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 happened 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.
Ned shook his head and stepped back out of reach of the clearly enraged and deranged Meg Black. Women! Who could tell what they were about? Mayhap it was the unbalanced humours that floated up from their wombs that so unsettled the female mind. He made to ask Captaine Gryne what had caused her anger, but the Captaine watching the by play between the two roared with laughter, and shaking his head walked off. That left Roger who gave him a glare full of the disdainful loathing employed usually reserved for piss channel vermin. Ned wasn’t going to lower himself enough to ask that minion the time of day. Instead he retreated to the relative safety of the Reedman brothers and oh by God the weaselly presence of Walter and loudly suggested they sup at the Redd Lyon since he’d heard that their roast ordinary was of excellent repute. Anyway the time it would take to travel there, should give Mistress Black’s ill humours time to dissipate, or so he hoped.
*
Meg Black watched the hurried retreat of the insufferable Bedwell and began a short litany of prayers to calm her temper all this effort for and worry for…for…for…
Roger Hawkins stepped into her narrowed view and bent close. “Y’know Mistress, that reward of five angels is still open.”
Meg’s eyebrows drew down in what she suspected was a very unladylike beetled eyed frown and Roger instinctively stepped back. “Don’t…tempt me Master Hawkins. Just don’t.”
Meg somehow resisted the lure of temptation and the sin of revenge. However she did swear by her faith that sooner rather than later Bedwell would be dragged down from his arrogant perch and humbled. Surely the Lord God would allow an ardent reformer such as her a small transgression of christianly virtue. Anyway if you looked at it the right way, it wasn’t so much giving in to the sin of revenge but rather a much overdue lesson in humility. Meg smiled. It was cold and artic like the season. She felt better already. A few more days and Walter would be gone. Then and only then would Bedwell have cause to repent his roguish ways!
Post script. Misrule’s Reign
The Cardinal’s Cap was as fine an establishment as any in Southwark. Normally Gulping Jemmy appreciated the bountiful generosity of its mistress, Pleasant Anne, and especially the sweet smile and warm welcome of Gentle Alice. Not this winter’s afternoon though. While his spirit may have been up for a rousing session of rumpy pumpy, a broad selection of bruises had him restricted to a wincing limp.
The Southwark survivors of the Newgate Shambles brawl had lodged at the Tabard Inn where Canting had slapped down several shillings, calling for the best food and wine for his brave lads. Jemmy would have merrily joined in but Canting had tapped him on the shoulder and quietly suggested they adjourn for a quiet drink and chat—elsewhere.
Jemmy’s entry to the Cardinal’s Cap was some quarter hour behind that of his master, only in part due to the pain of his battle injuries. The other greater delay had been trying to sort out the mood of Canting Michael, never an easy task. Young Will had survived his first affray as a rogue and roister, and while not covered in glory or blood had acquitted himself well enough. As for the alliance with Earless Nick sought on his master’s behalf, it was Canting who’d by his words cast that away. So fingers crossed Jemmy felt himself safe on these grounds. The twin prizes of Bedwell and the Upright Man had he suspected been lost during the affray. This left Jemmy mildly pleased if somewhat confused, but the final judgement as always belonged to Canting and frankly that’d worry a saint.
So Jemmy approached the private table in the strangely empty tavern with a not so casual right hand draped over his dagger, while the left swung in easy reach of a hidden second blade.
Canting cracked a ready if brief smile and waved long fingers as both a summons and a welcome. Jemmy slipped into the private alcove and took the bench opposite with a thankful sigh. Canting pushed across a steaming jug and Jemmy poured himself a horn beaker of mulled hippocras. Pausing only long enough to inhale the steamy fumes he downed it. One hand though still poised knifewards just in case. The Southwark gang lord appeared not to notice anything amiss and stared off towards the vacant dicing table by the fire. He seemed to nod towards thin air before bending forwards and fixing Jemmy with his coal black eyes and barked out a statement. “T’were proper done Gulping. I means over there in the city.”
In reply Jemmy gave a half–hearted shrug as if it were the least of his services. His hand still stayed close.
“I means ta remember y’r duties Gulping. Y’ showed witless Will the lanes and byways o’ the city an’ kept the young fool safe.”
This time Gulping tweaked a grin and fl
uttered a spare hand briefly empty of beaker of wine.
Canting nodded his head in thought and as if from nowhere out shot a surprising statement. “That cozenage ye played with Gryne over Bedwell twas as fine a hand of Hazard as ever I’ve seen. Y’ pulled the Captaine an’ his cursed necromancer into the game an’ ruined Earless Nick’s ploy.”
Somehow Jemmy didn’t spray the table with a mouthful of hippocras. Rather he swallowed it in a number of painful coughs and belches. In the meantime Canting’s lips tilted in that peculiar smile of his. Jemmy’s hand hovered over the secret dagger and he cleared his throat of the last of the bones of the drink. “Bedwell? Gryne? What y’ mean, Canting? I’s serve y’ faithfully in this matter and any man says otherwise I’ll call him out!”
Canting Michael gave a dry chuckle and shook his head. “Ahh Gulping Jemmy, y’r a good lad as m’bailiff, but did y’ no think that if’n I’d truly wanted the Bedwell lad I could ‘ave had him anytime? An’ a damned sight cheaper than five angels.”
Jemmy was now even more confused than before. His fingers grazed the dagger hilt. Canting obviously knew of his various games and plays though why and how and what it meant was all at hazard. “But…but after the baiting cozenage yea said it were a clear four shilling to any man who could bring Bedwell into y’r company for a chat!”
A Comfit Of Rogues Page 12