The Lord Of Misrule (30 page)

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!

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 Plyborne 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 Plyborne 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.

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
?