The Lord Of Misrule

by House, Gregory

  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.

  To any servants of the acclaimed masters of mischief 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.

  As the priests so frequently hectored from the church pulpits, man was steeped in sin, giving in to gluttony, lust, greed, anger and covetness, all of which spawned like maggots from a dead dog, theft, disorder and bloody affray. Now as a veteran of the King’s campaigns as well as service in the Baltic and the battlefields of Italy, he counted himself a past master in the play of violent deeds. However he’d soon noticed that come the inevitable truce, soldiers were dropped from musters quicker than a dog shed fleas which of course considering the tardiness of pay and lack of plunder made for hard winters and the steady leakage of a Captaine’s main asset, the men of his company. The remedy to this wasteful attrition had him perplexed. After all commanders had a jaundiced view of companies swapping sides or leaving partway through a campaign, the lack of ready coin notwithstanding. But past upsetting the touchy pride of lords and princes there had to be a way of halting the wasteful drain in between battles.

&nbs
p; The answer had come with the chance request from one of the wilder courtiers, while he was laid up recovering from a wound. The desperate fellow was keen to pay gold to have a dozen lads skilled in sword and affray in his service for a month. The ‘what for and why’ of the urgent request hadn’t concerned him, though at the end the courtier had paid over a handy bonus of four angels. Whether it was for silent discretion, or quality of retainers was irrelevant, it had been the start of a very profitable enterprise.

  You’d think that it would be easy to stroll into any tumble down boozing ken and flash a few shilling to whip up a quick pack of rogues and roisters for mischief and assault. However they were usually drunken amateurs as ready to run or puke as fight. Now a professional was more reliable than a scrawny pisspot, and any merchant requiring guards for warehouse or pack train naturally sought him out, as did a growing number of ‘clients’ who despaired of the costs of lawyers and lengthy court proceedings. It was well known amongst the London guilds that a modest payment to Captaine Gryne always brought a prompt solution to outstanding debt arrears. As for the usual argument and rivalry betwixt lords or gentry, hiring a few of Gryne’s Men made for satisfactory resolutions to slights of honour. Over all of these arrangements Gryne maintained a rigid code of honesty. Service paid for was service rendered, and naught of his lads played the traitor to their temporary master, no matter the duty, though the policy had seen a few ticklish occasions when employers strayed into the dangerous waters of treason. But there had been a solution to that difficulty, one that still had Gryne scratching his head in muddled confusion.

  That the remedy concerned Dr Agryppa shouldn’t have been a surprise. By specific order all his fine lads reported to the physician during and after their periods of service, relaying any overheard gossip, observation and rumour. Then probably much filtered, Agryppa would inform him of any potential threats or conflicts with his contracts. In truth it was similar to the duties he owed campaign commanders via the use of his company as scouts and warlike pursuivants, though he still occasionally wondered if he’d gained the best of the arrangement. On some level it irritated, working like a well lodged splinter. From time to time the doubts subjected him to a few fingernail chewing pauses for consideration such as now.

  Strange that it should be over the issue of the Bedwell lad. As with most news, or in fact all news, he reported Gulping Jimmy’s warning to the doctor. The old man’s smile had grown as bleak and wintery as Lord Frost’s latest blessing. Then he’d fallen to muttering and scribbling before pulling out several of those arcane charts he had stored upon the shelves. Finally Gryne was bidden to return in an hour while the astrologer consulted the ‘signs of the heavens’. Normally he came and went at no man’s bidding save His Sovereign Majesty, but with Agryppa a sharp complaint or cuff was out of the question. He owed the master of physick the use of a leg and what seemed the miraculous cure of the slow stinking wound rot from an arquebus ball.

  The eventual instruction though was a damned curious thing, but as he’d found with so many commanders, it was best to silence the incredulous questions and push on with the duty. In the meantime he considered the ‘arrangement’ betwixt the Masters of Mischief as Earless Nick titled them.

  It concerned the Frost Fair now settling up on the river ice westwards of the bridge, hundreds of stalls selling every possible comfit or treat that a winter besieged Londoner could want: roasted chestnuts, spiced warm hippocras and surprisingly whole lamb and haunches of beef roasted on a spit. The self–proclaimed Lord of the Liberties was right. It was an unparalleled opportunity for winter delights and Londoners keen for any diversion this season would flock to the spreading booths on the icy Thames. At the Bear Inn yesterday all the assembly could see the glittering temptation, purses to cut, conies to catch and the many plays of practiced cosenage on a distracted and bemused gathering. The Frost Fair was a veritable paradise on earth, or so Earless Nick had described it to his clearly drooling audience.

  Gryne paid close attention to the next part. After that outline of temptations, their host had proposed that unlike former Fairs where they’d been restricted by the fretful annoyance of constables and guild or fair officials, the Frost Fair was like the Liberties, an area of vague and arbitrary jurisdiction. That had set the gathering to pondering, if the gleam of greed in their eyes was any judge. Gryne had just nodded in confirmation, quickly calculating the rates for stall security. Yes indeed, an opportunity not to be missed.

  Earless Nick though had proposed that the Fair be divided into wards and parishes, each allocated to one of their number to be their exclusive preserve. As expected that had set off an instant raucous argument from the lesser fry of the meeting, until tiring of the shouting Gryne had thumped a table and called for silence. The scroungers and blustering roisters had flinched and Earless had publicly thanked him then smoothly suggested that it would be only sensible that the Masters of Mischief submit to a levy to retain the services of ‘the renowned fair and honest soldier Captaine Gryne’.

  That had been a laugh, hired by the wolves and the crows to ‘protect’ the sheep and their shearing! He accepted of course, as Earless knew he would, just as the clever Liberties rogue knew he’d be forced to attend their little meeting, invitation ‘astray’ or not.

  His fellow ‘Masters’ had also demurred with only a few quibbles of procedure and continued swiftly on to the other matters of interest, and as far as Gryne was concerned that’s when he perceived a dim illumination of the depth of planning and cunning of Earless Nick. At the Royal Court he’d had a reputation as a twisty fellow. It was little wonder then that when caught out in a coining cosenage, patronage at least saved his head though not his ears. So that was one out of three proposals presented. As for the other two…well by St Katherine he was certainly keen to see how they played out.

  Thus here he was supervising the warding for the Frost Fair, as if that was his only interest. The stall holders had each received a quiet visit from his clerk, Stanford, also the legal apprentice of Earless and Old Bent Bart’s grinning knifeman, where the terms and benefits of contributing to the protection levy were clearly spelt out. However that was only part of the business of the Frost Fair and this day other more urgent concerns had him suffering the chill of Lord Frost’s breath. A casual glance towards the London end of the bridge told him the second part of the business was at hand.

  Gryne gave another of his mirthless grins in anticipation of the next play, startling a nervous drover who fell over into his bleating charges and so cascading a bridge wide panic of beasts, carts and packtrains. Oblivious to the sudden chaos Gryne strode eagerly towards the city, there were some days when the humdrum of his business brought real satisfaction.

  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.