The Lord Of Misrule (23 page)

The raising of a shaggy eyebrow was his answer.

“He’s called in all ta gang lord’s o’ London, Cantin’ Michael, Flaunty Phil an Ol’Bent Bart ta name a few. I’d a thought yea would ’ave received a letter o’ invitation.”

Captaine Gryne’s eyes didn’t flicker or twitch. Instead his hand moved towards the pile of coins laid out for the tally and skimmed a golden angel towards his visitor. Instantly it vanished into Jemmy’s doublet as he drained the tankard in one long steady swallow after which the tankard smacked down on the table and Jemmy rose up giving his host a respectful tilt of his cap as thanks for the hospitality. “I’ll bid yea a good feastin’ this Misrule and Christmastide Captaine.”

The master of Gryne’s Men gave a slow nod in reply but other than that made no further comment. Acquiring his retinue including the reeking Will on the way out Jemmy strode happily into the grey light of Christmas whistling a jaunty tune. Tomorrow was promising to be very entertaining and fair bulging with golden promise as well.

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!

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!”