A Comfit Of Rogues (2 page)
Read A Comfit Of Rogues Online
Authors: Gregory House
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.
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.
Masters of Mischief
as Earless Nick titled them.
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.