Gregory House

A Comfit Of Rogues

Prologue. A Festive Gathering

Throughout the Christian realm of His Sovereign Majesty King Henry VIII the twelve days of Christmas was a time of celebration. Doors and lynch gates were framed with holly and ivy and the last fasting ended on Christmas Eve with a joyous feast of the Saviour’s birth in every lord’s hall, yeoman’s house and beggar’s hovel. The Black Goat on Bride Lane in the Liberties of the Ward of Farrington Without was no exception, though here they also maintained the old tradition of a Lord of Misrule. For the season some wards and parishes proclaimed a boy bishop or elevated a humble servant with complimentary ragged rogues serving as the officers of Butler and Chancellor. Here only one man held that title and the bestowal of traditional gifts and favours, Earless Nick, the Lord of the Liberties from London Wall to Temple Bar.

This wasn’t any titled demesne such as that of the Duke of Norfolk with a carefully scripted parchment heavy with gilt and seals, though like a distant Howard ancestor it was a rank gained by the practice of murder and the ready effusion of blood. Not that this distinction mattered to those in the long procession snaking out of the tavern door. Earless Nick’s whims or pleasures held them enthralled in tighter bonds than even the slaves of the Sultan of the Moors, and considering the recent debacle here at the Black Goat, Nick’s moods had tended towards the darker shades of choler. There was also another factor that held them. Past Earless Nick’s silk draped chair of state was a feast of such sumptuousness that few had beheld outside of the Cardinal’s palace of Whitehall at York Place; capons in almond douce sauce, smothered rabbits and onions, a white pudding of hog’s liver, jelly hippocras and a roasted pheasant complete with feathers. As for the sweets and subtleties, one clever cross biter whispered to his drooling friends that three pounds of blanched almond sugar went into the modelled replica of Newgate Tower alone. For fellows and punks who scrounged, begged and thieved for a bowl of warm pease and bacon potage this was a spread of foods beyond compare. A veritable paradise of pleasure…though for some surveying their skimpy gleanings, gaining a seat at the feast wasn’t their only concern.

One by one the line shuffled towards the finely dressed figure taking his ease on lordly seat, each member of the fraternity dropping to their knees and presenting their prizes for judgement. To complete the feudal scene a clerk stood beside Earless scribbling notations in an iron clasped, leather bound book as the offerings were displayed. Then if acceptable, Wall-eyed Willis, Nick’s master of rogues and veteran of fifty fights in the brawling pits, would wave one of his lumbering lads forward to take the prizes and convey them to the heavy iron strapped chest set against the wall. After this Earless Nick would stare at his grovelling petitioner for a few seconds in deep deliberation before waving them off to join the company at the back of the commons who’d partake of the feast.

However in the regard of Earless Nick not all gifts were so easily accepted. One lanky longbearded fellow in a ragged cloak stepped forward and presented a bundle of clothes. Earless Nick frowned at the offering and signalled for it to be shaken out by a waiting minion and sat there tapping his lip with a ring covered finger. “Tis a poor week for a hookman tis it, Dickon?”

The hookman cringed at the question, his beard almost brushing the floor. “Aye Master Nick. Tis the snow an’ cold. They’s keeps their shutters sealed up tighter than a bishops cellar!”

Earless Nick gave a wintery smile and nodded. “So Dickon, its latched and shuttered windows that is the cause of your miserable pickings. Hmm, two old cambric shirts and a worn patched set of hoses.”

Dickon the hook man quickly nodded and spluttered out agreement through quivering lips. “Aye Master Nick. Tis ta cold fo’ them ta hang ou’ their clothes an sa’ I can’t gets em.”

Earless Nick continued to smile as he buffed his silvered rings on a piece of damask cloth. “So it wasn’t you seen passing four fine shirts to Ol’ Simkins in Little Drury?”

Dickon the hookman gulped nervously as his eyes darted around the common room seeking out the informant. “Na’ it weren’t I Master Nick. Sum cuffin’s a lying rogue ta yea.”

Earless Nick’s smile broadened as he picked up a horn cup and dropped a pair of dice into it. “Well Dickon, it may be so. Indeed it may and I’s a fair master so according to custom yea can throw an let the good Lord decide your fate.”

The hookman’s hand shook as he took the proffered cup and the dice rattled like a gallows drummer. Covering the open mouth of the cup with a grimy hand Dickon gave a wheezing prayer then spilled the dice on the floor with an abrupt fling

“Hmm, that’s a poor cast Dickon, a two.” Earless fastidiously rubbed his fingers with the velvet damask and scooped up the dice, a quick swirl around the cup and they leapt out then rolled to a stop displaying a ‘nick’. Earless leant back in his chair and shook his head in mock sadness. “The Lord God has judged against yea Dickon.”

The defeated hookman grovelled at his master’s feet whimpering and pleading as two of Wall-eye’s scowling lads dragged him over to a close set pair of posts to which they tied his arms. Nick gave another brief wave and one of Dickon’s escorts began lashing his back with a length of knotted rope. In between the howls of pain Earless Nick cast a long slow look at the gathered members of his company. Then into the sobbing silence he spoke in a voice low and menacing. “No man cheats the Lord of the Liberties. Remember it.”

The assembly cheered with eager gusto flavoured by the fact that it wasn’t them getting the beating. Given the last reception to the head of the queue there was no complaint as a pair of figures pushed their way to the front, though they did garner a fair amount of whispered speculation. The woman from her worn scarlet kirtle and pulled down chemise had to be a punk. Only a lass interested in gathering ‘trade’ would expose that much pale breast on a chilly winter’s day. To the rest of the crowd it wasn’t just the recent flogging that had them pull back. With her long blonde hair and vivid green cap only the most blind of beggars wouldn’t recognise Earless Nick’s favoured girl, Anthea, leader of the St Paul’s punks. But favour was a tricky thing. It ebbed and flowed like the Thames and according to many a sage whisper, due to the recent disturbance, Anthea was dry beached on the shores of Nick’s ill content.

The Lord of the Liberties spent some time watching the play of candlelight on a recent present, a gold ring inset with a sapphire, before acknowledging her presence with a twitched finger. As for her guest, the cloaked and hooded figure, it was as if it were as insubstantial as a spirit for all the regard Nick gave it. “Anthea my poppet, I’ve missed yea these last days. I hopes yea have recompense for your previous failings…?”

The question hung in the air with a dreadful menace and the audience of the tavern swung their fascinated gaze towards the advancing punk. All were keen that someone other than them should suffer the further ill-humoured wrath of the Lord of Misrule. Anthea visibly swallowed then locked her arm around that of a hooded stranger before stepping forward into the empty space between the retreating petitioners and the Master of the Liberties. The punk captaine shook her long hair out of her eyes that glinted evilly in the reflected orange glow from the yuletide log. Several nips and foisters crossed themselves flinching as she passed, some making furtive gestures to avert ill fortune. Then at a pace’s distance with much bowing and grovelling Anthea threw herself down on her knees beside the chair of state and clutched at the hand of Earless Nick, rubbing her face on it like a fawning hound. “Nick my luv, I’s have a gift fo’ thee, a wonderful gift, the likes yea have not seen afo’. A sweet gift fo’ my sweet Lord o’ the Liberties.”

Nick turned his coldly impassive face toward his formerly favoured punk. The chilling interest reflected in his eyes would have set even the meanest wild rogue a trembling with fear. His lips stretched to the barest flicker of a smile. “And what of my gift…my sweetling?”

Anthea drew the hooded stranger forward. The visitor didn’t bow or kneel instead inclining a shrouded face towards Earless Nick and with a shielding hand began to whisper. The Lord of Misrule’s face remained blandly still though to those close enough to see, his eyes did appear to glitter from time to time with a malevolent spirit. Finally the hooded figure drew back and Earless Nick clapped his hands together like the snap of an harquebus and grinned with savage delight. “Oh Anthea you are my best lass, a true pearl beyond compare and this is a wonderful Yuletide gift payment and revenge all wrapped in one. Hah! No man cheats the Lord o’ the Liberties of his winnings and certainly not that lawyerly whelp!”

Earless Nick slammed his fist onto the table and grabbing his silver gilt cup thrust it in the air. “A toast! A toast! Raise high yer cups, cos a sennight hence Red Ned Bedwell will be swinging at Tyburn, or food for worms!”

The sack fuelled cheer echoed out the doorway into the winter snow and whispered in rumour through the Liberties. The Lord of Misrule was out for revenge.

Chapter One A Christmas Calling

The chill breath of winter blew down the lanes of New Rents Southwark, a setting the window shutters rattling and the painted signs above swaying to and fro. It also forced the small band trudging through the flurries of wind-driven snow to huddle deeper into their collection of ragged cloaks and worn gowns as they muttering and cursing at the weather. At the front their leader didn’t give the complaints any mind, though his bulbous nose glowed red with the cold and the straggly brown locks escaping from under his tattered cap were caked in icy sleet. No matter the weather, even if it were Satan’s own fearsome flaming farts you faced, only a lack brained fool keen for a bruising or worse would have dared to voice a challenge to an order from Canting Michael. And Gulping Jemmy wasn’t near that foolish, so he turned a deaf ear to the mutinous mutters and grumbled curses behind him and forged ahead deeper into the chancy lanes of New Rents. So they were nervous and afraid. Phew, what a pack of trembling pizzle pullers! Weren’t they the fearsome lads of Canting Michael, gang lord of Southwark and the baiting pits?

Gulping grinned as he ‘overheard’ one of the lads whispering to poor Will the tales about Gryne’s Men and how they hacked apart those who crossed them in bloody retribution. As tales went it had it all, packed full of gruesome detail along with the useful caveat that in essence it was true. Most of Southwark had seen the parade of the lopped trunk and several assorted parts impaled on an array of pikes escorted by Gryne’s Men last summer. Even Justice Overton, their blinkered magistrate, who reputedly only noticed a gold angel thrust in front of his nose, had witnessed the precession to the pillory at High Street. Canting himself had watched nodding with grim approval, then as an aside curiously wondering how their goodly, honest and worthy Justice would ascribe this death on the mortuary bill, severe ague perhaps or possibly accidental drowning.

It had been neither and Gulping Jemmy should know. He’d seen the listing for the day. It’d cost him a groat to the clerk but the expense had been worth it. The proof had won him a shilling and a slightly worn cambric shirt from Reaching Richard the hookman. So for him the journey to the Gryne Dragone, lair of Gryne’s Men, was naught to be concerned over. If his escort shivered and shook with more dread than cold at the squeal of the chains holding the carved and painted dragone, that was all to the good.

A greater fright awaited as they approached the door. Suddenly a six foot tall door warden, a great butcher’s blade in hand, lurched out of a covered shelter. From the abruptly muffled squeal Jemmy could swear young Will, their most recently recruited roister had dampened his codpiece. The door warden snarled and Jemmy’s retinue flinched. Their leader though returned his own cheery grin and brushed the snow off the collar of his worn heavy scarlet gown. “Good day Wat. Is the Captaine in?”

His question was answered with a short grunt and a tilt of the cleaver sized implement indicated that Jemmy was allowed entrance. With a friendly nod and the toss of a small coin he pushed the door open and whistling he stepped out of the cold. As he should have expected the gasp and whimper of incipient terror once more came from young Will. Jemmy shook his head in mock regret over the sad quality of Canting’s latest retainer. If the lad hadn’t been the favoured son of the gang lord’s sister he’d still be a carpenter’s arse, and a poor one at that.

In Southwark the choice of boozing kens was many and varied. A fellow, if he chose could toss down sour ale by the firkin in a tumbled down hovel of an ale house. By law and statute such places had to be identified by a green bush out front, though it was commonly a few withered leaves on a broken branch. There he may get rolled by thieves and cutpurses or purge his guts from sour maggoty ale, but life was full of diverse pleasures and risks. Alternately if flushed with silver the Tabard Inn on High Street was the perfect place-fresh rushes on the floor, a decent brew with possibly better company and or at least less chance of puking his pint. Even so the punks were of a better sort. Jemmy should know. He ‘personally’ collected the rents. In between these extremes stood a tavern such as the Gryne Dragone. It possessed a good sized common room, a blazing fire, fine ale and the reputation for serving a tasty pottage and usually a roasted ordinary dripping in savoury juices, all of which would normally draw in a sizable clientele from Southwark’s finest. Except for one slight difference.

Most taverns made an effort to decorate with whitewashed walls and timber wainscoting. The wealthier few even pushed extravagance to a mock canvas tapestry or painted plaster. Here they’d gone a step further or maybe depending on your taste a whole mile. The walls were fitted out like the racks of the Ward muster armoury. Pole arms, spears, bills, axes and spiked maces jostled for room with stands of half armour and great swords. Now unlike some lord’s hall where this was a statement of past glories and ancient martial deeds, Jemmy, like the rest of his band could see by the gleam of oiled and polished ironware that this array was sharp and ready for instant and bloody use. For Captaine Gryne this served as the well-arranged display of any quality craftsmen, though unlike the shops in the street of the goldsmiths it wasn’t fancy gilt and silver ewers he had on show. And this wasn’t all. The Captaine didn’t just offer the wares of war but also the skilled muscle to wield them, for a price. And this was why Will had wilted so completely. At any time the tavern held a dozen odd veterans of the battles in France, Italy or further afield. During the festivities of Christmas that number tripled and then some. Even the boldest rogue would have faltered at the way the assembly swivelled as one to view their ‘guests’. So many fearsome battle scarred faces lacking eyes, teeth and noses could unbalance the humours of even the most stout-hearted roister. As for poor Will, the lad possessed the stomach and fortitude of a mouse.

Jemmy was by now immune to the subdued menace. He waved the company a cheerful greeting, and ignoring the keen eyed calculations of worth and mayhem, took an empty seat at a table by the fire. His company clustered at his back as if trying on a display of swagger. He let them stew in their own sweaty fear for a long minute then sent them off to hide in relative safety at a bench by the door. Anyway Will’s cod piece reeked like a tanner’s yard and by the fire it steamed noxiously.

Keeping up his friendly smile Jemmy lent back against the wall pulling out a small bone comb and quickly flicked it through his greasy brown locks, then with a heavy thumb nail cracked the captured lice. With Captaine Gryne one waited patiently and smiled…always.

By the distinctive peel of the church bells of St Mary Overie by the river he’d been waiting about an hour when the tavern door swung open and in stomped a troop of heavily cloaked men. Most peeled off to various tables but two continued their passage to Jemmy’s table. The first was a tall, lean and swarthy fellow with coal black hair and a mouth set in a permanent sneer from a sword cut. Hand on dagger he gave Jemmy a close and long inspection. As with the rest of the company in the tavern Jemmy continued to display a cheery smile. Master Swarthy Sneer gave a last slit eyed glare and stepped back.

An even larger figure moved into the vacant spot and after unfurling yards of heavy cloak from around his shoulders, revealed a broad strong face and a long red beard split German fashion into two forks over a satin black leather doublet. The new arrival sat down on the opposite bench, hands powerful enough to snap the necks of mastiffs at rest on the oaken boards of the table. A large pottery jug of freshly warmed wine and two silver cups were placed between them. Master Swarthy Sneer performed the duties of a livery servant and filled both cups to the brim. A delicate waft of rich vapour spiralled up. The Master of the Gryne Dragone and Captaine of Gryne’s Men picked up one of the cups, and holding it under his nose drew in the trail of steaming wine then downed it in a single swallow and nodded with approval. “So Gulping Jemmy, how stands ta Misrule festivities o’ Canting Michael?”

Given his pledge of safety Jemmy took his own leisure sip. Hmm, good Gascon. Captaine Gryne was never one to stint on quality. He slowly put his hand into his doublet and pulled out a heavy clinking pouch and slid it across to Captaine Gryne. “Canting gives ‘is respects Captaine.”

Gryne nodded and pushed the purse to his left. As if summoned a young man with all the mannerisms of a clerk scurried out from a curtained alcove. Without any command he immediately emptied the purse, and tally book open, began to count out Canting Michael’s black rent. The scribbler paid close attention and noted down every coin even to a clipped groat. It was said you could cheat Captaine Gryne but once. A few years ago one clerk had tried to pull some coining cozenage on the Captaine’s rents. Gryne apparently had listened to the gabbled excuses and decided the snivelling penner wasn’t wholly to blame and thus only broke the fingers of both hands. Some may scoff and shake their heads but the play of cozenage did require a certain level of honesty, if only to those above.

As the counting continued the Captaine called for a serving of ale, and still playing servant Master Swarthy poured a full measured firkin. Jemmy pulled the timber staved tankard towards him and smacked his lips in appreciation. “Care fo’ a wager Captaine, mayhap on who’s the quickest, fo’ say a firkin?”

Jemmy grinned hopefully. The large man opposite remained silent for a brief second then barked out a short laugh and slapped his palm down on the scrubbed boards of the table. The snap echoed like the sudden belch of a great Gonne. “Jemmy, Jemmy ‘at’s a forlorn hope. I’s seen ya’ guzzle a good couple o’ gallons an’ still stand. I’ll nay take yr’ cozeners ploy.”

Jemmy gave shrug as if the Captaine was losing out on the most certain of opportunities and taking the refusal as yet another round in the monthly game o’ sport they played at the Gryne Dragone, moved onto a more fruitful piece of business. “So Captaine, ‘ave yea ‘eard o’ ta latest ploy o’ ta Bedwell lad?”

Gryne’s heavy red beard moved up and down in a slow nod. “Oh aye, some wild rumour reached me o’ strange doings ov’r on the Fleete a night or so past.”

Jemmy gave his usual half grin. Common gentlemen looked at Gryne and saw only a hired sword, or in this case a great sword for cleaving men in twain. If that were so Canting wouldn’t be the one handing over black rent every month for the ‘safety’ of his Baiting pits. Gryne skimmed a shilling from the pile of coins towards Jemmy. In a practiced flash it disappeared with nary the twitch of a hand. “Tsk, tsk. Flaunty Phil over at ta Fleece tis in a right state. ‘is nose were flattened by a bucket tis said.”

Gryne’s beard split for a moment to reveal a brief broken toothed smile. “Aye an’ the lad fair singed Delphina’s golden crown. Both o’ em are spittin’ fury an revenge all over ta Liberties.” The fierce smile grew wider and the Irish accented tones of Gryne rumbled. “I’s heard young Bedwell won ta Fleete Street race, a’ bare arsed as bishop’s altar boy.”

Now it was Jemmy’s turn to nod. Only a fool would assume Captaine Gryne hadn’t heard about the misfortunes of Red Ned Bedwell. As he knew the shilling was an inducement for depth and breadth to the rumour. “That’s so, in a storm o’ ice an’ snow fram what I’s ’eard. Ned’s a lucky lad. If Lord Frast’s breath were any chillier ’is precious stones woulda froze more than the Thames. A wee tap would hae them shatter like glass baubles!”

Gryne gave an amused chuckle at the image then teased out a little more of his knowledge. “Aye tis said it came close but the apothecary lass he’s a sweet on pulled his chestnuts ut o’ the fire.”

Now it was Jemmy’s turn to grin. He’d met the ‘apothecary lass’ during Ned’s last scheme at cony catching over Bermondsey way. It didn’t take much to remember that very attractive line of neck and shoulder leading to a well packed bodice. Oh yes and sparkling eyes. It mattered naught that she’d played him as a cony with a drugged posset. He was fairly caught and gave due credit to a worthy mistress of cosenage. Jemmy lent forward over the table keen for the meat of the tale for his own curiosity even if Canting wasn’t going to grill him when he returned. “Oh aye?”

“Yea. His codpiece parts were soaked in fresh piss every hour, just like those coneys a’ the Biddle! An he ‘ad no lack o’ friends ta supply t’ steamin’ liquor!”

Gryne’s laugh boomed off the wall and Jemmy readily joined in. Ahh, young Red Ned did get himself into some fine scraps. He’d have paid silver to see Ned’s grimace as his mates unlaced their codpieces and hoes then let forth the stream. Though as strange as the remedy seemed he’s wasn’t moon-calfed enough to scoff at Mistress Black’s regimen of physick, but by Satan’s own blackened bollocks, her cures always had a bitter bite, or so he’d heard.

Having given the reputation of Red Ned Bedwell, young rogue of note, a good pasting for his Fleece folly, Jemmy appeared to relax then took a slurp of the Gryne Dragone ale. As he’d come to know it was a fine drop. Captaine Gryne always had the best double strength ale, aged a year in the barrel by some accounts, only served to those he considered his ‘especial’ friends and since Jemmy felt himself a very useful especial friend indeed, he casually eased out his most valuable morsel of news. “By ta by Captaine have yea ’eard o’ ta meeting Earless Nick wants at ta Bear’s Inn on the morrow?”

The raising of a shaggy eyebrow was his answer.

“He’s called in all ta gang lord’s o’ London, Cantin’ Michael, Flaunty Phil an Ol’Bent Bart ta name a few. I’d a thought yea would ’ave received a letter o’ invitation.”

Captaine Gryne’s eyes didn’t flicker or twitch. Instead his hand moved towards the pile of coins laid out for the tally and skimmed a golden angel towards his visitor. Instantly it vanished into Jemmy’s doublet as he drained the tankard in one long steady swallow after which the tankard smacked down on the table and Jemmy rose up giving his host a respectful tilt of his cap as thanks for the hospitality. “I’ll bid yea a good feastin’ this Misrule and Christmastide Captaine.”

The master of Gryne’s Men gave a slow nod in reply but other than that made no further comment. Acquiring his retinue including the reeking Will on the way out Jemmy strode happily into the grey light of Christmas whistling a jaunty tune. Tomorrow was promising to be very entertaining and fair bulging with golden promise as well.

Chapter Two. Strange Tidings

The winter winds were as sharp as an icy knife cutting through the tattered collection of rags Hobblin’ Hugh called apparel, even with the extra padding and mock bandages serving as insulation. He muttered and cursed, shivering without any artifice as he hobbled towards Pissing Alley, crutch firmly locked under his right arm to avoid the peril of the thudding iron butt on ice slicked cobbles. Unlike some of his beggarly fraternity Hugh didn’t need to over play his infirmity with oozing pustules and withered limbs all of which would be miraculously restored to health of an evening. A clubbed foot and wrenched face were the merciful God’s gift to this son of Eve, so it only required the morning application of some minor props for him to acquire the semblance of pitiful undue suffering.

As of this instant all of that was of little concern. He had news that couldn’t wait, so despite the treacherous conditions and his potential loss of coin from pity struck citizens a limping he must go. It was an urgent necessity, a damnedly cursed one that drove him from his perch. All the usual beggars were clustered at the church doors since the deacon of St Paul’s was planning to bring in an even dozen for a festival chantry feast. It was worst still because Hugh had gained the foreknowledge of this festivity by good fortune and so to be here on the appointed day he’d traded a week of his spot at Blackfriars with Blind Whitton. Now all that was lost, and he’d be damned lean by week’s end if he couldn’t shift a better play of cozenage or begging.

Abruptly Hugh halted his face full of the stinging lash of a horse’s tail caked with mud and ice. The way ahead was choked with pack trains of horses. Whereas in warmer seasons this would be rich pickings for the little minchins and lads of the beggarly fraternity, this day in the midst of the grim reign of Lord Frost and Lord Misrule the usual cover of London street life was holed up inside their warm houses by their fires.

Hugh gave a regretful shiver as he tried to sidle past the weary beasts and cold racked packmen, faces pinched and hard eyes reddened by the whipping snow. They looked ill-disposed to charity towards the halt or lame so choosing a narrow gap between two towering houses Hugh squeezed down the narrow passageway. It was warmer out of the biting wind and the abutting thatch eaves kept it clear of mounded snow though not of the common street refuse or a large pig that was snuffling through the pile. Leaning against the wall and using his crutch Hugh fended off the inquisitive beast which gave an indigent squeal before lumbering off to find better prospects.

As any beggar Hugh knew this season was hard coming as it did after three lean years of poor harvests. Around the hearth fires some muttered of wolves hunting the lanes of the Liberties by night. He didn’t give those tales much credit. The two legged beasts that prowled the night streets in his opinion had a fiercer and more certain reputation for merciless slaughter.

His breath puffed white through the improvised scarf of threadbare scarlet, and favouring his lame foot Hugh pulled himself out of the tight confines of the nameless alley into the broader measure of Friday Street by the Cordwainer’s Hall. Its entrance was warm and sheltered and was usually a decent patch to loiter for useful parish gossip. Hugh brushed aside the temptation and continued onwards. This was far more important than who’d purchased a new set of gilt plate.

Finally, puffing and throat wracked from the effort, he paused a moment to regain his composure outside the ruined boozing ken. In the city and Liberties of London taverns and inns possessed the stated grandeur of names such as the Sign of the Spread Eagle in Wood Street or the Redd Lyon by the Newgate Shambles. Ale houses and lowly boozing kens mostly didn’t bother, relying on the simple green bush on a pole for identification. As for this example in Pissing Lane the local citizens of the parish gave it as much regard as a stinking jakes spewing an overflow of filth into the lane. So many worthy Londoners complained scornfully in that colourful manner that the master of the house possessed of a fit of strange fancy had spent good pennies to put up a well carved sign. It was of an antique warrior seated on a throne wrestling a serpent. With due solemnity it had been called Labours of Ajax, and once the choice had been explained to the rowdy denizens they’d howled and roared with laughter at the joke. Soon any beggar who was straining to drop a turd in the privy merrily called that they were strangling a snake.

Hugh gave the swinging sign only the twitch of a smile as he limped quickly inside. A hand shot out and grabbing his ragged doublet pulled him bodily behind a thin curtain into the sudden glare of inspection. “S’ Hubblin’ wat’s y’ doin bacz s’ early?”

Hugh tried to suppress a shiver or at least make it look like it was brought on by cold rather than codpiece drenching terror. The ice blue eyes may have been the reason or similarly it may have been the glistening line of sharp steel held some finger’s breadth from his throat. “A…A…a ‘as a urgent message fo’ ta master!”

Normally he didn’t have a stutter but a moment in the all too keen company of Kut Karl would set even the boldest rogue a quiver. The Lowlander was reputed to enjoy his employment as Bart’s knife man all too well. The door warden paused for an instant’s consideration then with a lip curling sneer thrust the quivering Hugh back into the boozing ken’s common room.

The audience of beggars and gutter sweepings had paused their eating, drinking and games in momentary anticipation of a spray of blood or scream. Lacking the sharp thrill of cheap entertainment they returned to their own pursuits. Hugh made an effort to clean up his rumpled appearance and heading past nodding in reply to a few greetings and made his way to the solid iron-strapped timber door at the rear of the dark, smoke filled space. Even with his legitimate reason Hugh paused before tapping respectfully at the heavy door. Undue and frivolous interruptions were always given a commensurate reward…always. The door creaked open and another glowering face gave him a close inspection. Bowing with deference Hugh stepped inside the inner sanctum of the Master of the London Beggars.

Old Bent Bartholomew possessed Hugh’s unmeasured and unwavering admiration as well as a deep loyalty separate from the common obedience inspired by the menacing presence of Karl. Just the thought of that throat cutting rogue of a Lowlander could easily play upon a man’s fears not to mention his dread, inventive and painful use of edged weapons. Intimidation though could only go so far as a motivation for a due honour and deference. Hugh didn’t need that extra edge of violence. Instead his duty was freely offered as by a humble apprentice to a master craftsman of the city guilds.

As was expected the master of the city beggars was as should be, the most excellent cozener of them all. Every week he plied his avocation of counterfeiting a crank outside St Mary’s of Bethlehem or other diverse hospices for the diseased in wits. With foaming mouth and twitching limbs and all laid out on the cobbles, he was a sight to move even the hardest hearted Londoner, especially as his favoured minchin Maud toured the crowd begging for alms for her poor stricken father. It never failed.

However all that consideration didn’t serve Hugh one wit as he stood quavering before his master. It was a small room past another alcove of guards. A warm fire blazed in the hearth giving unstinting warmth as well as a wash of orange light. Bent Bart was at his accustomed bench fronting a table covered with pots of paints and noisome unguents. It was whispered quietly in the shadows that the products of their master’s alchemical tinkerings were the secret of his success. None knew for sure, but when light fingered and imprudent Dickon Watts had tried to slip one into his sleeve Bent Bart had Karl take the offenders hand off at the elbow.

“Aye, Hobblin’. Wot brin’s ye’ in aways fro’ y’ service at St Paul’s?” It was a low quiet voice that rumbled out of the hunched frame, so at odds with the heavy features that might have more naturally been found gracing a carved church gargoyle.

Hugh found his throat closed with the drying rigour of fear, all his spittle sucked out by apprehension. “I…I’ve news master.”

The heavy browed head nodded slowly and Hugh took heart from the simple fact. He was still alive and unbeaten so closing his eyes he called up the exact sequence of the message. “Anthea o’ St Paul’s gives yea respectful greetin’s fro’ Earless Nick. She says that ‘er Lord o’ ta Liberties would request ta honour o’ London’s Beggar Master tomorrow by noontime bells t’ sup wit him at ta Bear’s Inn ta ‘ave talk o’ matters o’ interest ta all ta masters and lords o’ the city.” Sweat dripping from his face Hugh halted his recitation his breath coming in short, rapid gasps.

Bent Bart pinched a lip clearly mulling over the message then nodded with a tight smile. “Well done Hugh.”

A silver groat spun up in an orange glinting arc and the crippled beggar snatched it from the air with lightening reflexes. “Take back a message o’ thanks t’ sweet Anthea, an on the way tells Humble Harry and Friar Fettling by the Conduit t’ sweep all the Liberties fra’ word o’ Earless. Oh an Hugh, tell Mansie yo’r ta ‘ave the capon ordinary at two firkins o’ double on yr’ return”

Hugh gave a halting bow and exited his master’s chamber as fast as his limp would allow. In passing he snagged a proffered steaming bowl of bacon and pease pottage gulping it down with a satisfied slurp. After the chilly and dire prospects of the morning this day was looking so much better. For one thing he’d gained stature and reward from his master and a full belly all afore midday. For a beggar in London that was living well. And for supper he already drooled in anticipation, a whole roasted capon of his own plus the finest ale o’ the Ajax. This was a fine Christmas indeed!

Chapter Three. All the World at the Bear

Rubbing his gloved hands Gulping Jemmy peered around the corner towards the Bear Inn. Protocol and honour were such prickly matters for gang lords and captaines both. Canting of course had accepted Earless Nick’s invitation for a meeting. Whether the driving motivation was business, vanity or just plain curiosity, the gang lord hadn’t seen fit to give his faithful lieutenant any glimpse of his mind, simply a command to gather four men as a retinue. So here they were, a few houses down sheltering in this draper’s shop waiting. The merchant, a round little fellow with a gleaming pate, fussed around the lean cadaverous figure of Canting with a sort of desperate urgency to be of service, no doubt hoping that the Southwark gang lord wasn’t about to ‘tithe’ his stock.

Jemmy had to grin at the play. Master Cordley was making too much of this little sojourn. Perhaps later he’d casually suggest to Canting that the draper be watched, for the fellow acted as nervous and guilty as if he were about to be caught by his wife a bed pounding a punk.

No matter. Gulping waved the gnat’s annoyance of the draper aside. The burning issue for him was one of unbridled curiosity as to why the Bear Inn? According to Southwark lore the establishment was said to have served both Noah after the flood and the mighty legions of Caesar. Now Canting, being a man of some learning, may have known the truth of that tale but for Gulping his knowledge of the Inn was of more practical consideration. The Inn’s wharf on the river served as the terminus of the Gravesend ferry and for many eastwards and westwards travellers on the Thames, a way point where they changed wherries rather than risk the treacherous and deadly tidal races of the London Bridge starlings. Thus it was the perfect place to weight up the cozenage potential of newcomers to Southwark and London, which meant that on any day he could rub shoulders with as fine a selection of the region’s unhung rogues and roisters as lived outside of Newgate Gaol, Bread Street Compter or the Clink. By Gulping’s reasoning this had to be the only neutral ground in the region apart from the ruined Paternoster Priory in the heart of London. So that was the where, but not the why.

Sooner than he’d expected a large hulking roister wrapped in a heavy cloak took station by the Inn entrance and proceeded to glower menacingly at an approaching cluster of apprentices. Taking the hint they sheared off in search of a less intimidating source of ale. Gulping gave a brief signal to Canting who immediately shed the buzzing annoyance of Master Cordley with a brusque wave of his hand and stepped into the busy street. They all knew how this worked, even that poor excuse for a fearsome roister, young Will. One of the meaner looking lads led the way. Gulping walked at the right hand of his master and the rest kept close as the retinue guard and tail.

The next stage in the play went smoothly. Earless Nick’s man was obviously primed to expect his master’s guests and on their approach stepped to one side, bowing his head in a decent show of respect. Gulping was secretly impressed. He had never considered Wall-eyed Willis capable of learning any of the skills and manners of deference. His usual mode of polite address was a gob of spit lobbed towards the intended, and that was a step up from his more common greeting of a mashed nose or broken arm.

As for the interior of the Inn it was pretty much as Gulping had last seen it afore Christmas and the freezing of the Thames. The ground floor was the main common room and each wall had several windows, some even with lead framed diamonds of glass. It was a stoutly built and prosperous place that frequently attracted the patronage of lords when they travelled to Westminster. To the left on the other side of the room were the heavy doors leading to the riverside wharf. Considering the ‘brisk’ weather and a lack of wherries and ferries they were closed. That left the large square cut stone fire place on the right side as the focus, and predictably there sat Earless Nick, not so much in a chair of state but presenting himself very much as the host. As had been promised the self-proclaimed Lord of the Liberties had three retainers standing at his side. Whether more were secreted in the storeys above Gulping had been unable to ascertain. As of last night his watchers reported only the usual company of merchants and travellers.

With Gulping at his side Canting strode easily into the empty common room and returned a wry half nod towards his host before accepting a seat at one of the nearby tables. As if their arrival was the warning tocsin of roguery, other small groups began to arrive. Next in was Black Richard, a snarling fellow with coal black hair and a savage temper who plagued the King’s highway with his small band of cutthroats, usually by Hampstead Heath, though he’d been known to range as far as Wimbledon Bridge down the Wandle. After him another lowly rat-faced skulker slunk in, Will Kylty from past Wapping. He was supposed to be a tide waiter for the London Customs House, checking on wine prissage and cargo duties. If that was all he’d be notorious enough, but Wading Will, as he was known up and down the river, was also partial to a touch of riparian roguery towards unwary vessels coming up from Gravesend. He looked damned lean and hungry. The cold breath of Lord Frost had stilled his usual source of gilt for a week or more.

With a small trickle of several more puffed up rogues boasting barely a half handful of backers the common room filled up. Despite the loud boasts of the ragged and desperate few, they had little clout, nor except for Canting and Earless were they the real recipients of the ‘invitation’. The ‘true’ masters of mischief had yet to make an appearance.

Gulping though kept up his smile as his eyes darted around. He wasn’t one to fall prey to suspicion and dread fancies, but if Earless were to spread a little silver around this band of desperate and hungry fellows afore hand, well by the chimes of the next hour from St Mary Ovaries, the main point of discussion could be were to dump the bodies of the newly deceased and sadly mourned Canting Michael and his lieutenant.

Before Gulping could work out the calculations of murder they were joined by a tall, well-dressed gentleman fully kitted out in the puffed and slashed finery of the Germans. He swept off a broad-brimmed, plumed hat and exposed a heavy bruised face and swollen nose. Thus they were granted the company of Flaunty Phil of the Wool’s Fleece.

Gulping clenched his teeth together in an effort to halt the spread of a wicked smile. Hmm, so that tale was true. It had been a bucket in the face. Flaunty’s fair escort was similarly fitted out in the more feminine version of the gaudy slashed dress of the Landsknechts. Damned but the lass strained the codpiece, though this time the sweet Delphina, pale of skin and golden of hair had completely hidden her tresses under a white cloth cap and over her face was a linen veil. And thus were the rumours of the pair losing the Fleete Street race to that impish rogue Bedwell given even more credence.

What could have been the sound of a rupturing cow expiring of the bloat rent the air. Curious Gulping craned his head around the bulky figure of a Southwark lad and saw their latest guest hobble in followed by a limping trumpeter with a crutch and a pair of swaggering knife men. The velvet slashed doublet and gilt finger rings didn’t do much to dispel the gruesome image of the hunched back and heavy grotesque face of Old Bent Bart, the Master of London beggars. So the quorum of crime and cozenage was complete.

Earless Nick summoned the grovelling Innkeeper with a beckoning flick of his immaculately clean fingers. Immediately a small procession of tapsters appeared bearing trays each containing a gilt ewer and cup along with an array of sweet comfits and wafers. Gulping stepped forward to inspect the offerings as did the Beggar Master’s knife man and the squinty eyed fellow beside Flaunty Phil, though how one checked for poison short of shoving a sample down the throat of a ‘volunteer’ was ticklish problem of protocol.

They’d paused for an instant’s indecision when a loud thunder like impact of a bolt from the heavens snapped everyone’s attention to the riverside Inn entrance. The heavy iron-strapped door had been flung open and in stepped Jemmy’s old friend and boon companion, Master Swarthy Sneer. The Gryne retainer gave the room’s company a warning glare then apparently satisfied stepped aside to allow the larger man behind him to enter.

Captaine Gryne brushing off a few snowflakes strode in and gave the assembly what could only be termed from its brief flicker a cat like smile of satisfaction. “Tis snowing ootside sumwot fierce, sa much Earless I fear’s y’ messenger’s gone an lost ‘imself.”

As if expecting the grand entrance by Captaine Gryne, Earless Nick returned a half bow as to an equal and snapped his fingers. A previously hidden tapster stepped forward with yet another tray as if just waiting for their latest guest. Even from across the room Gulping could see the flicker of acceptance in the Captaine’s eyes at Earless Nick’s ‘preparations’, and returning a gracious tilt of his head the Captaine of Gryne’s Men took his seat.

Earless appeared satisfied with the turnout so with ease and grace stood up, silver cup in hand to propose a simple Yuletide toast. “To the Lord of Misrule and his Masters of Mischief, I have an arrangement, a wager and a challenge!”

Chapter Four. The Masters of Mischief

Even on London Bridge with the shelter of the buildings and the warm jostling press of daily traffic the breath of Lord Frost made the sensible and well provided huddle deeper into cloaks or fur trimmed gowns. That was when merchants thanked the saints they weren’t having to suffer the slow plodding chill of the carters and pack trains, faces reddened by the cold and hands wrapped in woollen rags as they urged their reluctant charges along with whips and foul oaths. Even in the midst of the twelve days of Christmas the needs of the city had to be met, cattle, sheep and plump capons for the market by the Newgate Shambles or sacks of corn and barley for the ever hungry brewing vats and baking ovens.

To any servants of the acclaimed masters of mischief all this hustle and bustle on the bridge represented a mouth-watering potential bounty of cosenage and theft. However to Captaine Gryne it represented something else, the steady wealth of opportunity and protection. For no matter how outrageous or cunning the plots and schemes of the practitioners of cosenage, his prosperity was assured, in fact the worse the times, the greater his return. For Captaine Liam Gryne some decades before had chanced upon a simple fact of daily life in these decayed times that so many others abhorred-violence, its practice and profitable application.

As the priests so frequently hectored from the church pulpits, man was steeped in sin, giving in to gluttony, lust, greed, anger and covetness, all of which spawned like maggots from a dead dog, theft, disorder and bloody affray. Now as a veteran of the King’s campaigns as well as service in the Baltic and the battlefields of Italy, he counted himself a past master in the play of violent deeds. However he’d soon noticed that come the inevitable truce, soldiers were dropped from musters quicker than a dog shed fleas which of course considering the tardiness of pay and lack of plunder made for hard winters and the steady leakage of a Captaine’s main asset, the men of his company. The remedy to this wasteful attrition had him perplexed. After all commanders had a jaundiced view of companies swapping sides or leaving partway through a campaign, the lack of ready coin notwithstanding. But past upsetting the touchy pride of lords and princes there had to be a way of halting the wasteful drain in between battles.

The answer had come with the chance request from one of the wilder courtiers, while he was laid up recovering from a wound. The desperate fellow was keen to pay gold to have a dozen lads skilled in sword and affray in his service for a month. The ‘what for and why’ of the urgent request hadn’t concerned him, though at the end the courtier had paid over a handy bonus of four angels. Whether it was for silent discretion, or quality of retainers was irrelevant, it had been the start of a very profitable enterprise.

You’d think that it would be easy to stroll into any tumble down boozing ken and flash a few shilling to whip up a quick pack of rogues and roisters for mischief and assault. However they were usually drunken amateurs as ready to run or puke as fight. Now a professional was more reliable than a scrawny pisspot, and any merchant requiring guards for warehouse or pack train naturally sought him out, as did a growing number of ‘clients’ who despaired of the costs of lawyers and lengthy court proceedings. It was well known amongst the London guilds that a modest payment to Captaine Gryne always brought a prompt solution to outstanding debt arrears. As for the usual argument and rivalry betwixt lords or gentry, hiring a few of Gryne’s Men made for satisfactory resolutions to slights of honour. Over all of these arrangements Gryne maintained a rigid code of honesty. Service paid for was service rendered, and naught of his lads played the traitor to their temporary master, no matter the duty, though the policy had seen a few ticklish occasions when employers strayed into the dangerous waters of treason. But there had been a solution to that difficulty, one that still had Gryne scratching his head in muddled confusion.

That the remedy concerned Dr Agryppa shouldn’t have been a surprise. By specific order all his fine lads reported to the physician during and after their periods of service, relaying any overheard gossip, observation and rumour. Then probably much filtered, Agryppa would inform him of any potential threats or conflicts with his contracts. In truth it was similar to the duties he owed campaign commanders via the use of his company as scouts and warlike pursuivants, though he still occasionally wondered if he’d gained the best of the arrangement. On some level it irritated, working like a well lodged splinter. From time to time the doubts subjected him to a few fingernail chewing pauses for consideration such as now.

Strange that it should be over the issue of the Bedwell lad. As with most news, or in fact all news, he reported Gulping Jimmy’s warning to the doctor. The old man’s smile had grown as bleak and wintery as Lord Frost’s latest blessing. Then he’d fallen to muttering and scribbling before pulling out several of those arcane charts he had stored upon the shelves. Finally Gryne was bidden to return in an hour while the astrologer consulted the ‘signs of the heavens’. Normally he came and went at no man’s bidding save His Sovereign Majesty, but with Agryppa a sharp complaint or cuff was out of the question. He owed the master of physick the use of a leg and what seemed the miraculous cure of the slow stinking wound rot from an arquebus ball.

The eventual instruction though was a damned curious thing, but as he’d found with so many commanders, it was best to silence the incredulous questions and push on with the duty. In the meantime he considered the ‘arrangement’ betwixt the Masters of Mischief as Earless Nick titled them.

It concerned the Frost Fair now settling up on the river ice westwards of the bridge, hundreds of stalls selling every possible comfit or treat that a winter besieged Londoner could want: roasted chestnuts, spiced warm hippocras and surprisingly whole lamb and haunches of beef roasted on a spit. The self-proclaimed Lord of the Liberties was right. It was an unparalleled opportunity for winter delights and Londoners keen for any diversion this season would flock to the spreading booths on the icy Thames. At the Bear Inn yesterday all the assembly could see the glittering temptation, purses to cut, conies to catch and the many plays of practiced cosenage on a distracted and bemused gathering. The Frost Fair was a veritable paradise on earth, or so Earless Nick had described it to his clearly drooling audience.

Gryne paid close attention to the next part. After that outline of temptations, their host had proposed that unlike former Fairs where they’d been restricted by the fretful annoyance of constables and guild or fair officials, the Frost Fair was like the Liberties, an area of vague and arbitrary jurisdiction. That had set the gathering to pondering, if the gleam of greed in their eyes was any judge. Gryne had just nodded in confirmation, quickly calculating the rates for stall security. Yes indeed, an opportunity not to be missed.

Earless Nick though had proposed that the Fair be divided into wards and parishes, each allocated to one of their number to be their exclusive preserve. As expected that had set off an instant raucous argument from the lesser fry of the meeting, until tiring of the shouting Gryne had thumped a table and called for silence. The scroungers and blustering roisters had flinched and Earless had publicly thanked him then smoothly suggested that it would be only sensible that the Masters of Mischief submit to a levy to retain the services of ‘the renowned fair and honest soldier Captaine Gryne’.

That had been a laugh, hired by the wolves and the crows to ‘protect’ the sheep and their shearing! He accepted of course, as Earless knew he would, just as the clever Liberties rogue knew he’d be forced to attend their little meeting, invitation ‘astray’ or not.

His fellow ‘Masters’ had also demurred with only a few quibbles of procedure and continued swiftly on to the other matters of interest, and as far as Gryne was concerned that’s when he perceived a dim illumination of the depth of planning and cunning of Earless Nick. At the Royal Court he’d had a reputation as a twisty fellow. It was little wonder then that when caught out in a coining cosenage, patronage at least saved his head though not his ears. So that was one out of three proposals presented. As for the other two…well by St Katherine he was certainly keen to see how they played out.

Thus here he was supervising the warding for the Frost Fair, as if that was his only interest. The stall holders had each received a quiet visit from his clerk, Stanford, also the legal apprentice of Earless and Old Bent Bart’s grinning knifeman, where the terms and benefits of contributing to the protection levy were clearly spelt out. However that was only part of the business of the Frost Fair and this day other more urgent concerns had him suffering the chill of Lord Frost’s breath. A casual glance towards the London end of the bridge told him the second part of the business was at hand.

Gryne gave another of his mirthless grins in anticipation of the next play, startling a nervous drover who fell over into his bleating charges and so cascading a bridge wide panic of beasts, carts and packtrains. Oblivious to the sudden chaos Gryne strode eagerly towards the city, there were some days when the humdrum of his business brought real satisfaction.

Chapter Five. Messages

Hugh shivered in the cold and winced as he touched the bruises on his cheek. Today they needed no coloured unguents to simulate the artifice of injury or blight. While cuffs and curses were the usual lot of beggars at any time, he still hadn’t expected anything like this morning. Pushing the frightening memory aside he hobbled along the snow covered street at a fair pace. He had to get to the chantry hospice attached to Greyfriars by Newgate Wall as fast as possible. Considering how he’d gained this burdensome duty it would be best if he didn’t transverse the usual haunts of the begging fraternity. Hugh panted at the effort. He was restricted to the back ways, and what with the snow and streets blocked by broken carts, it was worse than his journey to Pissing Lane the other day.

He’d over half the city to transverse and as he’d found the other day, for all the chill of winter and the festivals of Christmas, the streets were still too crowded for easy passage. If anything the snow made the usual London congestion worse, red faced arguing carters screaming at each other over accidents, not to mention beasts suddenly expiring from the chill and extra strain. So much for an easy day of begging at St Paul’s. As if! That’d been cut short all too quickly and brutally. Hugh shrugged. He supposed it was typical during Misrule’s reign when all was topsy turvy, even beggars.

Starting all the way down by the Thames at New Fish Street hadn’t made this attempt at a hobbling sprint any easier. Curse his crutch and limp! The morning chimes had rung not long before he’d been grabbed, and he’d have to make Greyfriars Hospital afore the noon time bells rang out. Hugh shivered and not just with the cold. He’d been warned about the consequences for the failure of this assigned task. Luckily his knowledge of the small byways and crooked lanes that cut through the wards and parishes was unequalled by any of the begging fraternity which despite his infirmity made him the favoured messenger of Old Bent Bart.

Skirting the edge of Lombard Street he managed to cut up past Grocers Hall into Cheap Ward. Here it became a little trickier making him loop up towards Moregate and head west to avoid the usual cluster of watchers at Guildhall. So he was wet with chilled sweat and panting by the time he’d made it to the narrow two storey building between Greyfriars church and London Wall. Sometime in the past it’d received some donations from a queen so that Londoners deserving charity could be cared for. Hugh used to beg outside when he was young so he knew the layout well.

It cost him a tuppence bribe to get past the chantry hospital porter and a penny more to acquire a pallet at the front of the room by the door. He’d have sighed at the expense, but at least he was warmer here than his usual post by St Paul’s. All he had to do was to wait and his assigned task would be over…or so he earnestly hoped.

In the meantime Hugh made himself comfortable and sent up an almost silent but earnestly felt prayer that his newly vacant bed hadn’t been made so by the dreaded Sweats or the Plague. He felt sore and feverish as it was, but that had to be due to his recent rough visitation, didn’t it? As a distraction Hugh surveyed the rest of the room. There were some twenty beds or pallets, ten odd a side and they mostly contained only one inhabitant. Compared to the cramped quarters of his room in the ruined house opposite the Labours of Ajax which held over a dozen and where three sharing a pallet was normal, this was positively luxurious. For the first time this week he was actually warm. The fireplace at the end of the room even had a pair of timber benches for the patients to sit at. Hugh was stunned, all this for the ill. He should be half as lucky for the halt and lamed, it’d be like heaven itself.

As for the blessed denizens of this delightful place, they appeared as diverse a gathering as one would find in the less salubrious care of Newgate Goal. Several were racked by the phlegm ague that was so common this winter season. Two suffered from broken limbs since their leg or arm was strapped and splinted. Others suffered from maladies that couldn’t be readily identified but left them groaning or comatose. Surreptitiously Hugh crossed himself and made a few gestures to avert bad luck and illness. The air was thick with the slightly bitter scent of wormwood so maybe that banished the stenches that brought on sickness. Settling back into the unexpected comfort of his pallet Hugh waited and reflected over his dramatic change in fortunes over the past few days.

His most treasured memory hugged close for its warmth was still yesterday at the Bear Inn in Southwark. He’d been accorded the rank of herald and trumpeter for the retinue of his master, Old Bent Bart. It still gave him a deeply warming thrill that he, a lowly hobbling beggar, was allowed to witness the greatest meeting of the Masters of Mischief of London in decades. It had been whispered by many at the Labours of Ajax that this could see the crowning of the Upright Man, the absolute lord of all beggars, rogues and players of cozenage within and without the city. Common tales said that there’d been one long ago, before the time of old Henry Tudor who’d battled for the throne. Simon Clifford had been his name, a fellow so canny and skilled he could charm gold out of a Guild master’s purse. But onset of the Sweats and plagues had scythed their ranks and broken them into the many groups, now beset with rivalry and suspicion as he knew only too well. Or so their master had said.

The meeting though had been an eye opening spectacle for a lad like Hugh. Earless Nick was such a generous host full of solicitous courtesy. He imagined this was how the great lords and churchmen must act. The Lord of the Liberties had presented even lowly Hugh the sweetest wine then made the most amazing offer. Hugh still tingled to think of the opportunity it offered his master. To be acclaimed the Upright Man, a sworn compact of all the captaines, lords and masters present signed and witnessed by a legal notary! It was the stuff of tales and legends like old Thomas Crunner used to tell the children. All that was required was the successful conclusion of a certain peculiar commission. Simple really. His Master, Old Bent Bart, had been if not ecstatic at least satisfied with the results of the Comfit of Rogues as he’d called it. A sweet morsel it would be indeed for the winner.

Hugh though had been dizzied by the prospect. He knew he stood high in his master’s esteem. There was now a chance he’d be elevated from begging to become a personal servant to Old Bent Bart, so as the Upright Man the prestige and rewards would trickle down bountifully to the most loyal and closest.

The ringing of a small chime brought Hugh out of his happy reverie and the rest of the inhabitants of the hospice shifted with a sudden surge of energy, at least most of them. Several continued to moan or twitch locked in fever or delirium. Hugh sat up though, still clutching the thin coverlet over his legs and looked towards the entrance.

A small group came in lead by a monk in the common robes of the Greyfriars. It consisted of three men and a young girl. Hugh recognised them all and devoutly wished he didn’t. After the bald-pated monk in the grey robe the leading member of the company was tall and rangy with a puckered scar across his face that gave his features a mean and predatory cast like that of a wolf pacing out his domain. Those fierce eyes gave the assembly a long steady inspection as if weighing each one up for disposal in the Fleete Ditch. Hugh tried not to cower or cross himself. The tales of ‘Hawks’ and his bloody savagery in brawl and affray had been enough to set the younger beggars whimpering with fright. The second fellow was dressed more like a gentleman in a dark doublet and a matching heavy fur-trimmed gown. Hugh wasn’t even close to being intimidated by him, a lad of about sixteen, tallish and thin with straggly, buttery yellow hair that hung limply over the collar of his gown. If Hugh knew anything at all of the fine art of cozenage this one was the veriest cony. His washed out grey eyes and weak chin just begged to be led into a skimming game of cards and dice.

However it was the final gentleman bringing up the rear of the party that really pulled at Hugh’s attention. He was maybe a shade under six feet tall, of promising build, not as lean as ‘Hawks’ though with a good set of shoulders. Unlike the more sallow potential gaming coney, he had well combed locks of golden red hair about neck length and a spread of freckles across his face and long nose. The fine quality gown and doublet automatically had Hugh toting up a worth closer to that of the gentry. At a guess it’d be worth a few pounds. He didn’t really need the description. All the beggars of London had heard of Red Ned Bedwell and his battle in the Paris Gardens baiting pits. From the glowing tale of his feats Hugh had expected some strapping giant like the Duke of Suffolk, not this. Hugh shook his head. Old Bent Bart always said clothes gave you the measure of a man’s purse, not his worth. He found it hard though to credit that this apprentice lawyer had set such a flea in Earless Nick’s collar to have declared Bedwell the crowning prize of yesterday’s arrangement. However two of the other Masters of Mischief had been ready enough to agree to the details of the compact even with, as Hugh viewed it, a certain amount of vindictive eagerness.

It was the last member of the party that drew his real attention. She was some five foot tall and even with winter padding of velvet trimmed gown and cloak was a tasty morsel. She was wearing those fashionable pearl fringed caps he’d seen at the Guildhall pageants and looked every inch the young daughter of a prosperous merchant. No wonder those other two were playing such close attention. She’d be a fine catch for any marriage bed. A girl like that was hard to miss and Hugh had seen her around the city over the last week. It was said by the other beggars that the apprentice of Williams the apothecary was a blessing to an ill man, better than any barber surgeon or doctor of physick. By Saint Jude he’d feel enormously improved with that fair face and bosom by his bedside. Slowly the girl went from one patient to another starting on the opposite side from Hugh, so he had an excellent opportunity to watch his mark.

Now as a beggar he had picked up more than a few tricks and skills of the trade. As Old Bent Bart was wont to say, you could get all the hints you need for a successful cozenage just by watching how the cony moved and acted in company. This particular company was so packed full of moods and tension that Hugh was wishing he could pull some ploys of his own just to see which way they jumped. For instance the mousey looking gentleman in dark cloth with the watery eyes seemed to be desperately searching for a way out of the room. To make his task more challenging whenever possible he kept his distance from Bedwell and Hawks, almost treading on the hem of the apothecary’s kirtle. As for Bedwell, frequently when he thought no one was looking he’d twitch his lip in a disdainful sneer at the turned back of Hawks. The girl though, she retained most of his attention and by the acclaim of his codpiece she deserved it.

Eventually the soft swish of the kirtle stopped by his pallet and that delightful face bent down solicitously towards him. “I don’t recall you being here at my last visit. What malady ails you friend and how can we help?”

Hugh was suddenly struck with an unaccustomed bout of shame regarding his deformed limb and flushing a deep red dropped his head with an embarrassed mutter.

“Now, now friend, don’t be like that. The same lord God made us all and shared his son even with the most afflicted.”

Encouraged Hugh allowed her to view his clubbed foot gently tracing her fingers over his long time infirmity. Made bold by this solicitude Hugh tapped his nose and spoke in a low voice. “Bless y’ mistress but I’ve a message fro’ over Southwark way.”

“What is it?”

The question from the mistering angel was asked in the most normal tone of voice as if, Hugh mused, she received secret missives every day. He closed his eyes for a moment and moved his lips in silent recitation, then in what he thought a fair imitation of the original growling accent gave over the message. “Fra Southwark wards a family friend says Lord Frost’s blessing tis a fertile field ta plough ta seed o’ ta spirit.”

The face of the girl went blankly still for a moment then she nodded and bent closer whispering in his ear. “Anything else friend?”

At the warm and scented puff of her breath Hugh felt a sudden urging in his ragged codpiece and all the hairs on his neck vibrated delightfully. It took a deep calming breath for him to come back from the paradise he’d briefly visited. “Oh ahh…yea. Ahh, he also said that ye should recall Matthew fourteen, ahh seven and ahh eleven.”

Those beautiful blue grey eyes blinked at him and Hugh could have sworn he’d melted into the pallet.

“So, Matthew fourteen, seven and eleven, is that right?”

“Ahh…ahh yea.”

“Did the messenger say why?”

Hugh waggled his head to get his thinking back together. He didn’t have a clue what any of that was about. However he wasn’t a measle brained tosspot and could put a few simple facts together. His eyes quickly darted towards the approaching figure of Bedwell and he pushed himself nervously back against the wall.

“Mistress Black, is this rogue causing you trouble?”

“No, no Ned, just recalling the sayings of a wise teacher.”

Bedwell stopped, hand casually resting on his sword hilt and loomed over Hugh. “You sure, because I could’ve sworn his words disturbed you.”

Hugh shrank back a little more wishing the wall would open up and swallow him up. Bedwell had a certain look about him that Hugh recognised all too well, that of the parish beadle considering whether to beat him through the streets, or just use the pillory. To his growing alarm there was also a deep flicker in the eyes, as if he were sorting through known faces and trying to find a match.

A hand from Mistress Black stopped Bedwell’s advance as she ferreted around in a satchel slung from her shoulder, then apparently satisfied with her search she thrust a small pot into his hands. “This will ease the pain at the joint. Rub it on and warm them with a heated compress.” And with a smile his beautiful angel moved on leaving Hugh open mouthed and blushing.

The rest of her party soon swept along after, though Bedwell paused and gave him a last speculative inspection. Hugh sighed in relief and slumped against the wall his heart hammering almost more than his cods throbbed. After that little adventure a fellow definitely needed a restorative and he knew just the place by Newgate Shambles.

Hugh gulped down the first draught in one steady swallow. Oh by St Jude and the blessed angels that brought tears to the eyes. At the second cup of Brandywine Hugh’s shakes subsided. It was after all a very successful play. An hour past and he began to acquire a more optimistic view of his recent escapade. True he did get a little bruised and roughed up by Captaine Gryne’s men, but that was wasn’t much worse that the common run of kicks and cuffs he received while begging. Plus there was the consoling gain of six pence for delivering the message and possibly more according to the promise of the Captaine. Just one extra cup and maybe a bowl of the Redd Lyon’s roast ordinary, then he’d be fit for any further duty. Damn but this Christmas was proving to be a time of bounty. Hugh smiled and as if toasting the Lord of Misrule and the Masters of Mischief raised his cup.

A chillingly familiar voice broke through the pleasant glow of his reverie. “Why me Hobblin’ little maggot here y’ ere. da Miester’s been lookin for y’ all day!”

The rough and heavy hand of Kut Karl clapped him on the shoulder. “I…I…I can explain!”

“Oh surely y’ will little maggat, b’ Gott’s son y’ vill!”

Hugh gave a loud gulp and looked up over his shoulder. Kut Karl was smiling and that was never a good sign.

Chapter Six. A Rightful Obedience

“Noo, please noo…ARRRGGHHH! Nooo…nooo.” The scream tapered off to a snivelling whimper as Hugh vainly tried to avoid the impact of the lash on his bare back. His vision clouded as his eyes watered and the face of a sadly disapproving gargoyle swum into view. It was that of his Beggar Master Old Bent Bart and he didn’t look very pleased. “Hugh y’s my best lad. I feels saddened by yer lapse in obedience.”

“Master…Master Bart, I’s niver meant ta cause offence. Really I didn’t.” Hugh stuttered this out in between gulps of breath and blinding washes of pain from the torment of his back.

A heavy hand came up and grasped his jaw, moving it from side to side as if absently playing with a child’s poppet. “Yea may have intended ta do me right Hugh but it doesn’t look like that ta me or the rest of our company.”

Hugh blinked back the tears of excruciating pain and tried to shake his head in denial. “Master Bart I’s hurried ere as soon as I could!” That plea was loaded with all the desperate truthfulness of avoiding more pain.

Old Bent Bart paused in his close inspection of Hugh’s face, his own heavy features shifting in puzzled rumination. Hugh tried to project that extra ounce of misjudged innocence, as well as convey that what he’d said was God’s own simple truth. And despite his accustomed craft of deception and beggarly cozenage it was. After all how could he know Kut Karl was on the hunt for him, or that his stop at the Redd Lyon at Newgate for a much needed bracing cup of brandywine would be construed as wilful evasion by his lord and master?

The heavy dark brows of Old Bent Bart shifted closer, almost grazing his cheek as the Master of Beggars seemed to sniff out any falsehoods. Eventually the misshapen head gave a slow steady nod. “That’s as maybe Hugh, but lad y’ still failed yer duty and y’ must be punished for it.”

The rough hand released its grip and Hugh’s head dropped down. His body would have followed but his arms were tied to a pair of posts in the common room of the Labours of Ajax while he received his punishment. His half-closed eyes followed the pacing short legs of Old Bent Bart as he walked back and forth in the clear space before the fire. Beyond was the audience of his fellow beggaring fraternity watching with the keenest anticipation for the renewal of the punishment. It was always a fine entertainment made all the sweeter since it wasn’t you getting the strips. If he twisted his head to the left he’d be able to see the grinning face of Kut Karl as he carefully shook out the leather thongs of the lash in preparation for the next round of chastisement. That was a sight Hugh didn’t need. Instead he closed his eyes tight and mumbled a short pray to Mary, Mother of God, for her to open Old Bent Ben’s heart to compassion and forgiveness.

“Another six Karl,” came the chilling reply to his fervent prayer.

“But Miester the tally calls fr’ a dozen an a ‘alf.” To Hugh’s ear Kut Karl sounded as deeply disappointed as if he’d lost a purse full of shillings.

“Hmm, yes it does…I’m sure we can find a task fo’ Hugh that’ll balance the scales.”

Hugh panted with relief-only another six, only six more. Then the first of those final blows landed on his back and he screamed. Karl, cheated of his pleasure, had laid in extra hard to make up for the deficit. The pain burned white hot across his back and struggling for breath to scream at the agony Hugh shuddered and passed into oblivion.

It may be been an hour later or much longer when the tendrils of dull ache eased Hugh into a wary consciousness and his eyelids flickered open. The room was dark as if it was an early winter evening and one wall was washed by an orange flickering just past his limit of vision. Very slowly beyond the pain of his lash stripped back it dawned on Hugh that he must be in the inner sanctum of his Master, Old Bent Bart. Cautiously he raised his head. His master was sitting in his usual chair by the fire and opposite was a sight he’d never expected to see in the Labours of Ajax.

She wore the accustomed dress of a Prioress, though it was difficult to think of that ruined rogue’s refuge of Paternoster Prior as having any relationship to the magnificent palace of York Place Cardinal Wolsey had built. He couldn’t forget that face. It was thin with proudly high cheekbones and a sharp pointy nose that seemed to unerringly seek out mischief. Every time he’d attempting to dip into the small store of comfits and sweetmeats that were hidden in the old priory kitchen, with unerring instinct the Prioress had caught him. That hadn’t been the only thing he recalled either. When angry her eyes burned like the fire of the saints and for all her parchment white skin and seeming aged frailty, Prioress Abyngdon possessed all the righteous strength in walloping of a woman half her years and twice her size.

There had been rumours around the Beggarly fraternity that Old Bent Bart had a secret hideaway he visited, for some days it was as if he’d vanished from the face of the earth. And in London amongst the sharp eyes of the beggars that was impossible. Some said it was a flaxen haired punk over by St Giles who humped like one of Sir Francis Bryan’s own girls. Another whispered it was a hidden shame, maybe some close kin locked away in Bedlam which conveniently explained his skill at counterfeiting a crank. And some rumours combined the two in various lewd or suggestive combinations. However from what Hugh could see maybe all those were too far from the mark, for his master was sitting down as if with an old friend and the table between them was spread with a simple selection of cakes and wine. And then there was what Hugh noticed about his master’s face-it was so very different, so relaxed and utterly free of any artifice.

Apparently he’d been given a pallet and from the cautious exploration of his chest his wounds had been tended to with bandages and he thought from their feeling also anointments. This was unprecedented and to be here warm and cosseted, what could it possibly mean?

“Yea Bartholomew, of course I’d heard of the events today. I’m not an anchorite. I do watch the passing world. It just so happens that Three-fingered Tom saw it and kindly apprised me of the news.”

His master shifted uncomfortably and pushed himself up from his seat to stand before the fire warming his buttocks. “Why’d Gryne do so and openly mind you? What of the agreement we had yesterday?”

The old woman sniffed primly at a spiced pomander in her hand and shook her head. “Nay it’s not Gryne. He may be only a soldier in this, though a damned clever one when he chooses. This smacks of something deeper, and he’s but the hand in this play.”

Old Bent Bart tugged nervously at his wispy beard and frowned. The flickering light from the flames made his eyes sink back into deep wells of shadow and for an instant Hugh froze in fright and he thought himself to be afore a demon. “Y’ say? I knows he serves some men o’ influence at the court. Could it be one o’ them pulling a play?”

The beggar master shifted position now facing the fire and masking Hugh’s view of their conversation, but he didn’t need to see a face to interpret the meaning behind that cackling laugh from the Prioress of Paternoster Row. It was wry, derisive amusement. “Nay nay, though Gryne serves a sway of fine fellows at Court with his sturdy lads. It’s naught any word from them that has him playing this game. Tis closer to home my friend-that lizard’s roost in Southwark is the source of this.”

The shadow of Old Bent Bart’s head played on the opposite wall like a grotesque mummers doll as he vigorously shook it in denial. At the sight Hugh suppressed a whimper of fear and continued to feign sleep only watching through close slit eyes. “Fawh, those old sorcerers’ tales! They be just ta scare children in breech cloths, an’ the gullibly maze minded!”

The prioress gave another of her rattling cackles. “Oh aye, there is some of that. I reckons maybe half the tales are true, but then which half?”

Her reply appeared to bring some doubt to the discussion. Hugh could see the shadow of Old Bent Bart’s jaw working as if chewing over a rank piece of gristle. “So Agryppa, y’ reckon, he’s the one behind this?”

“Aye it must be so. He’s slipperier than a greased weasel an’ twice as cunning. I’m sure the canker of his fall still gnaws at him something fierce and I’s doubt he’s grown forgiving and merciful in his dotage.”

“What’s he want then do you think?”

“Oh Bart, that’s too easy an answer. Why, revenge pure and simple, and beware any who stands in his way!”

“Hmm and so the apothecary lass and the Bedwell lad are part of his schemes then?”

“Do you doubt it after today?”

“No, not now, though I’s wonder at its import.” The mocking cackle was softer this time and almost regretful.

“Masters of Mischief did Nick call you all-Masters of Mistrust I’d say, each of you keen for the title of the Upright Man of the city. So I ask myself, why is it in the gift of Earless Nick?”

Old Bent Bart shook his head like a horse plagued with flies and thumped a hand against the wall. “By God’s blood, if I’ve been played like a coney…”

The Prioress put up her hands and made soothing sounds as if calming a child. “Sa, sa Bartholomew, not so hasty. It may be your compact has no more substance than a sucked child’s comfit. Ha, a Comfit of Rogues truly! Tell me do ye trust Earless Nick?”

The question came sharp and quick and pausing for a goblet of wine Old Bent Bart spluttered his answer. “By God’s blood no! I’d be a Bedlamite fool locked up and howling rather than a counterfeiter before then.”

“So Bartholomew, what’s he want out of these arrangements? Power? Wealth? Or revenge mayhap?”

This caused a longer pause and Hugh strained to hear his suddenly hushed voice. “Y’ think they’re linked, this shadow play by Agryppa and Earless Nick?”

“Oh yes my friend. How could it be otherwise? And then there is the third player in this game. What of Canting Michael?”

Old Bent Bart’s head dropped a short way to his chest in deep contemplation. “Hmm, his fellow Gulping Jemmy ‘as been seen snoopin’ around St Paul’s an’ Newgate as well. Tis well known he’s Canting’s bailiff to deal with Gryne and is also partial to the Bedwell lad. But what does this still mean? Is Canting for the Comfit or no?”

“Who knows where the will o’ the wisp of Canting’s desires bends him, mayhap not even himself, though you have to ask if he’d wanted the lad seized or dead for his cock snooking at the baiting pits, then why is he still strutting the streets, all hale and hearty?”

Old Bent Bart gave a disdainful snort and moved back to his chair “So all these players an’ their conspiracies-where does that leave a humble beggar?”

“That is the question, isn’t it Bartholomew.”

If there were any answers to that Hugh didn’t hear them. The strain of the beating and the warmth of the pallet pulled him back down into darkness. But before he drifted off to sleep he did recall one fact they hadn’t mentioned. There were four Masters of Mischief in the compact. So where was Flaunty Phil?

Chapter Seven. A Need for Ned

Meg Black, apprentice apothecary, sucked her singed thumb and cursed like a Byllynsgate wharf man. Damn that retort-it should’ve cooled by now! Stepping away from the bench she looked for a better distraction than checking the progress of the distillation. Mentally she ticked off the tasks for the following day-remedies for the St Stephen’s chantry hospice and Newgate Gaol, the list of syrups, unguents, remedies for rheum and phlegm. No, her need was greater. Those were easily summoned from her memory like a children’s rhyme. Pacing across the apothecary’s workroom Meg’s eyes played over the shelves of pots and vials until slowed by the stack of leather bound books. Hmm, yes, that should do the trick she mused as her hands tugged out one use-worn tome and brushing clear a space on the work table before slapping it down. A small cloud of shredded and crumpled dried herbs puffed up and swirled away dancing in the warm light of the candles.

After today concentration was her catechism. Giving way to whims and fancies could ruin everything. Meg unclasped the buckle and opened the cover. Flipping past some twenty pages of notes on compounds of remedies and lists of ingredients she finally came to the sheet she wanted. Like all those in the previous pages of the ledger it was composed of a graduation of different herbs detailing proportions, quantities dried, steeping periods and various miscellaneous combinations and stocks. Well to anyone even vaguely conversant with the notations of apothecaries that’d be what was seen. Even the most suspicious cleric a hunting heretics and witches would give it only the briefest of glances.

Which as far as Meg was concerned only went to show how truly stupid and blind some learned men could be. Unbelievably this arrogant attitude was, in this case, worth fostering. Not a day went by that she didn’t give thanks to the good Lord in prayer for clouding the minds of those who opposed reform. It seemed so strangely apt that the most annoying characteristic of such men was to be both praised and encouraged. For her that common male lassitude of thought was usually deeply irritating, leading frequently to the sin of anger and broken pots, especially where one male in particular was concerned. Her prayers for forbearance were no doubt a droning repetition to the Lord God, but still she’d had enough of the pulpit bleating regarding the long and manifest faults of womankind, starting from Eve’s original sin then winding through to the lack of humility, obedience and charity that ‘the modern woman’ exhibited. If you gave it even the slightest credence the woman of the past must have been as of saints incarnate…well except for those who were whores, strumpets or any whom forward and lewdly questioned the Churches dictates.

Currently the holy fathers were raving like moon maddened Bedlamites over the prospect of common men and gasp, even women, being able to read the word of the Lord for themselves in their own language. Wasn’t that terrible, a calamity as much feared as the coming of the Anti-Christ or the Sultan’s Mussulmen hordes! Meg always smirked when she heard those foaming fulminations from the city prelates and clerics. Of course displaying due humility and proper virtue as befits a modest apothecary’s apprentice, these heartfelt hosannas were usually kept to the privacy of her thoughts. And to think they considered her just a silly young girl, fit only for sewing and herb simples. Well damn them, all those addle-pated, measle brained fools could rot in the very bowels of Hell. Come the time they’d regret those slights and sneers!

If they knew the truth mayhap the greybeards would suffer an apoplexy and meet their horned master all the sooner, because every day her secret efforts bore fruit. Each book and heretical script that came into the work worn hands of the commons of England served to chip at the rotted structure of the church, as stone by stone it crumbed away.

Meg’s fingers lightly traced over the fine script on the page, her face glowing with the satisfaction of the righteous. As her father had said, the most important secrets are best kept in the open where all could see them, but only a few could understand, so that’s the prescript she followed. Substitution, a most fitting practice. Thus by using the names of herbs like St John’s Wort for some items, and tansy and hyssop for shipments, it was so easily hidden along with their schedule and lists of agents scattered amongst the proportions and compounds. As for the treasured load, the consignments of books and loose unbound sheets were smuggled in from the Low Country secreted in shipments of the most mundane products. Her most favoured were bundles wrapped in tarred cloth and suspended in barrels of French wine or hopped Hansa beer. Thus she had cause to be thankful for the prodigious thirst of Englishmen that aided her task. Not that it was always necessary to go to such extreme efforts at discretion, the tide waiters and other customs officials were always ready to accept a gift for selective blindness.

Yes, Meg mused, it was much more satisfying to think on those subversive successes. The Lord clearly favoured their purpose. Even that suspected dabbler in dark arts and necromancy Dr Agryppa had played his part. Only yesterday he’d sent word that the frozen Thames was a ripe place to sow her dragon’s teeth of faith. How was yet to be resolved, but Agryppa, or as she’d previously known him, Dr Caerleon, was a firm if unpredictable and wayward friend to her family and their quest for reform.

That cryptic missive also contained a secondary warning though that had extinguished her usual enthusiasm for the cause. The lamed lad she’d treated earlier had mentioned another message and quoted a section from the New Testament; Mathew fourteen, verses seven and eleven. Once returned to her uncle’s house Meg had immediately looked up the reference in her hidden translated copy. It spoke of the slaying of John the Baptist by King Herod.

7 Wherfore he promised wt an oth that he wolde geve hir whatsoever she wolde axe.

8 And she beinge informed of her mother before sayde: geve me here Ihon baptistes heed in a platter.

9 And ye kynge sorowed. Neverthelesse for his othes sake and for their sakis which sate also at ye table he comaunded yt to be geven hir:

10 and sent and beheeded Ihon in the preson

11 and his heed was brought in a platter and geven to the damsell and she brought it to her mother.

Now there was an unsubtle warning. Whom it related to she couldn’t be absolutely certain. One hint had been in the lamed messenger’s eyes. They had flickered in Ned’s direction before the lad shrank back in alarm at Bedwell’s approach. Meg tapped the page in thought. Who could possibly want to harm Ned Bedwell, apprentice lawyer? Oh yes and also rogue, dicer and cony catcher par excellence. My, my, wasn’t that a foolish question-half the Liberties at a guess!

That Wool’s Fleece incident the other day was the perfect example of all the conundrums and frustrations she had with that prideful rogue Bedwell. In the midst of those wine sodden, debauched Christmas Revels of his, Ned Bedwell decided to launch a raid to rescue the brother of one of his companions held captive by roisters and cony catchers. Considering the usual pastimes of the lads of the city she’d seen, the act was be commended, straight out of the romances of King Arthur and his knights. However as she’d seen before, the wildly ambitious schemes of Master Bedwell usually ended up face down in the stinking sludge of the Fleete Ditch, and this had been no exception. It was only by chance or perhaps fate that they’d met Bedwell as unclothed as an Indies native in the depth of winter’s chill, desperate for protection. Scathingly suspicious she’d been prepared to discount his wild fancies as borne by too much sack and a crazed wager. Well she had been, right up until those roisters had charged out of the inky night a raging and a roaring. Then irrespective of the odds Bedwell had faced them off to protect her bleating flock of night schoolers. Meg had a strange feeling in her stomach whenever she recalled that act and she’d almost, kind of almost, regretted the humbling cure for Ned’s cold numbed toes. And he’d had such fine strong legs too. Shaking her head at the distraction Meg looked back at the list of shipments.

The frozen Thames was doing more than provide a new field for London pastimes. The thick ice and snow storms had blocked the arrival of the last two cargoes. If she didn’t soon find some remedy this delay would prove to be gallingly expensive. Frowning pensively, Meg bit at an annoying hangnail. What with the prior problem caused by that deceitful cozener Walter Dellingham this was proving to be a Christmas season fraught with peril and farce. One could almost suspect it was a scene lifted from a Lord of Misrule mummer’s play.

A slightly hesitant cough sounded from the doorway behind her. Stifling unwarranted irritation Meg brushed the dust off on her kirtle apron. Roger Hawkins her erring retainer had returned. It always amazed her how such a tall rangy fellow could move so silently. An unchristian thought whispered that considering his former trade as a Liberties cutthroat it was just practice made perfect.

“Mistress Margaret…” Roger appeared to halt in his report unwilling to speak.

Meg had a premonition that ill news strangled his words. Taking a deep breath she held onto her composure and closing the ledger turned to face him.

“I’s been out an around Mistress.”

Meg knew better than to ask where. She’d had an few hints from her father before the Sweats took him last year that Roger Hawkins, though dedicated to the cause of reform, had been steeped in sin, lewdness and vice. His pain choked confession the other day of past misdemeanours had been a great sign of progress on his path of redemption. However the particulars of his former life of sin had been graphic…and detailed. Perhaps she didn’t require so much sudden fleshing out of previously obscure and certainly obscene practices of the Liberties. In reply she just nodded.

Taking that as his cue Roger continued. “The hunt is on for Bedwell. Tis said the city Lords o’ Mischief ‘ave proclaimed a reward o’ five angels fo’ his head.”

“By the blood of Jesus, no!” Shocked and stunned Meg thumped the leather cover of the ledger with clenched fist, then realising that maybe she’d revealed too much of her inner thoughts quickly temporised. “This will be of no help to our plans.”

Roger appeared to think otherwise and with an unpleasantly suggestive smile shook his head. “I reckons Bedwell ‘ll be nay loss ta the cause. Master Hagan’s already offered ta deal quietly with him.”

Meg’s eyes’ flickered with suspicion. Yes, a few months ago she did have a discussion about the permanent removal of an inconvenient Red Ned Bedwell with her family friend and trade partner Albrecht. However Roger Hawkins wasn’t present at the time and nor should Albrecht have mentioned it later. During the affair of the Cardinal’s Angels due to the many connections between Bedwell and her brother she’d forbidden any further precipitous action. Apart from the natural Christian abhorrence of murder, she’d felt that despite his roguish ways Ned still had some uses in the push for reform. Anyway as she’d confided to her cousin Alison she hated to ruin all that effort at steering Ned Bedwell onto a Godly path. And of course, there were his fine, strong thighs.

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.”

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 Hazard.

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 scrupulously 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.

Giving a cleansing and prodigious belch of satisfaction Jemmy casually, if somewhat clumsily, moved onto the meat of his visit. “M’ Master Canting was much impressed with yr’ reasoning an’ argument the tother day in Southwark. He’s had a while ta reflect on yr’ words an’ agrees that tis well past time the city had an Upright Man to stand for us against the puffed and preening cocks of Guildhall.”

Earless smiled pleasantly displaying as fine a set of teeth as any shark could boast. “I’m honoured that Master Canting thought so well of my little speech. He is a gentleman renowned throughout the city for his deep wisdom and clear foresight.”

Jemmy nodded readily at the praise as would any sensible lieutenant keen to keep his position…and unbroken bones, though he’d be prepared to wager that not many in Southwark considered Canting as a ‘bestower of wisdom’. Bruises and cracked heads more like. Jemmy pushed that wry consideration aside, as smiling openly he delivered the second weightier part of his message “Oh aye. Well yr’ see, Canting believes his own pushing for the title could be more a burden than boon. He’s a Southwark lad born and bred an’ the rogues o’ the city would nay be inclined to give him respect. Instead he’d be supping from a bitter cup of tribulations and unending dispute.”

Jemmy paused at this point, crumpling his face in sad and earnest regret. Earless Nick’s displayed a similarly reflected dismay but his ice blue eyes glittered with interest. “Hmm, I’m grieved to hear this. How can I ease Canting’s concerns?”

Jemmy sighed, playing it up as though carrying Job’s own burden of strife. “Y’ see, tis Captaine Gryne. Between his ‘rents’ and rowdy rogues Canting finds himself in a tight bind. Anytime he steps beyond Southwark he’s afeard that Gryne will slip in behind and snap up all the Bankside. So he feels a mite crowded with obligations and responsibilities already.”

Earless made a sympathetic tsk tsking sound and lent forward to put a friendly and consoling hand on Jemmy’s shoulder. “I see. That must be a sore trial for Canting. However if he had a ‘friend’ in the city would that ease his concerns?”

As if on cue Jemmy nodded like the veriest country cony. “Oh aye, Master Throckmore, t’would indeed an’ o’ course Canting would be right grateful to any such ‘friend’.”

As is said, between rogues of the city a nod’s as good as a wink for the kind of agreement that needn’t be spoken. Earless Nick lent back into his chair his face aglow with the exact replica of a smile possessed by a cat with the buttery key and tapped his long fingers together. “Gulping Jemmy, as a sign of my mutual regard for your master, would you care to accompany me to watch a Misrule mummer’s play by Newgate Markets this noon time?”

This was neither an invitation nor a request. Jemmy raised his gilt cup in toast and downed its contents in a single swallow.

If possible Earless Nick’s smile widened and the first touch of a fierce passion warmed his chilling eyes. “By the bye, I’d recommend your lads have their cudgels to hand. I’ve heard that the Misrule Plays are rife with rogues and roisters this Yuletide.”

Since Jemmy was a wagering fellow, he’d be double damned if he couldn’t lay a bet that by nightfall several London lads would be nursing cracked pates. What’s more if Earless Nick’s plans held true, three shillings said one of them would be named Bedwell.

Chapter Ten. All’s Fair at the Frost Fair

Stepping cautiously onto the rough ice from the Fish Street river stairs Meg slowly surveyed the layout of the Thames Frost Fair. It was larger than she’d imagined, stretching some two hundred yards upriver from the starlings of the bridge, and tailing off towards Baynard’s Castle in a stray scatter of stalls. Despite the hundreds of people casually strolling over the frozen river she gave the ice a good stomp with her foot while still holding onto the rough timber of the pier. Ahh yes, no hollow boom or soft screeching tinkle of treacherous cracks answered her. It barely seemed possible that the majestic Thames, the steady pulse of the city’s blood, could be halted by the chilling breath of Lord Winter. She’d heard of this happening before in tales from her father but until the two firm feet of reality stepped upon the frozen waves, it was as difficult to credit as anything other than some old beggar’s moon spun tale.

Trusting to the evidence of her eyes and feet, and rejecting the shrill nervous warnings of her innermost fears, Meg stepped forward onto the frozen river. All it took was an act of faith. She kept on repeating to herself that the Good Lord her shepherd wasn’t about to melt this frosted Faerie realm with his breath just as his faithful servant apprentice apothecary Meg Black was about to chance another venture in his name. The surface by the stair was rough and slippery and Meg suppressed the urge to shriek in fright and panic as her footing attempted to skid from beneath her. Perhaps she may have gripped the shoulder of young Robin too hard, but the scullery lad had a short metal pointed staff which he dug into the ice at every step.

Several paces later she regained her normal composure. They’d reached one of the laid out trails of straw and she apologised to Robin for discomforting him. The young knave just grinned back at her and she suppressed her natural instinct to cuff the impudent lad. Meg shook her head and concentrated on the task at hand, anger banished by a quick prayer, though as her spirit warned, the devil set snares for even the most faithful. It had to be this dreadful business with Bedwell that was so distracting.

Concentration, that was it. Deal with the task before her. Meg smiled at the memory of her mother’s admonishments for straying from her duties, distracted by dew on a spider’s web or the flight of a wren.

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 did 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 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 floating 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.

According to his sources within Newgate Goal, Nick Throckmore, gentleman of the Court, had seen an opportunity for profit by setting up a coining ring. There was nothing particularly unusual in that. Old Bent Bart knew of and tithed several similar endeavours though due to his ‘interest’ the coiners had stuck to common pence and shillings. Master Throckmore had been oh so much more ambitious. His target had been the golden angels worth officially seven shillings and sixpence. As any fool knew the King’s Majesty liked his gold coins or at least Cardinal Wolsey, his Lord Chancellor of old did. He had been an excessively greedy priest, which Bent Bart and so many others thought had been the real cause of his undoing.

Throckmore had been pursuing a very dangerous if profitable venture and apparently unsatisfied with his cut, had as rumour claimed arranged for his main partner to be drowned in a wherry accident. A second partner was coincidentally murdered by rogues in a tavern, while the third seeing the set of the wind threw himself on the Lord Chancellor’s mercy. And that was a foolish play. All the minions were taken, duly tried and hung, but not Master Throckmore. His fate was somewhat different. He’d been banished from Court and had his ears clipped. One could ask how the originator of this scheme avoided choking his miserable life out at Tyburn? That part at least was easy. Patronage was the answer as it often was, in this case that of a King’s Bench judge, a man of learning and stature, well respected in the King’s Service. And for this reason Old Bent Bart was now stomping along as if his life depended on it. Just like any risky play of Hazard except that he was marking the cards, not Earless Nick.

Last night’s discussion had resolved itself into several possible remedies. Firstly he needed allies. A flurry of messages this morning had settled that problem. And now along with his rallied retinue they marched, limped and hobbled towards the Newgate Markets where he’d been informed the Bedwell lad would be by the midday bells. Then they’d see who should be the Upright Man!

Chapter Fourteen. The Lord of the Liberties

Jemmy sauntered along the street looking as if he hadn’t a care in the world, which was not really true, but his practice of cozenage was so good that his small party from Southwark accepted it as God’s own truth from St Paul’s Cross. Even nervous Will was laughing at some outrageous tale from John Plybourne involving a costermonger, two eels and a country lass. He’d heard it before though this version had a few twists and wiggles that set off howls of laughter from their party, especially when Plybourne made the accompanying gestures with such verisimilitude.

In Jemmy’s experienced view they’d have an ‘interesting’ challenge in openly moving fifty odd roisters, rogues, assorted minions and hangers on down Fleete Street, over the bridge and through the portal of Ludgate and then hence into London City. It was common knowledge that the Common Watch of Farrington Without was partial to not so discrete gifts and open bribes. However for Earless Nick to spread his silver also to the parish beadles and constables, not to mention the officers of the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, would mean a considerable outlay. The lords and gentry had it easy stomping around where they liked since their retinues sported a badged livery. A master of rogues would be dangerously presumptuous to try the same.

The Heralds of the College of Arms weren’t just snotty nosed quill dribblers, with their noses stuck in musty old rolls. They possessed power enough to level anyone who wrongly claimed crest, badge, arms or retinue. So it was only good sense to steer their gaze elsewhere.

Earless Nick’s solution to this knotty problem had Jemmy slack mouthed with amazement. It was so damned clever and cunning you could have pasted a tail on it and called it a weasel. All Earless had done was use the simple fact of the season and its festivals. It was the reign of Misrule and thus he’d arranged for his gang of thieves and punks to be decked out in a splendidly colourful array of tassels, baubles and holly wreaths. The feared cudgels and staves usually employed in the cracking of skulls now sported ribbons and twists of ivy. To set the right tone, Wall-eyed Wallis was rigged up like a Hobby Horse and was leading the festive procession. By St Mark what a fearful and gruesome a beast as ever tried to tupp the village girls.

As the uniquely crewed Misrule procession forged its way uphill along Ave Maria Lane pushing past amused and curious Londoners, they received a mixed welcome. Some cheered the Misrule parade, thinking it was a parish celebration from elsewhere in the city. Others somewhat wiser in the ways of the Liberties saw through their festive disguises, and flinched in trepidation then scurried off faster than a rat at a baiting. Jemmy though enjoyed the stroll and found a few opportunities to grab a lass in passing and bestow a kiss. Several taverns along the street seeing a chance at profit instantly set up barrels and trestles out front for the unexpected flood of customers. Or maybe Jemmy considered it’d be a wise attempt at placation. This close to the Liberties every inn, tavern and broken down alehouse had to know Earless Nick and his lads by sight if not by reputation. The constables and sheriffs of the parishes and Guildhall may rule the city by day, but night was another realm and not even a drink sodden fool would depend on the Common Watch for their security.

This Misrule procession and its cheering reception must have put Earless Nick in a generous mood, or maybe it was the plentiful donations of tankards of fine Rhenish. Either way as they approached the bustle of Newgate along the tight confines of Warwick Lane the Lord of the Liberties waved Jemmy closer, gave him a firm buffet on the shoulder and passed across a full firkin. “Gulping, I’s much appreciate your company and the friendship of Canting. Tis the best Yuletide gift any man can receive.”

Gulping gave a self-deprecating shrug and living up to his nickname downed the wine in one long gulp.

Earless nodded and smiled at the demonstration, then arm around Jemmy’s shoulder continued to walk along in a companionable fashion. “I’ve heard that your Canting’s faithful bailiff, collects all his rents and earnings-a veritable paragon of rogues.”

Even under the rack Jemmy couldn’t have said what a paragon was. Maybe it was some kind of fish or bird, but he did understand that Earless was giving out praise. Not that his honesty was all that it was cracked up to be. You’d have to be completely taken in brandywine and keen on suicide to steal off Canting.

“Y’ knows Jemmy, when I’m the Upright Man I’ll need a few steady lads as bailiffs and reeves to do the rounds and see that the beggars, nips and hookmen of the city understand the way of the world.” The friendly hand gave his shoulder a firm squeeze and a hearty slap before Earless Nick moved off quickly towards the front of his festive band.

Jemmy raised his eyes above the common grime and slush of the street, and looked back over his shoulder. The grey horizon was punctured by the spire of St Paul’s standing tall and gleaming in its sheath of ice like the tower of some faerie palace. Jemmy knew that despite the season and imaginings he wasn’t in any other realm than that of his Sovereign Majesty King Henry the Eighth and even with the pretension of the most ambitious gang lord, it was wise not to come to royal attention.

Now this Misrule parade had some hundred yards to run till Newgate. That was fine for Jemmy. He needed a bit of room to mull over the last comment, so unconsciously he slipped back and slowly rounded up his slightly soused crew.

Earless’ last comment had been most intriguing. Jemmy uncharacteristically waved off a jug of ale, and hands tucked into his belt strolled along flogging his mind into action. Yes, he was Canting’s bailiff and had he felt eased the souls of many a worried merchant in Southwark when rents were due by his easy and understanding manner of the difficulties of business. However when a debt fell past due he was also the same bailiff who ensured an easy payment scheme without the bother of the County Assizes, messy legal quibbles or too many broken bones. So he knew his own worth. However by that last hint it was obvious to even Blind Pew that Earless Nick had more on his mind than acquiring the Rogue’s Misrule crown. Such as the imminent replacement of certain gang lords and masters. If a clever lad considered the import of the words of Earless Nick then an ambitious and insightful Gulping could take his pick from a London or Southwark lieutenancy.

Now that was a dangerous ambition for any canny fellow. The question was how was he to deal with it? Newgate Market lay just ahead. With a relaxed smile Jemmy sauntered along, his mind a whirl with possibilities and perils. And all the while his hand lay close to his dagger, because in Misrule’s reign one never knew what lurked around the corner.

Chapter Fifteen. A Meeting at Newgate

The slow chimes of St Paul’s bells rang out in the winter air with a stately solemnity tolling the hour of the day. At each clear peel Old Bent Bart gave an unconscious twitch. The hour was right, as was the place, and all his lads, minchins and morts were at his back ready for their master’s call. As if summoned the hundreds of parish bells rang out in reply telling even the deafest mute the hour had arrived. Despite the sweet crystal clarity the sound echoed in his heart as if it were his mourning dirge. He may cheat, cony catch, thieve and put the odd soul to a sharp, abrupt and sometimes bloody end but essentially Old Bent Bart saw himself as a peaceful man. He attended his parish church every Sunday and saint’s day. Parishioners were always more generous then. He lit candles and paid for masses for his mother and nameless father, as well as giving over gold to his special and most privy charity. Thus the prospect of affray wasn’t one he was either used to or anticipating with any amount of glee. If differences could be talked over he’d be happy enough, though any negotiation needed backing hence his large retinue. If only he didn’t have one remaining nagging worry. Who exactly could he count on as an ally?

The sound of cheering and laughter snapped him out of his reverie of worry and his sight flickered over past the array of moderately crowded market stalls to the junction of Warwick Lane. What was going on? Old Bent Bart’s jaw dropped and he blinked like an owl in shock. Earless Nick was here with all his gang and by the blessed saints and the love of Lord God, the whole party of rogues, punks, roisters and nips were beribboned and gilded up like a Liberties parody of Misrule’s Boy Bishop! Bart shook his head in clear disbelief, during the reign of Misrule the commons could get away with many a prank to the gentry and the church but this lewdness within sight of St Paul’s. Was Earless Nick’s Bedlamite crazed to insult the bishop of London on his own doorstep?

*

Still undecided on his action Jemmy strode into Newgate closely followed by a wilting Will. The lad was a touch unsteady due to a taverner’s generosity and thus was held close at hand and upright by Thomas Weldon, Canting’s trusted knifeman.

Earless had planned well and his colourful procession was led by the infernal squeal and beat of a drum and shawm, not that they kept to any particular rhythm or tune, but it none the less attracted the attention of the crowded market. Waiting ahead was the largest collection of beggars he’d seen outside of the wine drenched celebrations at the slaying of the last White Rose claimant four years ago. At his estimation there must be two hundred at least and in front stood the hunched figure of Old Bent Bart.

To Jemmy’s view the Beggar master appeared stunned at the apparition of Earless Nick’s Misrule procession. At a shouted command the Liberties band came to a shuffling halt. Wall-eyed Wallis made some play of buffoonery at his hobby horse, bucking, stamping and cavorting in the space between the two parties of rogues. The act drew hearty applause from the market crowd and giggles from a clutch of serving girls. Jemmy shook his head in wry amusement and chuckled quietly. If only the fair maids knew what fearsome weapon lurked beneath the ribbons! So both parties stood at each end of the Newgate Shambles, the tinkle of bells and shrill squeak of shawm competing with the cries of the butcher’s lads touting their array of fresh carcase carvings.

In the midst of this silent standoff an unexpected figure casually strolled out from the nearest tavern, then pinching a large lip casually tilted his head back peering up at the grey mass of clouds as if taking in a view of the weather. And so appeared at Newgate market, as if demon summoned the tall, cadaverous, lanky and unexpected figure of Canting Michael. Jemmy was stunned, but unlike the Beggar master he didn’t gape in amazement though only his patron angel knew how he kept up his mask of affable composure.

He had in a way been telling the truth to Earless Nick when he said that Canting was afeared that crossing the river to London would give him too much grief. More honestly it was a matter of several fouled bills that’d see him locked in Newgate Gaol or Bread Street Compter if any constable was brave enough to serve them. Of course it could be that matter of religious dispute betwixt Canting and Bishop Stokesley that made him shy of the city. Either way to cross the Thames for the gang lord of Southwark was unheard of…that was until now.

Earless seemed a little startled by the appearance of his new found ally but after a flickering of a frown raised a hand in greeting calling out his welcome. “I give you good day Master Canting. We’re truly blessed by your presence on this auspicious day!”

Canting gave a short nod in reply and Jemmy pursed his lips. He knew the fickle moods of his master. A clear dozen of the Southwark lads emerged from the tavern’s shelter standing behind their lord and Jemmy made a deliberate effort not to bite his lip in panic. As if finally noticing the distraction of an annoying fly Canting waved his hand, and then puppet like lurched around to face Earless Nick. “Oh aye Throckmore. Tis a blessed day indeed as any that the Lord God grants us life and breath.”

At that statement Earless Nick crossed himself as did a large number of each party. “I understand you are here to support my claim for the title of the Upright Man…?” Earless Nick may have meant that as a bold statement of claim but the last words almost trailed off into a question.

Canting gave a shrug of his shoulders and spread his hands wide in an open gesture. “Lordship is a fickle mistress Earless. She’ll give y’ a kiss an lead y’ on like the veriest punk, a teasing an a tempting y’ then when y’r sceptre tis as hard an’ strong as a pike staff an’ as keen for a hump as any sailor a six weeks at sea, off she flounces wit nay a care.”

Earless appeared puzzled by this obscure reply to his welcome and though still smiling at his allied Southwark gang lord, it was at best shallow and insubstantial, lacking any more sincerity that a punk’s promise. Jemmy from long and close association recognised it for what it truly meant and edged his party cautiously away from the centre of the Liberties gang.

*

Old Bent Bart had quickly recovered from his shock at the number and distinctive plumage of the Liberties gang. Pulling himself up to his full bent height of five foot he was about to temporise over the terms of the agreement to buy some time. Canting Michael’s sudden intrusion had changed that and now despite the Southwark gang lord’s strange words Old Bent Bart was uncertain as to which of the messages or proposals he’d sent out should be honoured. True, it was the three main contenders here and by his estimate they may have been evenly matched depending on who sided with whom. Still they lacked two more important signatories to the charter, so he wavered beset with doubt and for now clamped his jaw shut.

*

Meg’s efforts at the Frost Fair although thorough had been tinged with a measure of urgent rush and vague panic. The Good Lord knew she’d tried to deal fairly with the dozens of mummers, players, mountebanks and animal trainers, though each and every one had started off their reply with a list of difficulties and unfortunately rising costs. She was normally a tolerant and forgiving person, not given to the ill humours of anger and intemperate language. However on this day at this time that resolve had wavered. Meg had skirted very close to the overwhelming impulse to box the ears of these stupid measles and rogues. That’s when the helpful shadow of Captaine Gryne had stepped in, to as he explained ‘smooth over points o’ difference’. While it was true she’d felt some guilt about using the threat of the cudgel or very large fist attached to an arm that’d be capable of felling a draught horse over sweet reason and ready silver, Meg consoled herself that the Lord always placed tools fit for use before his servants in their tasks. Anyway those particularly menaced she’d promised an extra bounty for their efforts. At the end having achieved more for reform in an hour than a dozen translated books and near to running she’d met up with young Robin and headed off towards her appointment with Bedwell and company.

Not alone. Taken by some strange humour Captaine Gryne claimed he had some business to investigate by Newgate and accompanied her. What particular matter Meg didn’t inquire, though since Gryne reckoned he needed the services of a dozen of his armed rogues to ensure a successful transaction, she doubted it was buying a festive bauble or sweet comfits for a Misrule treat. She’d frowned suspiciously at Gryne’s transparent attempt at guile, suspecting some scheme of cozenage or debt collection that required her presence as distraction or cover. Well it was no use complaining or scowling. She wasn’t a babe in skirts and had seen more than enough of the ways of the world. The Captaine and his hidden patron Agryppa had aided her endeavours so despite her worry over Bedwell, Gryne deserved right and proper recompense.

The hourly bells of St Paul’s had begun their usual slow and sonorous chiming by the time Meg and her unexpected party reached Newgate. Along the way her ill humour had evaporated, undoubtedly due to her recounting of Ned’s now notorious Fleete Street race. Her version which she tended to regard as the most accurate one, was based on an amalgam of the two tales of the participants of that doomed escapade. The first part, seriously in need of editing, she’d gained after an intensive grilling of Bedwell while she was applying healing ointments to his ice chafed and cut feet. As a sign of Bedwell’s exaggerations she’d whittled down the numbers he’d faced from a hundred to a more modest and she felt realistic dozen. Meg also had the advantage of a brother who was painfully honest in his telling of the glaring gaps in the plan and his own overly modest rescue of young Reedman. So Meg started at the sorry beginning of the drunken escapade, then on through Ned’s clumsy cozenage at the Fleece and proceeded what she felt was the high point of the story, Ned Bedwell as naked as an Indies savage, teeth chattering like the rattle of drums charging Flaunty Phil’s pursuing Fleecers all the while warbling some strange war cry that to her ears sounded more like the high pitched squeal of a scalded piglet. Her audience was much taken with her imitation of the battle cry and her later description of Ned’s injuries and cure, though between fits of laughter she did assure them that as a demure Christian lass she most certainly didn’t lather Ned’s ballocks with pepper and stinging nettle salve. And now it had been suggested her mind teased at an appropriate list of ingredients-pepper, yes, and maybe cumin and an ounce or two of those dried red peppers newly discovered in the Spanish Indies. Hmm very tempting.

Her consideration of a new ‘regime of physick’ for Bedwell was abruptly halted once Captaine Gryne and his party pushed through the crowd at the corner of Ivy Lane and Newgate Market by the Shambles. The place was packed and not just with the usual clusters of servants, apprentices and gossips. To their right was the largest gathering of beggars she’d ever seen, over a hundred at a guess, while to the left stood a beribboned party of Misrule frolickers looking keenly at the beggars. Opposite Captaine Gryne standing in front of a tavern was tall lanky fellow that she could’ve sworn looked like Canting Michael from Southwark. But no, that just could not be. Even Meg knew Bishop Stokesley had sworn to have Canting burned as a heretic if he caught him in London. What was going on?

Meg’s confusion was soon compounded when an extremely familiar figure slipped out of a side alley. One hand on the shoulder of a thin limping lad the other hefting a weighty purse Roger Hawkins walked straight up to the ugly hunchback in front of the cluster of beggars and tossed him the leather purse. What? Why?

Chapter Sixteen. The Shambles of Newgate

Old Bent Bart proved livelier than his hunched figure lead one to believe as the crumpled Liberties rogue now discovered. The Beggar Master had sidestepped the assault and smartly clipped Earless Nick’s minion across the top of his head with a cudgel. Master of fakery and cozenage he may be, but a young beggar lad didn’t rise to the top of his ‘trade’ on deception and wheedling alone. If you didn’t know how to defend your garnishings then within a month you’d waste away and end up in a pauper’s ditch dead, food for worms. The affray swirled past him for a moment and Old Bent Bart stepped back into the relative shelter of a market stall. From the pile of stinking sheep’s guts to one side he’d lay money on it being a butcher’s stall. Well this was the Newgate Shambles after all and the battle raging in front of him certainly lived up to that title. He’d lay an even wager that the owners were not a dozen feet from here laying about with beef bones.

When the affray had broken out as riots were prone to do it naturally acted as a whirlpool, drawing in an extra tithe of locals as keen for mischief as any Liberties rogue, most especially apprentices, the damned scoundrels.

Now this spreading brawl wasn’t even remotely as he’d envisioned. Given this tiny sanctuary out of the battle Old Bent Bart scowled fit to curdle milk and shook his head. His ploy had been going so well until Satan’s own imps and devils had worked their mischief.

Earless Nick was here, somewhat beribboned and festive, true. Even Canting Michael had arrived in response to the message as well as a slightly tardy Captaine Gryne. For a moment the three main leaders of rogues, roisters, beggars and nips in the city and the Liberties had stood there in perfect equilibrium and he’d opened his mouth to speak after Canting’s strange declaration. He’d had the words all practiced thanks to Prioress Abyngdon’s coaching and the moment was there, his to possess.

Curse the crutch of Saint Giles, betwixt one instant and the next it was ruined, all because of that evil grinning bastard, Hawks! The Liberties knifeman and foul murdering swine had suddenly stepped out into the street not five yards away and pushing his own lad Hobblin’ Hugh afore him as bold as anything he strolled over and deposited a weighty purse into his hand much to his surprise. After that Hawks had the bold faced effrontery to thank him for the assistance in this Bedwell business in as clear and loud a voice that would reach the spire of St Paul’s. Damn him, the pestilent cozener!

The whole gathering went silent for a moment as they collectively drew breath, and no doubt made what cursed connections their God rotted souls were inclined to. Even so a few words might have smoothed over the flaring suspicions, if it hadn’t been for that mud befouled fool, Flaunty Phil. He’d pushed his way through Earless Nick’s men followed by a half dozen similarly ragged and bruised rogues and on sight of Hawks’ payment, screamed out that this was damned treachery. After that the Newgate Shambles dissolved into chaos.

*

As if by some arcane instinct Jemmy could sense the brewing trouble as soon as he’d seen the scar faced lanky rogue and the hobbling beggar lad walking towards Old Bent Bart. He’d also remembered where he’d seen that evil faced bastard before. He was the grim shadow that lurked at the beck and call of Bedwell’s sweetheart, Mistress Black the apothecary. What’s more the sneering smile and coldly amused glint in the rogue’s eyes also jolted loose a few other memories. The fellow’s name was Hawkins, Roger Hawkins, a former knife man of the Liberties who’d carved his way through fifty men, or so it was said. Jemmy grabbed the swaying Will and with his small cluster of lads tried to push through the gaily dressed Liberties gang. He didn’t get far. Some filthy and grimy rogue with his face a mess of mud and blood shoved past to the front of the Misrule party and knocked Jemmy off his feet. Several similarly muddy feet came close to treading him into the brown sludge of the snow. Long practiced moves of street brawling came to his aid and Jemmy lashed out with foot catching an interloper behind the knee, and bringing him down to a more convenient level. A second kick caught the wet and muddy roister under the chin and he spun backwards crashing into some of the colourful Liberties lads. As if to give tongue to the evidence of their eyes the cry of Treachery rang out causing a spreading ripple like a rock dropped in a still pond. Jemmy found himself a clear space and scrabbled to his feet, head snapping left and right spying out threats.

The festive mood of the Liberties gang had evaporated. Several were already involved in scuffles with the interloping gang of wet and bruised rogues. Two paces away with their backs to a handy wall stood the rest of his Southwark lads. Even young wilting Will had his club out making a half decent attempt at being a bold rogue. Jemmy moved towards them until a rough hand grabbed at his shoulder. His elbow jerked backwards in reply eliciting a pained grunt. The Southwark lads had to get out of here and over to the relative safety of Canting. Like a cornered rat Jemmy took a chance and darted through a crack into the midst of his lads, then fists and cudgels out they began to push their way towards the heart of the Shambles.

*

To be a successful player of cozenage you required many skills; deception and cunning, not to mention an ability to read the intent of the cony, but if you dealt with cards and dice, eyesight and a quick hand beat them all. Flaunty Phil possessed all these traits but he was most proud of his ability to see the subtle nicks along the edges of cards which made his cony catching so much easier. Also despite the blood and throbbing pain that glazed his eyes he could see as clear as a knave on pasteboard that grinning bastard and the lame beggar hand over a clinking purse to that stinking Judas and treacherous dwarf Bent Bart. Rage hotter than that which had driven him up the rest of Snow Hill subdued the flaring agony of his twice broken nose, now launched him yelling through this thick crowd of Misrule revellers. One fool tried to stop his passage. Flaunty gave him a blow across the jaw. The fellow crumpled spitting blood. No man was going to stand between him and revenge! That twisted little hunchback would shortly regret his cozenage. So fuelled by the fires of absolute rage at the ambuscade Flaunty Phil screamed out the accusation. “Treachery!”

*

The rush of events and confusion came about with such rapidity that Meg didn’t have time to cast up even a quick prayer of thanks to the Good Lord for shielding Ned. No’ she was a trifle busy for devotions, burdened a she was with questions, such as why Roger had approached the grotesque looking hunchback. Even that pressing issue was shoved aside though by the sudden cry of Treachery and the chaos it unleashed.

A more urgent demand to her attention was the approach of Earless Nick and a dozen of his roisters decked out in ribbons and baubles led by a large man girded in a hobby horse harness. Neither the mock horse nor Earless Nick looked ready for the usual Misrule frolics. Their faces where fixed in that snarly grin of rogues anticipating a ‘bit o’ rough’ not to mention a spot of bloody affray’. Meg automatically stepped back and collided with one of Captaine Gryne’s men who without ceremony grabbed her shoulders and thrust her firmly behind the suddenly closed rank of broad backs and ready cudgels.

Gryne’s commanding voice roared out over the hubbub of the growing brawl. “She’s under my protection Throckmore. If’n y’ want the compact ta hold y’ll step back!”

“God rot you an’ the pact Gryne. Hand her over. That hell cat ruined my house with her trickery. I’ve a claim upon her hide and I means to have it!”

Meg shivered possibly in fear though she’d never admit it and peered nervously between two of Gryne’s men. Earless Nick had a ribbon crossed cudgel in his hand and was striding closer, his eyes burning with a savage fire. The intensity shocked her. The Lord of the Liberties may not be able to get Bedwell but he’d be perfectly satisfied with an apprentice apothecary in his place. Meg clutched her hands together and gave out the most fervent prayer for aid…or inspiration.

*

Dodging a missile Old Bent Bart took cover behind the now upturned butchers stall, Kut Karl’s reassuring bulk by his side. Cautiously he peered over the edge at the scene of riot affray and general commotion. Earless Nick and a clutch of his roisters were thankfully occupied elsewhere, which was fine with him since the Lord of the Liberties at the moment seemed damned keen to use his head as a cudgel’s drum. Old Bent Bart fervently prayed to any saint who happen to be about to keep it so.

Earless Nick had been deflected from his course by two other distractions, a collision with some of Canting Michael’s men and a forlorn assault towards the well-dressed girl standing by Captaine Gryne. Each of those in Old Bent Bart’s opinion was a foolish division of effort. Not that he could claim any better. Most of the beggars had been sucked into the swirling affray. Just who they fought and why didn’t seem to matter anymore. They were here at their master command in case of trouble and thus here it was. Who needed rhyme or reason? Bart had noticed a strange kind of restrain had taken hold of the participants of the affray though. Knives, swords and cleavers though readily at hand where eschewed by all the cursing and grunting combatants. Cudgels it appeared were the weapon of choice, though the useful God-given implements of assault such as fists, knees, elbows and teeth seemed to be equally employed to settle individual affairs.

Wryly he thought about the great compact they’d signed just the other day. Prioress Abyngdon had been right. It was indeed the Comfit of Rogues, now chewed up and tattered, not even fit to be used as a privy rag for a leper’s arse.

*

Hobblin’ Hugh squealed in open terror as the rogue’s body thudded down at his feet. He’d no idea what had prompted the Liberties man to head his way with clear intent of violence. However if only for the shortest of seconds he was very glad that Hawks was at his side since it had been his hand that struck down the lunging figure. Before he could frame a stammered thanks, if he were so minded, Hawks seized him by the collar again and threw him into a pile of mounded snow behind a rainwater butt. For whatever reason Hawks had stashed him out of the way of the brawl. Hugh didn’t need any further encouragement and seized the chance to hide, burrowing like a badger deep down into whatever cover he could find, ignoring the icy cold biting into his rag wrapped hands.

*

Like a storm’s wave breaking upon a rocky cliff Earless Nick’s men smashed against the wall of Captaine Gryne’s guards, and like the sea rebuffed, they ebbed away drawing sullenly back for another charge. Meg from her lower and more sheltered vantage point didn’t see all this. There were too many broad shoulders and flailing elbows about to risk a closer view. But she did hear every thud of cudgel on flesh and the accompanying scream or curse and winced as she unconsciously catalogued the impact points and likely damage. In her many tasks as an apothecary’s apprentice she’d seen and heard the work of a barber surgeon as well as caring for the injured and ill. Life in London wasn’t even close to the earthly paradise that her country cousins imagined. As she’d proved a few months ago during Bedwell’s crazed romp through London and eventually all the way to Grafton Regis, Meg Black wasn’t one of those merchants’ daughters who stuck to needlework and sighed over knightly romances. But the sights and sound of this affray made her want to squeeze her eyes shut, muffle her ears with tight clenched hands and maybe utter a quiet whimper or two. However while that strong desire prompted her to cower or flee another part of her spirit wasn’t so timorous. Was this how Judith slew Holofernes or how the early martyrs faced mobs of howling Romans in the arenas? Meg bit her lip and metaphorically chewed over the fact of her cowardly stance. Was this how one of the modern reformers should act, to let her friends and retainers do all the fighting while she swooned prettily from a balcony?

That last pointed reminder of the pallid romance damsels did the trick. Meg unbuckled her ever present satchel and reached inside searching for inspiration. Hmm, a skeleton key. No, nor the set of latch picks, roll of surgeon’s tools or jars of ointments. All these could be utilised in the most devious manner, but not for affray. Then Meg’s fingers grazed a small pottery sphere and then its twin and she smiled in mischievous delight. Oh yes they would do just fine, all she needed was her steel and flint.

*

Jemmy’s lads had proved as fine a set of roisters as any about. By dint of cudgel, fist and knee they’d cleared a path almost all the way to Canting Michael. Whom they fought, wrestled and brawled Jemmy couldn’t tell. A few may have been Earless Nick’s rogues. Others from the odd thump of a crutch and glimpse of a disfigured face, he’d swear were beggars. Mean little rats them, always on the lookout for an unguarded shin or codpiece to wallop. Jemmy winced slightly and tried not to think of the purple bruising spreading along his inner thigh from a skipped blow. He suspected a night with Gentle Alice at the Cardinal’s Cap was probably out of the question for a week or so. He’d heard the cry of ‘clubs’ a few minutes ago and shook his head. Curse this! Just what they didn’t need-a horde of rowdy apprentices keen to join the mischief.

This brawl had but a quarter hour to run afore the Shambles was teeming with city sheriffs, constables and the Watch. For Southwark lads with fouled bills at the city courts this was no time to linger. Jemmy could have prayed for a providential distraction if he’d been of a religious bent though a few years with Canting Michael tended to cure even the most devout of any such leanings. As if the thought transmuted lead-like into alchemist’s gold, clouds of choking sulphurous smoke began to spew across the Shambles clouding the affray. Jemmy didn’t need any prompting. Pulling his cloak over his mouth and grabbing hold of a rather battered and proudly bloodied Will he launched a last charge to clear the trap of Newgate Shambles.

*

Old Bent Bart coughed and spluttered wiping away streaming tears with a grimy hand. What devil’s work was this? One moment the Shambles was full of brawling figures striving to do mischief and to maim, and the next the place stank like a belch from Satan’s own arse and was twice as murky. Now in one respect this shielded him from targeting by those keen for revenge. However Old Bent Bart was as lost in the choking gloom as if he were at the game of blind man’s bluff. Worse still his shadow and watchdog Kut Karl had disappeared. This lack of armed and looming backup made him twice as nervous and wary of every scrape and nearby groan or cry, though being deliberately sought out in these choking fumes he fervently hoped was near impossible. He could barely discern anything beyond two paces.

A sudden thump across his shoulders sent Old Bent Bart a tumbling and sprawling on the muddy cobbles. Dazed by the surprise blow he still managed a clumsy roll as his hand groped for a concealed dagger. Out of the smoke a cudgel lashed out knocking the blade from his bruised and stinging fingers soon followed by a familiar sneering voice. “Now, now Master Hunchback, plotter and schemer, well naught have any of that ‘mischief’ to spoil our friendly chat…after all yea did invite me, didn’t yea!”

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 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!

Content

Gregory House
A Comfit Of Rogues

Prologue. A Festive Gathering

Chapter One A Christmas Calling

Chapter Two. Strange Tidings

Chapter Three. All the World at the Bear

Chapter Four. The Masters of Mischief

Chapter Five. Messages

Chapter Six. A Rightful Obedience

Chapter Seven. A Need for Ned

Chapter Eight. A Chance goes Begging

Chapter Nine. A Cuddling Comfit

Chapter Ten. All’s Fair at the Frost Fair

Chapter Eleven. A Procession To Newgate

Chapter Twelve. Mischance on Snow Hill

Chapter Thirteen. Old Bent Bart’s Hazard

Chapter Fourteen. The Lord of the Liberties

Chapter Fifteen. A Meeting at Newgate

Chapter Sixteen. The Shambles of Newgate

Chapter Seventeen. Ned’s Needs