Read A Comfit Of Rogues Online
Authors: Gregory House
“Mistress Black, is this rogue causing you trouble?”
“No, no Ned, just recalling the sayings of a wise teacher.”
Bedwell stopped, hand casually resting on his sword hilt and loomed over Hugh. “You sure, because I could’ve sworn his words disturbed you.”
Hugh shrank back a little more wishing the wall would open up and swallow him up. Bedwell had a certain look about him that Hugh recognised all too well, that of the parish beadle considering whether to beat him through the streets, or just use the pillory. To his growing alarm there was also a deep flicker in the eyes, as if he were sorting through known faces and trying to find a match.
A hand from Mistress Black stopped Bedwell’s advance as she ferreted around in a satchel slung from her shoulder, then apparently satisfied with her search she thrust a small pot into his hands. “This will ease the pain at the joint. Rub it on and warm them with a heated compress.” And with a smile his beautiful angel moved on leaving Hugh open mouthed and blushing.
The rest of her party soon swept along after, though Bedwell paused and gave him a last speculative inspection. Hugh sighed in relief and slumped against the wall his heart hammering almost more than his cods throbbed. After that little adventure a fellow definitely needed a restorative and he knew just the place by Newgate Shambles.
Hugh gulped down the first draught in one steady swallow. Oh by St Jude and the blessed angels that brought tears to the eyes. At the second cup of Brandywine Hugh’s shakes subsided. It was after all a very successful play. An hour past and he began to acquire a more optimistic view of his recent escapade. True he did get a little bruised and roughed up by Captaine Gryne’s men, but that was wasn’t much worse that the common run of kicks and cuffs he received while begging. Plus there was the consoling gain of six pence for delivering the message and possibly more according to the promise of the Captaine. Just one extra cup and maybe a bowl of the Redd Lyon’s roast ordinary, then he’d be fit for any further duty. Damn but this Christmas was proving to be a time of bounty. Hugh smiled and as if toasting the Lord of Misrule and the Masters of Mischief raised his cup.
A chillingly familiar voice broke through the pleasant glow of his reverie. “Why me Hobblin’ little maggot here y’ ere. da Miester’s been lookin for y’ all day!”
The rough and heavy hand of Kut Karl clapped him on the shoulder. “I…I…I can explain!”
“Oh surely y’ will little maggat, b’ Gott’s son y’ vill!”
Hugh gave a loud gulp and looked up over his shoulder. Kut Karl was smiling and that was never a good sign.
Chapter Six. A Rightful Obedience
“Noo, please noo…ARRRGGHHH! Nooo…nooo.” The scream tapered off to a snivelling whimper as Hugh vainly tried to avoid the impact of the lash on his bare back. His vision clouded as his eyes watered and the face of a sadly disapproving gargoyle swum into view. It was that of his Beggar Master Old Bent Bart and he didn’t look very pleased. “Hugh y’s my best lad. I feels saddened by yer lapse in obedience.”
“Master…Master Bart, I’s niver meant ta cause offence. Really I didn’t.” Hugh stuttered this out in between gulps of breath and blinding washes of pain from the torment of his back.
A heavy hand came up and grasped his jaw, moving it from side to side as if absently playing with a child’s poppet. “Yea may have intended ta do me right Hugh but it doesn’t look like that ta me or the rest of our company.”
Hugh blinked back the tears of excruciating pain and tried to shake his head in denial. “Master Bart I’s hurried ere as soon as I could!” That plea was loaded with all the desperate truthfulness of avoiding more pain.
Old Bent Bart paused in his close inspection of Hugh’s face, his own heavy features shifting in puzzled rumination. Hugh tried to project that extra ounce of misjudged innocence, as well as convey that what he’d said was God’s own simple truth. And despite his accustomed craft of deception and beggarly cozenage it was. After all how could he know Kut Karl was on the hunt for him, or that his stop at the Redd Lyon at Newgate for a much needed bracing cup of brandywine would be construed as wilful evasion by his lord and master?
The heavy dark brows of Old Bent Bart shifted closer, almost grazing his cheek as the Master of Beggars seemed to sniff out any falsehoods. Eventually the misshapen head gave a slow steady nod. “That’s as maybe Hugh, but lad y’ still failed yer duty and y’ must be punished for it.”
The rough hand released its grip and Hugh’s head dropped down. His body would have followed but his arms were tied to a pair of posts in the common room of the
Labours of Ajax
while he received his punishment. His half–closed eyes followed the pacing short legs of Old Bent Bart as he walked back and forth in the clear space before the fire. Beyond was the audience of his fellow beggaring fraternity watching with the keenest anticipation for the renewal of the punishment. It was always a fine entertainment made all the sweeter since it wasn’t you getting the strips. If he twisted his head to the left he’d be able to see the grinning face of Kut Karl as he carefully shook out the leather thongs of the lash in preparation for the next round of chastisement. That was a sight Hugh didn’t need. Instead he closed his eyes tight and mumbled a short pray to Mary, Mother of God, for her to open Old Bent Ben’s heart to compassion and forgiveness.
“Another six Karl,” came the chilling reply to his fervent prayer.
“But Miester the tally calls fr’ a dozen an a ‘alf.” To Hugh’s ear Kut Karl sounded as deeply disappointed as if he’d lost a purse full of shillings.
“Hmm, yes it does…I’m sure we can find a task fo’ Hugh that’ll balance the scales.”
Hugh panted with relief—only another six, only six more. Then the first of those final blows landed on his back and he screamed. Karl, cheated of his pleasure, had laid in extra hard to make up for the deficit. The pain burned white hot across his back and struggling for breath to scream at the agony Hugh shuddered and passed into oblivion.
It may be been an hour later or much longer when the tendrils of dull ache eased Hugh into a wary consciousness and his eyelids flickered open. The room was dark as if it was an early winter evening and one wall was washed by an orange flickering just past his limit of vision. Very slowly beyond the pain of his lash stripped back it dawned on Hugh that he must be in the inner sanctum of his Master, Old Bent Bart. Cautiously he raised his head. His master was sitting in his usual chair by the fire and opposite was a sight he’d never expected to see in the
Labours of Ajax
.
She wore the accustomed dress of a Prioress, though it was difficult to think of that ruined rogue’s refuge of Paternoster Prior as having any relationship to the magnificent palace of York Place Cardinal Wolsey had built. He couldn’t forget that face. It was thin with proudly high cheekbones and a sharp pointy nose that seemed to unerringly seek out mischief. Every time he’d attempting to dip into the small store of comfits and sweetmeats that were hidden in the old priory kitchen, with unerring instinct the Prioress had caught him. That hadn’t been the only thing he recalled either. When angry her eyes burned like the fire of the saints and for all her parchment white skin and seeming aged frailty, Prioress Abyngdon possessed all the righteous strength in walloping of a woman half her years and twice her size.
There had been rumours around the Beggarly fraternity that Old Bent Bart had a secret hideaway he visited, for some days it was as if he’d vanished from the face of the earth. And in London amongst the sharp eyes of the beggars that was impossible. Some said it was a flaxen haired punk over by St Giles who humped like one of Sir Francis Bryan’s own girls. Another whispered it was a hidden shame, maybe some close kin locked away in Bedlam which conveniently explained his skill at counterfeiting a crank. And some rumours combined the two in various lewd or suggestive combinations. However from what Hugh could see maybe all those were too far from the mark, for his master was sitting down as if with an old friend and the table between them was spread with a simple selection of cakes and wine. And then there was what Hugh noticed about his master’s face—it was so very different, so relaxed and utterly free of any artifice.
Apparently he’d been given a pallet and from the cautious exploration of his chest his wounds had been tended to with bandages and he thought from their feeling also anointments. This was unprecedented and to be here warm and cosseted, what could it possibly mean?
“Yea Bartholomew, of course I’d heard of the events today. I’m not an anchorite. I do watch the passing world. It just so happens that Three-fingered Tom saw it and kindly apprised me of the news.”
His master shifted uncomfortably and pushed himself up from his seat to stand before the fire warming his buttocks. “Why’d Gryne do so and openly mind you? What of the agreement we had yesterday?”
The old woman sniffed primly at a spiced pomander in her hand and shook her head. “Nay it’s not Gryne. He may be only a soldier in this, though a damned clever one when he chooses. This smacks of something deeper, and he’s but the hand in this play.”
Old Bent Bart tugged nervously at his wispy beard and frowned. The flickering light from the flames made his eyes sink back into deep wells of shadow and for an instant Hugh froze in fright and he thought himself to be afore a demon. “Y’ say? I knows he serves some men o’ influence at the court. Could it be one o’ them pulling a play?”
The beggar master shifted position now facing the fire and masking Hugh’s view of their conversation, but he didn’t need to see a face to interpret the meaning behind that cackling laugh from the Prioress of Paternoster Row. It was wry, derisive amusement. “Nay nay, though Gryne serves a sway of fine fellows at Court with his sturdy lads. It’s naught any word from them that has him playing this game. Tis closer to home my friend—that lizard’s roost in Southwark is the source of this.”
The shadow of Old Bent Bart’s head played on the opposite wall like a grotesque mummers doll as he vigorously shook it in denial. At the sight Hugh suppressed a whimper of fear and continued to feign sleep only watching through close slit eyes. “Fawh, those old sorcerers’ tales! They be just ta scare children in breech cloths, an’ the gullibly maze minded!”
The prioress gave another of her rattling cackles. “Oh aye, there is some of that. I reckons maybe half the tales are true, but then which half?”
Her reply appeared to bring some doubt to the discussion. Hugh could see the shadow of Old Bent Bart’s jaw working as if chewing over a rank piece of gristle. “So Agryppa, y’ reckon, he’s the one behind this?”
“Aye it must be so. He’s slipperier than a greased weasel an’ twice as cunning. I’m sure the canker of his fall still gnaws at him something fierce and I’s doubt he’s grown forgiving and merciful in his dotage.”
“What’s he want then do you think?”
“Oh Bart, that’s too easy an answer. Why, revenge pure and simple, and beware any who stands in his way!”
“Hmm and so the apothecary lass and the Bedwell lad are part of his schemes then?”
“Do you doubt it after today?”
“No, not now, though I’s wonder at its import.” The mocking cackle was softer this time and almost regretful.
“Masters of Mischief did Nick call you all—Masters of Mistrust I’d say, each of you keen for the title of the Upright Man of the city. So I ask myself, why is it in the gift of Earless Nick?”
Old Bent Bart shook his head like a horse plagued with flies and thumped a hand against the wall. “By God’s blood, if I’ve been played like a coney…”
The Prioress put up her hands and made soothing sounds as if calming a child. “Sa, sa Bartholomew, not so hasty. It may be your compact has no more substance than a sucked child’s comfit. Ha, a Comfit of Rogues truly! Tell me do ye trust Earless Nick?”
The question came sharp and quick and pausing for a goblet of wine Old Bent Bart spluttered his answer. “By God’s blood no! I’d be a Bedlamite fool locked up and howling rather than a counterfeiter before then.”
“So Bartholomew, what’s he want out of these arrangements? Power? Wealth? Or revenge mayhap?”
This caused a longer pause and Hugh strained to hear his suddenly hushed voice. “Y’ think they’re linked, this shadow play by Agryppa and Earless Nick?”
“Oh yes my friend. How could it be otherwise? And then there is the third player in this game. What of Canting Michael?”
Old Bent Bart’s head dropped a short way to his chest in deep contemplation. “Hmm, his fellow Gulping Jemmy ‘as been seen snoopin’ around St Paul’s an’ Newgate as well. Tis well known he’s Canting’s bailiff to deal with Gryne and is also partial to the Bedwell lad. But what does this still mean? Is Canting for the
Comfit
or no?”
“Who knows where the will o’ the wisp of Canting’s desires bends him, mayhap not even himself, though you have to ask if he’d wanted the lad seized or dead for his cock snooking at the baiting pits, then why is he still strutting the streets, all hale and hearty?”
Old Bent Bart gave a disdainful snort and moved back to his chair “So all these players an’ their conspiracies—where does that leave a humble beggar?”
“That
is
the question, isn’t it Bartholomew.”
If there were any answers to that Hugh didn’t hear them. The strain of the beating and the warmth of the pallet pulled him back down into darkness. But before he drifted off to sleep he did recall one fact they hadn’t mentioned. There were four Masters of Mischief in the compact. So where was Flaunty Phil?
Chapter Seven. A Need for Ned
Meg Black, apprentice apothecary, sucked her singed thumb and cursed like a Byllynsgate wharf man. Damn that retort—it should’ve cooled by now! Stepping away from the bench she looked for a better distraction than checking the progress of the distillation. Mentally she ticked off the tasks for the following day—remedies for the St Stephen’s chantry hospice and Newgate Gaol, the list of syrups, unguents, remedies for rheum and phlegm. No, her need was greater. Those were easily summoned from her memory like a children’s rhyme. Pacing across the apothecary’s workroom Meg’s eyes played over the shelves of pots and vials until slowed by the stack of leather bound books. Hmm, yes, that should do the trick she mused as her hands tugged out one use–worn tome and brushing clear a space on the work table before slapping it down. A small cloud of shredded and crumpled dried herbs puffed up and swirled away dancing in the warm light of the candles.
After today concentration was her catechism. Giving way to whims and fancies could ruin everything. Meg unclasped the buckle and opened the cover. Flipping past some twenty pages of notes on compounds of remedies and lists of ingredients she finally came to the sheet she wanted. Like all those in the previous pages of the ledger it was composed of a graduation of different herbs detailing proportions, quantities dried, steeping periods and various miscellaneous combinations and stocks. Well to anyone even vaguely conversant with the notations of apothecaries that’d be what was seen. Even the most suspicious cleric a hunting heretics and witches would give it only the briefest of glances.
Which as far as Meg was concerned only went to show how truly stupid and blind some learned men could be. Unbelievably this arrogant attitude was, in this case, worth fostering. Not a day went by that she didn’t give thanks to the good Lord in prayer for clouding the minds of those who opposed reform. It seemed so strangely apt that the most annoying characteristic of such men was to be both praised and encouraged. For her that common male lassitude of thought was usually deeply irritating, leading frequently to the sin of anger and broken pots, especially where one male in particular was concerned. Her prayers for forbearance were no doubt a droning repetition to the Lord God, but still she’d had enough of the pulpit bleating regarding the long and manifest faults of womankind, starting from Eve’s original sin then winding through to the lack of humility, obedience and charity that ‘the modern woman’ exhibited. If you gave it even the slightest credence the woman of the past must have been as of saints incarnate…well except for those who were whores, strumpets or any whom forward and lewdly questioned the Churches dictates.
Currently the holy fathers were raving like moon maddened Bedlamites over the prospect of common men and gasp, even women, being able to read the word of the Lord for themselves in their own language. Wasn’t that terrible, a calamity as much feared as the coming of the Anti–Christ or the Sultan’s Mussulmen hordes! Meg always smirked when she heard those foaming fulminations from the city prelates and clerics. Of course displaying due humility and proper virtue as befits a modest apothecary’s apprentice, these heartfelt hosannas were usually kept to the privacy of her thoughts. And to think they considered her just a silly young girl, fit only for sewing and herb simples. Well damn them, all those addle–pated, measle brained fools could rot in the very bowels of Hell. Come the time they’d regret those slights and sneers!
If they knew the truth mayhap the greybeards would suffer an apoplexy and meet their horned master all the sooner, because every day her secret efforts bore fruit. Each book and heretical script that came into the work worn hands of the commons of England served to chip at the rotted structure of the church, as stone by stone it crumbed away.
Meg’s fingers lightly traced over the fine script on the page, her face glowing with the satisfaction of the righteous. As her father had said, the most important secrets are best kept in the open where all could see them, but only a few could understand, so that’s the prescript she followed. Substitution, a most fitting practice. Thus by using the names of herbs like St John’s Wort for some items, and tansy and hyssop for shipments, it was so easily hidden along with their schedule and lists of agents scattered amongst the proportions and compounds. As for the treasured load, the consignments of books and loose unbound sheets were smuggled in from the Low Country secreted in shipments of the most mundane products. Her most favoured were bundles wrapped in tarred cloth and suspended in barrels of French wine or hopped Hansa beer. Thus she had cause to be thankful for the prodigious thirst of Englishmen that aided her task. Not that it was always necessary to go to such extreme efforts at discretion, the tide waiters and other customs officials were always ready to accept a gift for selective blindness.
Yes, Meg mused, it was much more satisfying to think on those subversive successes. The Lord clearly favoured their purpose. Even that suspected dabbler in dark arts and necromancy Dr Agryppa had played his part. Only yesterday he’d sent word that the frozen Thames was a ripe place to sow her dragon’s teeth of faith. How was yet to be resolved, but Agryppa, or as she’d previously known him, Dr Caerleon, was a firm if unpredictable and wayward friend to her family and their quest for reform.
That cryptic missive also contained a secondary warning though that had extinguished her usual enthusiasm for the cause. The lamed lad she’d treated earlier had mentioned another message and quoted a section from the New Testament; Mathew fourteen, verses seven and eleven. Once returned to her uncle’s house Meg had immediately looked up the reference in her hidden translated copy. It spoke of the slaying of John the Baptist by King Herod.
7 Wherfore he promised wt an oth that he wolde geve hir whatsoever she wolde axe.
8 And she beinge informed of her mother before sayde: geve me here Ihon baptistes heed in a platter.
9 And ye kynge sorowed. Neverthelesse for his othes sake and for their sakis which sate also at ye table he comaunded yt to be geven hir:
10 and sent and beheeded Ihon in the preson
11 and his heed was brought in a platter and geven to the damsell and she brought it to her mother.
Now there was an unsubtle warning. Whom it related to she couldn’t be absolutely certain. One hint had been in the lamed messenger’s eyes. They had flickered in Ned’s direction before the lad shrank back in alarm at Bedwell’s approach. Meg tapped the page in thought. Who could possibly want to harm Ned Bedwell, apprentice lawyer? Oh yes and also rogue, dicer and cony catcher par excellence. My, my, wasn’t that a foolish question—half the Liberties at a guess!
That Wool’s Fleece incident the other day was the perfect example of all the conundrums and frustrations she had with that prideful rogue Bedwell. In the midst of those wine sodden, debauched Christmas Revels of his, Ned Bedwell decided to launch a raid to rescue the brother of one of his companions held captive by roisters and cony catchers. Considering the usual pastimes of the lads of the city she’d seen, the act was be commended, straight out of the romances of King Arthur and his knights. However as she’d seen before, the wildly ambitious schemes of Master Bedwell usually ended up face down in the stinking sludge of the Fleete Ditch, and this had been no exception. It was only by chance or perhaps fate that they’d met Bedwell as unclothed as an Indies native in the depth of winter’s chill, desperate for protection. Scathingly suspicious she’d been prepared to discount his wild fancies as borne by too much sack and a crazed wager. Well she had been, right up until those roisters had charged out of the inky night a raging and a roaring. Then irrespective of the odds Bedwell had faced them off to protect her bleating flock of night schoolers. Meg had a strange feeling in her stomach whenever she recalled that act and she’d almost, kind of almost, regretted the humbling cure for Ned’s cold numbed toes. And he’d had such fine strong legs too. Shaking her head at the distraction Meg looked back at the list of shipments.
The frozen Thames was doing more than provide a new field for London pastimes. The thick ice and snow storms had blocked the arrival of the last two cargoes. If she didn’t soon find some remedy this delay would prove to be gallingly expensive. Frowning pensively, Meg bit at an annoying hangnail. What with the prior problem caused by that deceitful cozener Walter Dellingham this was proving to be a Christmas season fraught with peril and farce. One could almost suspect it was a scene lifted from a Lord of Misrule mummer’s play.
A slightly hesitant cough sounded from the doorway behind her. Stifling unwarranted irritation Meg brushed the dust off on her kirtle apron. Roger Hawkins her erring retainer had returned. It always amazed her how such a tall rangy fellow could move so silently. An unchristian thought whispered that considering his former trade as a Liberties cutthroat it was just practice made perfect.
“Mistress Margaret…” Roger appeared to halt in his report unwilling to speak.
Meg had a premonition that ill news strangled his words. Taking a deep breath she held onto her composure and closing the ledger turned to face him.
“I’s been out an around Mistress.”
Meg knew better than to ask where. She’d had an few hints from her father before the Sweats took him last year that Roger Hawkins, though dedicated to the cause of reform, had been steeped in sin, lewdness and vice. His pain choked confession the other day of past misdemeanours had been a great sign of progress on his path of redemption. However the particulars of his former life of sin had been graphic…and detailed. Perhaps she didn’t require so much sudden fleshing out of previously obscure and certainly obscene practices of the Liberties. In reply she just nodded.
Taking that as his cue Roger continued. “The hunt is on for Bedwell. Tis said the city Lords o’ Mischief ‘ave proclaimed a reward o’ five angels fo’ his head.”
“By the blood of Jesus, no!” Shocked and stunned Meg thumped the leather cover of the ledger with clenched fist, then realising that maybe she’d revealed too much of her inner thoughts quickly temporised. “This will be of no help to our plans.”
Roger appeared to think otherwise and with an unpleasantly suggestive smile shook his head. “I reckons Bedwell ‘ll be nay loss ta the cause. Master Hagan’s already offered ta deal quietly with him.”
Meg’s eyes’ flickered with suspicion. Yes, a few months ago she did have a discussion about the permanent removal of an inconvenient Red Ned Bedwell with her family friend and trade partner Albrecht. However Roger Hawkins wasn’t present at the time and nor should Albrecht have mentioned it later. During the affair of the Cardinal’s Angels due to the many connections between Bedwell and her brother she’d forbidden any further precipitous action. Apart from the natural Christian abhorrence of murder, she’d felt that despite his roguish ways Ned still had some uses in the push for reform. Anyway as she’d confided to her cousin Alison she hated to ruin all that effort at steering Ned Bedwell onto a Godly path. And of course, there were his fine, strong thighs.
Meg pulled herself back from that lingering image and strived for a more credible reason. “No we need Bedwell. His signature is on the deed for the purchase of the Ruyter of Bremen, not to mention several requests for export licences.”
And now it was Roger’s turn to look surprised. “I–I thought y’ didn’t want him involved in the bringing in o’ ta books fro’ the Low Country.”
“Well, uhh…I don’t. Ned wouldn’t understand…that is not yet. His good lord suggested it as a common merchant’s ruse.”
“What, Rich? Y’ asked Master Richard Rich, that coin cozening lawyer of Middle Temple?” Her retainer was clearly shocked.
Meg waved off the accusation with an abrupt flick of her hand as if removing clinging street filth. “By the blessed saviour no, not him. It came as a suggestion from the Lady via Cromwell.”
Roger still shook his head as if doubtful of its wisdom though he did appear relieved the connection with Ned’s uncle was to remain a distant one. Her retainer though was clearly displeased. “He’s a Rich by blood if’n not name. I’d sooner trust that slippery courtier, More.”
“Whoever it came from is irrelevant,” snapped Meg, angered at her servant’s intransigence. “What concerns us now is what to do about saving Ned…ah, I mean Master Bedwell from this foul plot.”
Roger still appeared reluctant to accept this latest commandment. His face was the very mirror of disappointment. Meg pursed her lips in concern. She wasn’t blind to the interaction between her faithful retainer and ‘Red Ned’. The whole situation smouldered of rancour and jealousy. They were as prickly as a pair of hounds snarling over the same bitch. At this none too subtle allusion her frown deepened. That wasn’t going to happen…ever!