The Lord Of Misrule (25 page)

“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.

“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?