The Lord Of Misrule

by House, Gregory

  The hourly bells of St Paul’s had begun their usual slow and sonorous chiming by the time Meg and her unexpected party reached Newgate. Along the way her ill humour had evaporated, undoubtedly due to her recounting of Ned’s now notorious Fleete Street race. Her version which she tended to regard as the most accurate one, was based on an amalgam of the two tales of the participants of that doomed escapade. The first part, seriously in need of editing, she’d gained after an intensive grilling of Bedwell while she was applying healing ointments to his ice chafed and cut feet. As a sign of Bedwell’s exaggerations she’d whittled down the numbers he’d faced from a hundred to a more modest and she felt realistic dozen. Meg also had the advantage of a brother who was painfully honest in his telling of the glaring gaps in the plan and his own overly modest rescue of young Reedman. So Meg started at the sorry beginning of the drunken escapade, then on through Ned’s clumsy cozenage at the Fleece and proceeded what she felt was the high point of the story, Ned Bedwell as naked as an Indies savage, teeth chattering like the rattle of drums charging Flaunty Phil’s pursuing Fleecers all the while warbling some strange war cry that to her ears sounded more like the high pitched squeal of a scalded piglet. Her audience was much taken with her imitation of the battle cry and her later description of Ned’s injuries and cure, though between fits of laughter she did assure them that as a demure Christian lass she most certainly didn’t lather Ned’s ballocks with pepper and stinging nettle salve. And now it had been suggested her mind teased at an appropriate list of ingredients—pepper, yes, and maybe cumin and an ounce or two of those dried red peppers newly discovered in the Spanish Indies. Hmm very tempting.

  Her consideration of a new ‘regime of physick’ for Bedwell was abruptly halted once Captaine Gryne and his party pushed through the crowd at the corner of Ivy Lane and Newgate Market by the Shambles. The place was packed and not just with the usual clusters of servants, apprentices and gossips. To their right was the largest gathering of beggars she’d ever seen, over a hundred at a guess, while to the left stood a beribboned party of Misrule frolickers looking keenly at the beggars. Opposite Captaine Gryne standing in front of a tavern was tall lanky fellow that she could’ve sworn looked like Canting Michael from Southwark. But no, that just could not be. Even Meg knew Bishop Stokesley had sworn to have Canting burned as a heretic if he caught him in London. What was going on?

  Meg’s confusion was soon compounded when an extremely familiar figure slipped out of a side alley. One hand on the shoulder of a thin limping lad the other hefting a weighty purse Roger Hawkins walked straight up to the ugly hunchback in front of the cluster of beggars and tossed him the leather purse. What? Why?

  Chapter Sixteen. The Shambles of Newgate

  Old Bent Bart proved livelier than his hunched figure lead one to believe as the crumpled Liberties rogue now discovered. The Beggar Master had sidestepped the assault and smartly clipped Earless Nick’s minion across the top of his head with a cudgel. Master of fakery and cozenage he may be, but a young beggar lad didn’t rise to the top of his ‘trade’ on deception and wheedling alone. If you didn’t know how to defend your garnishings then within a month you’d waste away and end up in a pauper’s ditch dead, food for worms. The affray swirled past him for a moment and Old Bent Bart stepped back into the relative shelter of a market stall. From the pile of stinking sheep’s guts to one side he’d lay money on it being a butcher’s stall. Well this was the Newgate Shambles after all and the battle raging in front of him certainly lived up to that title. He’d lay an even wager that the owners were not a dozen feet from here laying about with beef bones.

  When the affray had broken out as riots were prone to do it naturally acted as a whirlpool, drawing in an extra tithe of locals as keen for mischief as any Liberties rogue, most especially apprentices, the damned scoundrels.

  Now this spreading brawl wasn’t even remotely as he’d envisioned. Given this tiny sanctuary out of the battle Old Bent Bart scowled fit to curdle milk and shook his head. His ploy had been going so well until Satan’s own imps and devils had worked their mischief.

  Earless Nick was here, somewhat beribboned and festive, true. Even Canting Michael had arrived in response to the message as well as a slightly tardy Captaine Gryne. For a moment the three main leaders of rogues, roisters, beggars and nips in the city and the Liberties had stood there in perfect equilibrium and he’d opened his mouth to speak after Canting’s strange declaration. He’d had the words all practiced thanks to Prioress Abyngdon’s coaching and the moment was there, his to possess.

  Curse the crutch of Saint Giles, betwixt one instant and the next it was ruined, all because of that evil grinning bastard, Hawks! The Liberties knifeman and foul murdering swine had suddenly stepped out into the street not five yards away and pushing his own lad Hobblin’ Hugh afore him as bold as anything he strolled over and deposited a weighty purse into his hand much to his surprise. After that Hawks had the bold faced effrontery to thank him for the assistance in this Bedwell business in as clear and loud a voice that would reach the spire of St Paul’s. Damn him, the pestilent cozener!

  The whole gathering went silent for a moment as they collectively drew breath, and no doubt made what cursed connections their God rotted souls were inclined to. Even so a few words might have smoothed over the flaring suspicions, if it hadn’t been for that mud befouled fool, Flaunty Phil. He’d pushed his way through Earless Nick’s men followed by a half dozen similarly ragged and bruised rogues and on sight of Hawks’ payment, screamed out that this was damned treachery. After that the Newgate Shambles dissolved into chaos.

  *

  As if by some arcane instinct Jemmy could sense the brewing trouble as soon as he’d seen the scar faced lanky rogue and the hobbling beggar lad walking towards Old Bent Bart. He’d also remembered where he’d seen that evil faced bastard before. He was the grim shadow that lurked at the beck and call of Bedwell’s sweetheart, Mistress Black the apothecary. What’s more the sneering smile and coldly amused glint in the rogue’s eyes also jolted loose a few other memories. The fellow’s name was Hawkins, Roger Hawkins, a former knife man of the Liberties who’d carved his way through fifty men, or so it was said. Jemmy grabbed the swaying Will and with his small cluster of lads tried to push through the gaily dressed Liberties gang. He didn’t get far. Some filthy and grimy rogue with his face a mess of mud and blood shoved past to the front of the Misrule party and knocked Jemmy off his feet. Several similarly muddy feet came close to treading him into the brown sludge of the snow. Long practiced moves of street brawling came to his aid and Jemmy lashed out with foot catching an interloper behind the knee, and bringing him down to a more convenient level. A second kick caught the wet and muddy roister under the chin and he spun backwards crashing into some of the colourful Liberties lads. As if to give tongue to the evidence of their eyes the cry of Treachery rang out causing a spreading ripple like a rock dropped in a still pond. Jemmy found himself a clear space and scrabbled to his feet, head snapping left and right spying out threats.

  The festive mood of the Liberties gang had evaporated. Several were already involved in scuffles with the interloping gang of wet and bruised rogues. Two paces away with their backs to a handy wall stood the rest of his Southwark lads. Even young wilting Will had his club out making a half decent attempt at being a bold rogue. Jemmy moved towards them until a rough hand grabbed at his shoulder. His elbow jerked backwards in reply eliciting a pained grunt. The Southwark lads had to get out of here and over to the relative safety of Canting. Like a cornered rat Jemmy took a chance and darted through a crack into the midst of his lads, then fists and cudgels out they began to push their way towards the heart of the Shambles.

  *

  To be a successful player of cozenage you required many skills; deception and cunning, not to mention an ability to read the intent of the cony, but if you dealt with cards and dice, eyesight and a quick hand beat them all. Flaunty Phil possessed all these traits but he was most proud
of his ability to see the subtle nicks along the edges of cards which made his cony catching so much easier. Also despite the blood and throbbing pain that glazed his eyes he could see as clear as a knave on pasteboard that grinning bastard and the lame beggar hand over a clinking purse to that stinking Judas and treacherous dwarf Bent Bart. Rage hotter than that which had driven him up the rest of Snow Hill subdued the flaring agony of his twice broken nose, now launched him yelling through this thick crowd of Misrule revellers. One fool tried to stop his passage. Flaunty gave him a blow across the jaw. The fellow crumpled spitting blood. No man was going to stand between him and revenge! That twisted little hunchback would shortly regret his cozenage. So fuelled by the fires of absolute rage at the ambuscade Flaunty Phil screamed out the accusation. “Treachery!”

  *

  The rush of events and confusion came about with such rapidity that Meg didn’t have time to cast up even a quick prayer of thanks to the Good Lord for shielding Ned. No’ she was a trifle busy for devotions, burdened a she was with questions, such as why Roger had approached the grotesque looking hunchback. Even that pressing issue was shoved aside though by the sudden cry of Treachery and the chaos it unleashed.

  A more urgent demand to her attention was the approach of Earless Nick and a dozen of his roisters decked out in ribbons and baubles led by a large man girded in a hobby horse harness. Neither the mock horse nor Earless Nick looked ready for the usual Misrule frolics. Their faces where fixed in that snarly grin of rogues anticipating a ‘bit o’ rough’ not to mention a spot of bloody affray’. Meg automatically stepped back and collided with one of Captaine Gryne’s men who without ceremony grabbed her shoulders and thrust her firmly behind the suddenly closed rank of broad backs and ready cudgels.

  Gryne’s commanding voice roared out over the hubbub of the growing brawl. “She’s under my protection Throckmore. If’n y’ want the compact ta hold y’ll step back!”

  “God rot you an’ the pact Gryne. Hand her over. That hell cat ruined my house with her trickery. I’ve a claim upon her hide and I means to have it!”

  Meg shivered possibly in fear though she’d never admit it and peered nervously between two of Gryne’s men. Earless Nick had a ribbon crossed cudgel in his hand and was striding closer, his eyes burning with a savage fire. The intensity shocked her. The Lord of the Liberties may not be able to get Bedwell but he’d be perfectly satisfied with an apprentice apothecary in his place. Meg clutched her hands together and gave out the most fervent prayer for aid…or inspiration.

  *

  Dodging a missile Old Bent Bart took cover behind the now upturned butchers stall, Kut Karl’s reassuring bulk by his side. Cautiously he peered over the edge at the scene of riot affray and general commotion. Earless Nick and a clutch of his roisters were thankfully occupied elsewhere, which was fine with him since the Lord of the Liberties at the moment seemed damned keen to use his head as a cudgel’s drum. Old Bent Bart fervently prayed to any saint who happen to be about to keep it so.

  Earless Nick had been deflected from his course by two other distractions, a collision with some of Canting Michael’s men and a forlorn assault towards the well–dressed girl standing by Captaine Gryne. Each of those in Old Bent Bart’s opinion was a foolish division of effort. Not that he could claim any better. Most of the beggars had been sucked into the swirling affray. Just who they fought and why didn’t seem to matter anymore. They were here at their master command in case of trouble and thus here it was. Who needed rhyme or reason? Bart had noticed a strange kind of restrain had taken hold of the participants of the affray though. Knives, swords and cleavers though readily at hand where eschewed by all the cursing and grunting combatants. Cudgels it appeared were the weapon of choice, though the useful God–given implements of assault such as fists, knees, elbows and teeth seemed to be equally employed to settle individual affairs.

  Wryly he thought about the great compact they’d signed just the other day. Prioress Abyngdon had been right. It was indeed the Comfit of Rogues, now chewed up and tattered, not even fit to be used as a privy rag for a leper’s arse.

  *

  Hobblin’ Hugh squealed in open terror as the rogue’s body thudded down at his feet. He’d no idea what had prompted the Liberties man to head his way with clear intent of violence. However if only for the shortest of seconds he was very glad that Hawks was at his side since it had been his hand that struck down the lunging figure. Before he could frame a stammered thanks, if he were so minded, Hawks seized him by the collar again and threw him into a pile of mounded snow behind a rainwater butt. For whatever reason Hawks had stashed him out of the way of the brawl. Hugh didn’t need any further encouragement and seized the chance to hide, burrowing like a badger deep down into whatever cover he could find, ignoring the icy cold biting into his rag wrapped hands.

  *

  Like a storm’s wave breaking upon a rocky cliff Earless Nick’s men smashed against the wall of Captaine Gryne’s guards, and like the sea rebuffed, they ebbed away drawing sullenly back for another charge. Meg from her lower and more sheltered vantage point didn’t see all this. There were too many broad shoulders and flailing elbows about to risk a closer view. But she did hear every thud of cudgel on flesh and the accompanying scream or curse and winced as she unconsciously catalogued the impact points and likely damage. In her many tasks as an apothecary’s apprentice she’d seen and heard the work of a barber surgeon as well as caring for the injured and ill. Life in London wasn’t even close to the earthly paradise that her country cousins imagined. As she’d proved a few months ago during Bedwell’s crazed romp through London and eventually all the way to Grafton Regis, Meg Black wasn’t one of those merchants’ daughters who stuck to needlework and sighed over knightly romances. But the sights and sound of this affray made her want to squeeze her eyes shut, muffle her ears with tight clenched hands and maybe utter a quiet whimper or two. However while that strong desire prompted her to cower or flee another part of her spirit wasn’t so timorous. Was this how Judith slew Holofernes or how the early martyrs faced mobs of howling Romans in the arenas? Meg bit her lip and metaphorically chewed over the fact of her cowardly stance. Was this how one of the modern reformers should act, to let her friends and retainers do all the fighting while she swooned prettily from a balcony?

  That last pointed reminder of the pallid romance damsels did the trick. Meg unbuckled her ever present satchel and reached inside searching for inspiration. Hmm, a skeleton key. No, nor the set of latch picks, roll of surgeon’s tools or jars of ointments. All these could be utilised in the most devious manner, but not for affray. Then Meg’s fingers grazed a small pottery sphere and then its twin and she smiled in mischievous delight. Oh yes they would do just fine, all she needed was her steel and flint.

  *

  Jemmy’s lads had proved as fine a set of roisters as any about. By dint of cudgel, fist and knee they’d cleared a path almost all the way to Canting Michael. Whom they fought, wrestled and brawled Jemmy couldn’t tell. A few may have been Earless Nick’s rogues. Others from the odd thump of a crutch and glimpse of a disfigured face, he’d swear were beggars. Mean little rats them, always on the lookout for an unguarded shin or codpiece to wallop. Jemmy winced slightly and tried not to think of the purple bruising spreading along his inner thigh from a skipped blow. He suspected a night with Gentle Alice at the Cardinal’s Cap was probably out of the question for a week or so. He’d heard the cry of ‘clubs’ a few minutes ago and shook his head. Curse this! Just what they didn’t need—a horde of rowdy apprentices keen to join the mischief.

  This brawl had but a quarter hour to run afore the Shambles was teeming with city sheriffs, constables and the Watch. For Southwark lads with fouled bills at the city courts this was no time to linger. Jemmy could have prayed for a providential distraction if he’d been of a religious bent though a few years with Canting Michael tended to cure even the most devout of any such leanings. As if the thought transmuted lead–like into alchemi
st’s gold, clouds of choking sulphurous smoke began to spew across the Shambles clouding the affray. Jemmy didn’t need any prompting. Pulling his cloak over his mouth and grabbing hold of a rather battered and proudly bloodied Will he launched a last charge to clear the trap of Newgate Shambles.

  *

  Old Bent Bart coughed and spluttered wiping away streaming tears with a grimy hand. What devil’s work was this? One moment the Shambles was full of brawling figures striving to do mischief and to maim, and the next the place stank like a belch from Satan’s own arse and was twice as murky. Now in one respect this shielded him from targeting by those keen for revenge. However Old Bent Bart was as lost in the choking gloom as if he were at the game of blind man’s bluff. Worse still his shadow and watchdog Kut Karl had disappeared. This lack of armed and looming backup made him twice as nervous and wary of every scrape and nearby groan or cry, though being deliberately sought out in these choking fumes he fervently hoped was near impossible. He could barely discern anything beyond two paces.

  A sudden thump across his shoulders sent Old Bent Bart a tumbling and sprawling on the muddy cobbles. Dazed by the surprise blow he still managed a clumsy roll as his hand groped for a concealed dagger. Out of the smoke a cudgel lashed out knocking the blade from his bruised and stinging fingers soon followed by a familiar sneering voice. “Now, now Master Hunchback, plotter and schemer, well naught have any of that ‘mischief’ to spoil our friendly chat…after all yea did invite me, didn’t yea!”