A Comfit of Rogues
A Red Ned Tudor Mystery
By Gregory House
Published by Gregory and Jocelyn House at Amazon
Copyright 2012 © Gregory and Jocelyn House
Discover other titles by Gregory House at www.amazon.com or www.amazon.co.uk
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All artwork copyright Alexander House © 2012
Archaeology, Peter Wilkes and other diverse matters blogged at
http://prognosticationsandpouting.blogspot.com
Red Ned, the Reluctant Tudor Detective blog at
http://rednedtudormysteries.blogspot.com/
Stories in the Red Ned Tudor Mysteries Series
Amazon UK
The Liberties of London
The Queen’s Oranges
The Cardinal’s Angels
The Fetter Lane Fleece
Amazon US/Australia
The Liberties of London
The Queen’s Oranges
The Cardinal’s Angels
The Fetter Lane Fleece
Soon to be released in the Red Ned Tudor Mysteries Series on Amazon
The Lords of Misrule
The Smithfield Shambles
The Trade of the Thames
The King’s Counsel
The Dark Devices Historical Fantasy Series on Amazon
Darkness Divined
The Peter Wilks Archaeological Mysteries Series on Amazon
Terra Australis Templar
Soon to be released in the Peter Wilks Series
The Gold Coast Glyphs
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (mechanical, photocopying, recording of otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with another please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Please respect the author’s rights to this work ©2012.
Contents
Contents
Dramatis Personae
The Royal Court
Historical Note on Red Ned Tudor Mysteries
Tudor Names and Language
Tudor London 1529
Prologue. A Festive Gathering
Chapter One A Christmas Calling
Chapter Two. Strange Tidings
Chapter Three. All the World at the Bear
Chapter Four. The Masters of Mischief
Chapter Five. Messages
Chapter Six. A Rightful Obedience
Chapter Seven. A Need for Ned
Chapter Eight. A Chance goes Begging
Chapter Nine. A Cuddling Comfit
Chapter Ten. All’s Fair at the Frost Fair
Chapter Eleven. A Procession To Newgate
Chapter Twelve. Mischance on Snow Hill
Chapter Thirteen. Old Bent Bart’s Hazard
Chapter Fourteen. The Lord of the Liberties
Chapter Fifteen. A Meeting at Newgate
Chapter Sixteen. The Shambles of Newgate
Chapter Seventeen. Ned’s Needs
Post script. Misrule’s Reign
Historical Note about Cosenage
Religion and spirituality in the Tudor Age as portrayed
in the Red Ned Tudor Mysteries
Tudor Coinage and values
Common Tudor Terms
Dramatis Personae
Edward Bedwell or as he prefers ‘Red Ned’—an apprentice lawyer at Gray’s Inn and organiser of the Christmas Revels.
Margaret or Meg Black—apprentice apothecary, amateur surgeon and sometime smuggler of illicit and heretical literature. Suspected subverter of the Bedwell Christmas Revels
Robert Black—older brother of Meg. Apprentice artificer and Ned’s partner in the Revels scheme.
Gruesome Roger—retainer to the Black family. A fellow with secrets who likes to loom menacingly over Ned Bedwell ruining his Christmas.
Canting Michael—a gang lord of Southwark who would like the pleasure of Red Ned’s ‘company’ for a chat.
Gulping Jemmy—a rogue with a keen thirst and some strange friendships amongst the gang lords of London.
Will Whipple—a new and weak stomached member of Canting’s gang much prone to codpiece wetting
Earless Nick (Throckmore)—self–proclaimed Master of Masterless men and Lord of the Liberties. Always ready for a game, good company or an hour with Red Ned and a hot poker.
Anthea—a blonde punk of St Paul’s, the favourite of Earless Nick with a hankering for revenge.
Flaunty Phil—Phil Flydman, a dicer and cozener from the Wool’s Fleece who believes that where Ned is concerned, slights and insults need repaying immediately.
Delphina—a punk of the Wool’s Fleece, formerly of flaming red hair, and stunning attractiveness though now somewhat singed.
Old Bent Bartholomew—Old Bent Bart, the hunchbacked lord of the London beggars ready for all and any advantages.
Prioress Abyngdon—the mistress of the secret refuge of London rogues, roisters and beggars at the old ruined Paternoster Priory.
Hobblin’ Hugh —a humble and much put upon member of the Beggar’s fraternity.
Kut Karl—Bent Bart’s notorious knifeman and enforcer.
Captaine Gryne—the leader of Gryne’s Men, a Southwark ‘company’ that supplies violence or protection at a price, their residence is at the Gryne Dragone tavern.
Dr Agryppa—an advisor and physician to Captaine Gryne at the Gryne Dragone, maybe a player of deep cosenage for past slights and humiliations.
Richard Rich—Commissioner of Sewers for London and uncle to Red Ned. A lawyer climbing the ladder of patronage, and a good friend of Thomas Cromwell.
Lady Dellingham—an ardent church reformer and ally of Cromwell. She holds firm views on the performance of good works in the sinkholes of London. Soon to leave for Geneva, though probably not soon enough for Ned’s liking.
Walter Dellingham—a young ‘innocent’ reformist lad of interesting dispositions and talents, luckily soon to leave for Geneva.
As well as a host of assorted punks, beggars and rogues of the Liberties and the City of London
The Royal Court
King Henry VIII—a sovereign in desperate need of a male heir.
Katherine of Aragon—Queen of England, at least for now.
Lady Anne Boleyn—a Howard niece and supporter of the Lutherans, whom the King wants to marry.
Thomas Cromwell—former secretary to Cardinal Wolsey now serving the King on the Privy Council as a solver of problems.
Sir Thomas More—Lord Chancellor of England and pursuer of heretics. Formerly the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster.
Cardinal Thomas Wolsey—disgraced former Lord Chancellor now living in exile from the Royal Court.
Historical Note on Red Ned Tudor Mysteries
A Comfit of Rogues is a work of fiction. However most of the main points of the story are based around historical Tudor London of 1529–30 and the setting is derived from period documents and accounts. I have endeavoured to give contemporary readers a window into the daily thoughts, and attitudes of the people in their positions in the Tudor hierarchy. All the main characters of this work are fictional, though as much as research allows, they do express the mood, passions and concerns of the time. These views or actions do not necessarily represent those of the author.
Tudor Names and Language
To all my readers. As a writer of historical fiction, I strive to bring forth a contemporary and understandable view of the Tudor Age during the reign of Henry VIII. The English
language of the Tudor period is both maddeningly close to and at the same time frustratingly different from our modern usages. For instance a number of place names, titles and phrases may appear differently since they’ve been written in their earlier Tudor forms. To aid the story flow and provide a period flavour I’ve made some efforts to render dialects and phrasing into more modern standards to take account of the many regional and class differences in accent and pronunciation. Hopefully this will give the reader a taste of Tudor English without sounding like a player at a Ren Fair. In Ned’s time there was nothing like standard English in either speech or spelling. This consolidation only gained prominence by the 1800’s after universal education, the introduction of printed dictionaries and wide spread possession of bibles. For anyone who would like to look a little deeper into where our language came from I can highly recommend Bill Bryson’s The Mother Tongue, an extremely amusing account of accent, eccentricity and English. Finally, apart from a good tale of adventure, as a historian and researcher I’m trying to give the reader as accurate a portrayal of Tudor life, culture and attitudes as possible based on the surviving records and accounts.
The quotes from the Bible are sourced from facsimiles of the original Tyndale translation available from http://www.william-tyndale.com/index.html and this is exactly as the first printed translated bible appeared to its Tudor readers.
Regards
Gregory House
Tudor London 1529
Prologue. A Festive Gathering
Throughout the Christian realm of His Sovereign Majesty King Henry VIII the twelve days of Christmas was a time of celebration. Doors and lynch gates were framed with holly and ivy and the last fasting ended on Christmas Eve with a joyous feast of the Saviour’s birth in every lord’s hall, yeoman’s house and beggar’s hovel. The Black Goat on Bride Lane in the Liberties of the Ward of Farrington Without was no exception, though here they also maintained the old tradition of a Lord of Misrule. For the season some wards and parishes proclaimed a boy bishop or elevated a humble servant with complimentary ragged rogues serving as the officers of Butler and Chancellor. Here only one man held that title and the bestowal of traditional gifts and favours, Earless Nick, the Lord of the Liberties from London Wall to Temple Bar.
This wasn’t any titled demesne such as that of the Duke of Norfolk with a carefully scripted parchment heavy with gilt and seals, though like a distant Howard ancestor it was a rank gained by the practice of murder and the ready effusion of blood. Not that this distinction mattered to those in the long procession snaking out of the tavern door. Earless Nick’s whims or pleasures held them enthralled in tighter bonds than even the slaves of the Sultan of the Moors, and considering the recent debacle here at the Black Goat, Nick’s moods had tended towards the darker shades of choler. There was also another factor that held them. Past Earless Nick’s silk draped chair of state was a feast of such sumptuousness that few had beheld outside of the Cardinal’s palace of Whitehall at York Place; capons in almond douce sauce, smothered rabbits and onions, a white pudding of hog’s liver, jelly hippocras and a roasted pheasant complete with feathers. As for the sweets and subtleties, one clever cross biter whispered to his drooling friends that three pounds of blanched almond sugar went into the modelled replica of Newgate Tower alone. For fellows and punks who scrounged, begged and thieved for a bowl of warm pease and bacon potage this was a spread of foods beyond compare. A veritable paradise of pleasure…though for some surveying their skimpy gleanings, gaining a seat at the feast wasn’t their only concern.
One by one the line shuffled towards the finely dressed figure taking his ease on lordly seat, each member of the fraternity dropping to their knees and presenting their prizes for judgement. To complete the feudal scene a clerk stood beside Earless scribbling notations in an iron clasped, leather bound book as the offerings were displayed. Then if acceptable, Wall–eyed Willis, Nick’s master of rogues and veteran of fifty fights in the brawling pits, would wave one of his lumbering lads forward to take the prizes and convey them to the heavy iron strapped chest set against the wall. After this Earless Nick would stare at his grovelling petitioner for a few seconds in deep deliberation before waving them off to join the company at the back of the commons who’d partake of the feast.
However in the regard of Earless Nick not all gifts were so easily accepted. One lanky longbearded fellow in a ragged cloak stepped forward and presented a bundle of clothes. Earless Nick frowned at the offering and signalled for it to be shaken out by a waiting minion and sat there tapping his lip with a ring covered finger. “Tis a poor week for a hookman tis it, Dickon?”
The hookman cringed at the question, his beard almost brushing the floor. “Aye Master Nick. Tis the snow an’ cold. They’s keeps their shutters sealed up tighter than a bishops cellar!”
Earless Nick gave a wintery smile and nodded. “So Dickon, its latched and shuttered windows that is the cause of your miserable pickings. Hmm, two old cambric shirts and a worn patched set of hoses.”
Dickon the hook man quickly nodded and spluttered out agreement through quivering lips. “Aye Master Nick. Tis ta cold fo’ them ta hang ou’ their clothes an sa’ I can’t gets em.”
Earless Nick continued to smile as he buffed his silvered rings on a piece of damask cloth. “So it wasn’t you seen passing four fine shirts to Ol’ Simkins in Little Drury?”
Dickon the hookman gulped nervously as his eyes darted around the common room seeking out the informant. “Na’ it weren’t I Master Nick. Sum cuffin’s a lying rogue ta yea.”
Earless Nick’s smile broadened as he picked up a horn cup and dropped a pair of dice into it. “Well Dickon, it may be so. Indeed it may and I’s a fair master so according to custom yea can throw an let the good Lord decide your fate.”
The hookman’s hand shook as he took the proffered cup and the dice rattled like a gallows drummer. Covering the open mouth of the cup with a grimy hand Dickon gave a wheezing prayer then spilled the dice on the floor with an abrupt fling
“Hmm, that’s a poor cast Dickon, a two.” Earless fastidiously rubbed his fingers with the velvet damask and scooped up the dice, a quick swirl around the cup and they leapt out then rolled to a stop displaying a ‘nick’. Earless leant back in his chair and shook his head in mock sadness. “The Lord God has judged against yea Dickon.”
The defeated hookman grovelled at his master’s feet whimpering and pleading as two of Wall–eye’s scowling lads dragged him over to a close set pair of posts to which they tied his arms. Nick gave another brief wave and one of Dickon’s escorts began lashing his back with a length of knotted rope. In between the howls of pain Earless Nick cast a long slow look at the gathered members of his company. Then into the sobbing silence he spoke in a voice low and menacing. “No man cheats the Lord of the Liberties. Remember it.”
The assembly cheered with eager gusto flavoured by the fact that it wasn’t them getting the beating. Given the last reception to the head of the queue there was no complaint as a pair of figures pushed their way to the front, though they did garner a fair amount of whispered speculation. The woman from her worn scarlet kirtle and pulled down chemise had to be a punk. Only a lass interested in gathering ‘trade’ would expose that much pale breast on a chilly winter’s day. To the rest of the crowd it wasn’t just the recent flogging that had them pull back. With her long blonde hair and vivid green cap only the most blind of beggars wouldn’t recognise Earless Nick’s favoured girl, Anthea, leader of the St Paul’s punks. But favour was a tricky thing. It ebbed and flowed like the Thames and according to many a sage whisper, due to the recent disturbance, Anthea was dry beached on the shores of Nick’s ill content.
The Lord of the Liberties spent some time watching the play of candlelight on a recent present, a gold ring inset with a sapphire, before acknowledging her presence with a twitched finger. As for her guest, the cloaked and hooded figure, it was as if it were as insubstantial as a spirit for all the regard Nick gave it. “Anth
ea my poppet, I’ve missed yea these last days. I hopes yea have recompense for your previous failings…?”
The question hung in the air with a dreadful menace and the audience of the tavern swung their fascinated gaze towards the advancing punk. All were keen that someone other than them should suffer the further ill–humoured wrath of the Lord of Misrule. Anthea visibly swallowed then locked her arm around that of a hooded stranger before stepping forward into the empty space between the retreating petitioners and the Master of the Liberties. The punk captaine shook her long hair out of her eyes that glinted evilly in the reflected orange glow from the yuletide log. Several nips and foisters crossed themselves flinching as she passed, some making furtive gestures to avert ill fortune. Then at a pace’s distance with much bowing and grovelling Anthea threw herself down on her knees beside the chair of state and clutched at the hand of Earless Nick, rubbing her face on it like a fawning hound. “Nick my luv, I’s have a gift fo’ thee, a wonderful gift, the likes yea have not seen afo’. A sweet gift fo’ my sweet Lord o’ the Liberties.”
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