The Lord Of Misrule (33 page)

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!

The Cardinal’s Cap was as fine an establishment as any in Southwark. Normally Gulping Jemmy appreciated the bountiful generosity of its mistress, Pleasant Anne, and especially the sweet smile and warm welcome of Gentle Alice. Not this winter’s afternoon though. While his spirit may have been up for a rousing session of rumpy pumpy, a broad selection of bruises had him restricted to a wincing limp.

The Southwark survivors of the Newgate Shambles brawl had lodged at the Tabard Inn where Canting had slapped down several shillings, calling for the best food and wine for his brave lads. Jemmy would have merrily joined in but Canting had tapped him on the shoulder and quietly suggested they adjourn for a quiet drink and chat—elsewhere.

Jemmy’s entry to the Cardinal’s Cap was some quarter hour behind that of his master, only in part due to the pain of his battle injuries. The other greater delay had been trying to sort out the mood of Canting Michael, never an easy task. Young Will had survived his first affray as a rogue and roister, and while not covered in glory or blood had acquitted himself well enough. As for the alliance with Earless Nick sought on his master’s behalf, it was Canting who’d by his words cast that away. So fingers crossed Jemmy felt himself safe on these grounds. The twin prizes of Bedwell and the Upright Man had he suspected been lost during the affray. This left Jemmy mildly pleased if somewhat confused, but the final judgement as always belonged to Canting and frankly that’d worry a saint.

So Jemmy approached the private table in the strangely empty tavern with a not so casual right hand draped over his dagger, while the left swung in easy reach of a hidden second blade.

Canting cracked a ready if brief smile and waved long fingers as both a summons and a welcome. Jemmy slipped into the private alcove and took the bench opposite with a thankful sigh. Canting pushed across a steaming jug and Jemmy poured himself a horn beaker of mulled hippocras. Pausing only long enough to inhale the steamy fumes he downed it. One hand though still poised knifewards just in case. The Southwark gang lord appeared not to notice anything amiss and stared off towards the vacant dicing table by the fire. He seemed to nod towards thin air before bending forwards and fixing Jemmy with his coal black eyes and barked out a statement. “T’were proper done Gulping. I means over there in the city.”

In reply Jemmy gave a half–hearted shrug as if it were the least of his services. His hand still stayed close.

“I means ta remember y’r duties Gulping. Y’ showed witless Will the lanes and byways o’ the city an’ kept the young fool safe.”

This time Gulping tweaked a grin and fluttered a spare hand briefly empty of beaker of wine.

Canting nodded his head in thought and as if from nowhere out shot a surprising statement. “That cozenage ye played with Gryne over Bedwell twas as fine a hand of Hazard as ever I’ve seen. Y’ pulled the Captaine an’ his cursed necromancer into the game an’ ruined Earless Nick’s ploy.”

Somehow Jemmy didn’t spray the table with a mouthful of hippocras. Rather he swallowed it in a number of painful coughs and belches. In the meantime Canting’s lips tilted in that peculiar smile of his. Jemmy’s hand hovered over the secret dagger and he cleared his throat of the last of the bones of the drink. “Bedwell? Gryne? What y’ mean, Canting? I’s serve y’ faithfully in this matter and any man says otherwise I’ll call him out!”

Canting Michael gave a dry chuckle and shook his head. “Ahh Gulping Jemmy, y’r a good lad as m’bailiff, but did y’ no think that if’n I’d truly wanted the Bedwell lad I could ‘ave had him anytime? An’ a damned sight cheaper than five angels.”

Jemmy was now even more confused than before. His fingers grazed the dagger hilt. Canting obviously knew of his various games and plays though why and how and what it meant was all at hazard. “But…but after the baiting cozenage yea said it were a clear four shilling to any man who could bring Bedwell into y’r company for a chat!”

“Aye Gulping, and tis still so. Bedwell and m’self we have matters betwixt us that require a very private conversation, but harm?” Canting’s eyebrows shot up like a pair of startled caterpillars. “Nay, I needs Bedwell alive an hale for many a year yet. He’s worth more ta me than a paltry five angels.”

Jemmy tapped the knife hilt with perplexed fingers. This still wasn’t making any sense. Five angels was not a paltry sum even to the Southwark gang lord.

Canting nodded again and laughed, no doubt amused by the reaction of his faithful lieutenant. “I’s have another task for ye Gulping. Since y’r his clear advocate, y’r can be his guardian angel in these parts. Yea are to watch over Bedwell and see he comes to no special harm. A pounding in a brawl I care naught, but if’n someone wants his head again yea tell me quick. An' let me know if he calls on that spawn o’ the devil at the Gryne Dragone.”

Jemmy didn’t have to pretend to be still confounded and confused. What? Was he now Ned Bedwell’s protector? Why?

That last thought must have slipped onto his face for Canting gave a short yipping laugh and shook his head in not so mock regret. “Why? Why, yea ask. If’n I told yea Gulping then I fear I’d have to slit y’r throat.”

Jemmy snapped his mouth shut and placed a hand over it in case anymore inopportune words slipped out unsaid. He didn’t need to know
that
badly.

Satisfied Canting lent back into his seat and with that strange enigmatic smile raised his beaker in a clear pledge. “To Misrule’s reign, Gulping Jemmy.”

After a long moment’s silence Jemmy raised his own. This was a Misrule he’d not soon forget.

*

While Gulping may have been ‘concerned’ over the welcome from his master, Hobblin’ Hugh was positively shaking with terror. After the slaying of Kut Karl, he’d disappeared down a half choked side alley and hidden for hours in a tumbled down stable behind several sheep and a large grunting sow. Eventually come full dark he’d snuck out, and utilising all his native skills, tracked a winding and discrete path back to Pissing Lane and The Labours of Ajax. A raucous racket of singing and celebration didn’t so much leak out of the door into the street but flooded out washing and rebounding even twenty yards hence. It sent a prickle up Hugh’s spine and he paused in the deeper shadows weighing up its meaning. Were his beggarly companions celebrating a triumph or mourning a defeat?

Hugh hunkered down behind the concealing bulk of a mound of snow covered refuse pondering on what to do next. It was a real quandary. He was chilled to the bone and shivering, his belly an empty growling chasm and worst of all out on the street alone. He was prey for those night time shadows who snatched up the young and vulnerable. However if he went in was he going to be blamed for the riot at the Shambles? If he’d any spare breath and his teeth weren’t chattering so badly Hugh would have cursed ‘Hawks’ for his evil cozenage.

The sound of a boot scrunching in the snow echoed from further up the lane and Hugh’s perplexed pondering ran aground on the shoals of terror. Without thought he jumped up and bolted for the half closed door and wriggled inside, prompted by fear he could have sworn long fingers had clutched at his ragged cloak from a deeper well of shadows. Hugh’s breathing sounded like a full set of blacksmith’s bellows and his heart a thumping helve hammer as he lent against the inside wall.

A loud voice calling out shook him loose from his recent fright. “Isn’ that Hobblin’ Hugh? Come in lad an’ tell us how yea fared at Newgate!”

Hugh recognised the voice and all a tremble at the summons from his master limped slowly forward into the smoky glow of the commons. Hugh gulped nervously. The place was packed to its low rafters with every manner of beggar, rogue and roister, many bruised and bloody, all their eyes a glow from the fire’s reflection as they watched him approach. Briefly he wondered if his chances would be better outside with the nameless clutching shadow.

His master’s voice once more rang out in that loud growl. “I give’s you all Hobblin Hugh, our angel o’ victory over the Liberties rats of Earless Nick!”

After that the evening was a blur for Hugh as he feasted on roast capon, downed whole firkins of fine ale, and received the praise and thanks of his brethren. Misrule’s Reign had favoured him after all and there was not even a single mention of Kut Karl.

*

Old Bent Bart poured the second pewter cup of hot spiced wine and eased himself with a wince back into his well–padded chair. “Why thank you Bartholomew! That wasn’t necessary. I can serve myself. Yea mustn’t strain y’self or those bandages and poultices will dislodge.”

Old Bent Bart grunted in reply and waved a hand abruptly in irritation at the solicitous offer of Prioress Abyngdon. “Yr’ my guest an’ there’s an end of it!”

The firelight flared in his private chamber and if any could have read the roughly carved face of the master of Beggars they may have been surprised at the display of raw suffering. The Prioress made a show of examining the stone carvings about the fireplace mantle to give her host a measure of privacy to hide his tears of pain. The faded whitewash proclaimed some old motto.
Veritas
was the only word that still stood out and she found that particularly comforting in this inner sanctum of secrets. Eventually as the silence stretched on she finally spoke once more. “I take it after this day Throckmore’s play is foiled?”

“Aye, for now. We’ve no more nonsense of the Upright Man, thank St Giles!”

The Prioress nodded. She was pleased to see her friend despite the pain in his more normal gruff humour. However there was still one nagging issue. “The Bedwell lad, do we know any more on why Throckmore turned the city upside down to gain him and why Agryppa protects him?”

“No. No we don’t, not a word or a hint.” Old Bent Bart fidgeted with his cup and avoided the penetrating stare of his old patroness. The Bedwell matter was the root cause of all this Misrule mischief. He didn’t want to think on it or else his head would burst with the plots, schemes and evasions that kept on circling the lad. He threw out another result from the day as a distraction. “I’ve lost Kut Karl, slain in the brawl.”

The Prioress nodded. News like that travelled fast in the city. She clearly didn’t mourn the loss as he did. The Lowlander had a fearsome reputation for brutish and bloody pastimes. Not that it mattered to Old Bent Bart since Karl was damned good at his trade of intimidation. “Will you seek revenge?”

Old Bent Bart shrugged at the question then winced at the pain of the movement. “I…I don’t know. I owes Earless Nick for the bruises and cozenage though. After today I doubt he’ll be humping his punk Anthea till Easter.”

That judgement was accompanied by a very evilly satisfied chuckle. Old Bent Bart reckoned his bite’d not be soon forgotten by the so called Lord of the Liberties.

The Prioress crossed her arms, still clearly unsatisfied. “Bedwell?”

The name was an accusing question that hung in the air between them and Old Bent Bart seeing she’d nay give up shook his head and threw up his hands in surrender. “Oh all right, I’ll tag him with a watcher if’n that’ll stop yea harping on it!”

The Prioress replied with a catlike smile of satisfaction and nodded once.

Old Bent Bart slumped back amongst his cushions displaying every sign of defeat and sipped his warm wine. It was a poor play of cozenage and he suspected she knew it, though it gave him a space to at least to gloat over his winnings for the day. Earless Nick thwarted, Flaunty Phil beaten to a pulp, and as for Captaine Gryne and Canting Michael, well if they didn’t bother him he’d return the compliment. But this day was a wonder, for the parade of Misrule had seen the beggars triumphant and himself richer by ten angels. He must remember to thank Hawkins for his open gift at Newgate. After all, as any man with half a wit knew, five angels for a slaying didn’t equal ten in the purse for the victim to remain quick, hale and hearty. And Hawkins’ patron had played their hand too openly. No doubt they’d be all too ready to pay in the future. Old Bent Bart gave a quiet smile. This was the finest Misrule Romp he’d had in many a decade. He raised his cup towards his guest, eyes twinkling. “To the twelve days of Christmas and Lord Misrule’s Reign! May it always be so bountiful for beggars, rogues and roisters!”