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 goo
d 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.
The Lord Of Misrule Page 23
