. Considering the season of course it’d have to be a revel, with the best Rhenish and sweet brandywine, a roast suckling pig and a sugared subtlety, larger and taller than the one over at the Black Goat. And all in honour of London’s newly acclaimed Lord of Misrule – Flaunty Phil of the Wool’s Fleece.
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 F
leete 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.
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