The Lord of Misrule (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries)

by Gregory House

  As the counting continued the Captaine called for a serving of ale, and still playing servant Master Swarthy poured a full measured firkin. Jemmy pulled the timber staved tankard towards him and smacked his lips in appreciation. “Care fo’ a wager Captaine, mayhap on who’s the quickest, fo’ say a firkin?”

  Jemmy grinned hopefully. The large man opposite remained silent for a brief second then barked out a short laugh and slapped his palm down on the scrubbed boards of the table. The snap echoed like the sudden belch of a great Gonne. “Jemmy, Jemmy ‘at’s a forlorn hope. I’s seen ya’ guzzle a good couple o’ gallons an’ still stand. I’ll nay take yr’ cozeners ploy.”

  Jemmy gave shrug as if the Captaine was losing out on the most certain of opportunities and taking the refusal as yet another round in the monthly game o’ sport they played at the Gryne Dragone, moved onto a more fruitful piece of business. “So Captaine, ‘ave yea ‘eard o’ ta latest ploy o’ ta Bedwell lad?”

  Gryne’s heavy red beard moved up and down in a slow nod. “Oh aye, some wild rumour reached me o’ strange doings ov’r on the Fleete a night or so past.”

  Jemmy gave his usual half grin. Common gentlemen looked at Gryne and saw only a hired sword, or in this case a great sword for cleaving men in twain. If that were so Canting wouldn’t be the one handing over black rent every month for the ‘safety’ of his Baiting pits. Gryne skimmed a shilling from the pile of coins towards Jemmy. In a practiced flash it disappeared with nary the twitch of a hand. “Tsk, tsk. Flaunty Phil over at ta Fleece tis in a right state. ‘is nose were flattened by a bucket tis said.”

  Gryne’s beard split for a moment to reveal a brief broken toothed smile. “Aye an’ the lad fair singed Delphina’s golden crown. Both o’ em are spittin’ fury an revenge all over ta Liberties.” The fierce smile grew wider and the Irish accented tones of Gryne rumbled. “I’s heard young Bedwell won ta Fleete Street race, a’ bare arsed as bishop’s altar boy.”

  Now it was Jemmy’s turn to nod. Only a fool would assume Captaine Gryne hadn’t heard about the misfortunes of Red Ned Bedwell. As he knew the shilling was an inducement for depth and breadth to the rumour. “That’s so, in a storm o’ ice an’ snow fram what I’s ’eard. Ned’s a lucky lad. If Lord Frast’s breath were any chillier ’is precious stones woulda froze more than the Thames. A wee tap would hae them shatter like glass baubles!”

  Gryne gave an amused chuckle at the image then teased out a little more of his knowledge. “Aye tis said it came close but the apothecary lass he’s a sweet on pulled his chestnuts ut o’ the fire.”

  Now it was Jemmy’s turn to grin. He’d met the ‘apothecary lass’ during Ned’s last scheme at cony catching over Bermondsey way. It didn’t take much to remember that very attractive line of neck and shoulder leading to a well packed bodice. Oh yes and sparkling eyes. It mattered naught that she’d played him as a cony with a drugged posset. He was fairly caught and gave due credit to a worthy mistress of cosenage. Jemmy lent forward over the table keen for the meat of the tale for his own curiosity even if Canting wasn’t going to grill him when he returned. “Oh aye?”

  “Yea. His codpiece parts were soaked in fresh piss every hour, just like those coneys a’ the Biddle! An he ‘ad no lack o’ friends ta supply t’ steamin’ liquor!”

  Gryne’s laugh boomed off the wall and Jemmy readily joined in. Ahh, young Red Ned did get himself into some fine scraps. He’d have paid silver to see Ned’s grimace as his mates unlaced their codpieces and hoes then let forth the stream. Though as strange as the remedy seemed he’s wasn’t moon–calfed enough to scoff at Mistress Black’s regimen of physick, but by Satan’s own blackened bollocks, her cures always had a bitter bite, or so he’d heard.

  Having given the reputation of Red Ned Bedwell, young rogue of note, a good pasting for his Fleece folly, Jemmy appeared to relax then took a slurp of the Gryne Dragone ale. As he’d come to know it was a fine drop. Captaine Gryne always had the best double strength ale, aged a year in the barrel by some accounts, only served to those he considered his ‘especial’ friends and since Jemmy felt himself a very useful especial friend indeed, he casually eased out his most valuable morsel of news. “By ta by Captaine have yea ’eard o’ ta meeting Earless Nick wants at ta Bear’s Inn on the morrow?”

  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.

  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? Accordi
ng 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.