The Lord Of Misrule (28 page)

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.