Nick turned his coldly impassive face toward his formerly favoured punk. The chilling interest reflected in his eyes would have set even the meanest wild rogue a trembling with fear. His lips stretched to the barest flicker of a smile. “And what of my gift…my sweetling?”
Anthea drew the hooded stranger forward. The visitor didn’t bow or kneel instead inclining a shrouded face towards Earless Nick and with a shielding hand began to whisper. The Lord of Misrule’s face remained blandly still though to those close enough to see, his eyes did appear to glitter from time to time with a malevolent spirit. Finally the hooded figure drew back and Earless Nick clapped his hands together like the snap of an harquebus and grinned with savage delight. “Oh Anthea you are my best lass, a true pearl beyond compare and this is a wonderful Yuletide gift payment and revenge all wrapped in one. Hah! No man cheats the Lord o’ the Liberties of his winnings and certainly not that lawyerly whelp!”
Earless Nick slammed his fist onto the table and grabbing his silver gilt cup thrust it in the air. “A toast! A toast! Raise high yer cups, cos a sennight hence Red Ned Bedwell will be swinging at Tyburn, or food for worms!”
The sack fuelled cheer echoed out the doorway into the winter snow and whispered in rumour through the Liberties. The Lord of Misrule was out for revenge.
Chapter One A Christmas Calling
The chill breath of winter blew down the lanes of New Rents Southwark, a setting the window shutters rattling and the painted signs above swaying to and fro. It also forced the small band trudging through the flurries of wind–driven snow to huddle deeper into their collection of ragged cloaks and worn gowns as they muttering and cursing at the weather. At the front their leader didn’t give the complaints any mind, though his bulbous nose glowed red with the cold and the straggly brown locks escaping from under his tattered cap were caked in icy sleet. No matter the weather, even if it were Satan’s own fearsome flaming farts you faced, only a lack brained fool keen for a bruising or worse would have dared to voice a challenge to an order from Canting Michael. And Gulping Jemmy wasn’t near that foolish, so he turned a deaf ear to the mutinous mutters and grumbled curses behind him and forged ahead deeper into the chancy lanes of New Rents. So they were nervous and afraid. Phew, what a pack of trembling pizzle pullers! Weren’t they the fearsome lads of Canting Michael, gang lord of Southwark and the baiting pits?
Gulping grinned as he ‘overheard’ one of the lads whispering to poor Will the tales about Gryne’s Men and how they hacked apart those who crossed them in bloody retribution. As tales went it had it all, packed full of gruesome detail along with the useful caveat that in essence it was true. Most of Southwark had seen the parade of the lopped trunk and several assorted parts impaled on an array of pikes escorted by Gryne’s Men last summer. Even Justice Overton, their blinkered magistrate, who reputedly only noticed a gold angel thrust in front of his nose, had witnessed the precession to the pillory at High Street. Canting himself had watched nodding with grim approval, then as an aside curiously wondering how their goodly, honest and worthy Justice would ascribe this death on the mortuary bill, severe ague perhaps or possibly accidental drowning.
It had been neither and Gulping Jemmy should know. He’d seen the listing for the day. It’d cost him a groat to the clerk but the expense had been worth it. The proof had won him a shilling and a slightly worn cambric shirt from Reaching Richard the hookman. So for him the journey to the Gryne Dragone, lair of Gryne’s Men, was naught to be concerned over. If his escort shivered and shook with more dread than cold at the squeal of the chains holding the carved and painted dragone, that was all to the good.
A greater fright awaited as they approached the door. Suddenly a six foot tall door warden, a great butcher’s blade in hand, lurched out of a covered shelter. From the abruptly muffled squeal Jemmy could swear young Will, their most recently recruited roister had dampened his codpiece. The door warden snarled and Jemmy’s retinue flinched. Their leader though returned his own cheery grin and brushed the snow off the collar of his worn heavy scarlet gown. “Good day Wat. Is the Captaine in?”
His question was answered with a short grunt and a tilt of the cleaver sized implement indicated that Jemmy was allowed entrance. With a friendly nod and the toss of a small coin he pushed the door open and whistling he stepped out of the cold. As he should have expected the gasp and whimper of incipient terror once more came from young Will. Jemmy shook his head in mock regret over the sad quality of Canting’s latest retainer. If the lad hadn’t been the favoured son of the gang lord’s sister he’d still be a carpenter’s arse, and a poor one at that.
In Southwark the choice of boozing kens was many and varied. A fellow, if he chose could toss down sour ale by the firkin in a tumbled down hovel of an ale house. By law and statute such places had to be identified by a green bush out front, though it was commonly a few withered leaves on a broken branch. There he may get rolled by thieves and cutpurses or purge his guts from sour maggoty ale, but life was full of diverse pleasures and risks. Alternately if flushed with silver the Tabard Inn on High Street was the perfect place—fresh rushes on the floor, a decent brew with possibly better company and or at least less chance of puking his pint. Even so the punks were of a better sort. Jemmy should know. He ‘personally’ collected the rents. In between these extremes stood a tavern such as the Gryne Dragone. It possessed a good sized common room, a blazing fire, fine ale and the reputation for serving a tasty pottage and usually a roasted ordinary dripping in savoury juices, all of which would normally draw in a sizable clientele from Southwark’s finest. Except for one slight difference.
Most taverns made an effort to decorate with whitewashed walls and timber wainscoting. The wealthier few even pushed extravagance to a mock canvas tapestry or painted plaster. Here they’d gone a step further or maybe depending on your taste a whole mile. The walls were fitted out like the racks of the Ward muster armoury. Pole arms, spears, bills, axes and spiked maces jostled for room with stands of half armour and great swords. Now unlike some lord’s hall where this was a statement of past glories and ancient martial deeds, Jemmy, like the rest of his band could see by the gleam of oiled and polished ironware that this array was sharp and ready for instant and bloody use. For Captaine Gryne this served as the well–arranged display of any quality craftsmen, though unlike the shops in the street of the goldsmiths it wasn’t fancy gilt and silver ewers he had on show. And this wasn’t all. The Captaine didn’t just offer the wares of war but also the skilled muscle to wield them, for a price. And this was why Will had wilted so completely. At any time the tavern held a dozen odd veterans of the battles in France, Italy or further afield. During the festivities of Christmas that number tripled and then some. Even the boldest rogue would have faltered at the way the assembly swivelled as one to view their ‘guests’. So many fearsome battle scarred faces lacking eyes, teeth and noses could unbalance the humours of even the most stout—hearted roister. As for poor Will, the lad possessed the stomach and fortitude of a mouse.
Jemmy was by now immune to the subdued menace. He waved the company a cheerful greeting, and ignoring the keen eyed calculations of worth and mayhem, took an empty seat at a table by the fire. His company clustered at his back as if trying on a display of swagger. He let them stew in their own sweaty fear for a long minute then sent them off to hide in relative safety at a bench by the door. Anyway Will’s cod piece reeked like a tanner’s yard and by the fire it steamed noxiously.
Keeping up his friendly smile Jemmy lent back against the wall pulling out a small bone comb and quickly flicked it through his greasy brown locks, then with a heavy thumb nail cracked the captured lice. With Captaine Gryne one waited patiently and smiled…always.
By the distinctive peel of the church bells of St Mary Overie by the river he’d been waiting about an hour when the tavern door swung open and in stomped a troop of heavily cloaked men. Most peeled off to various tables but two continued their passage to Jemmy’s table. The fi
rst was a tall, lean and swarthy fellow with coal black hair and a mouth set in a permanent sneer from a sword cut. Hand on dagger he gave Jemmy a close and long inspection. As with the rest of the company in the tavern Jemmy continued to display a cheery smile. Master Swarthy Sneer gave a last slit eyed glare and stepped back.
An even larger figure moved into the vacant spot and after unfurling yards of heavy cloak from around his shoulders, revealed a broad strong face and a long red beard split German fashion into two forks over a satin black leather doublet. The new arrival sat down on the opposite bench, hands powerful enough to snap the necks of mastiffs at rest on the oaken boards of the table. A large pottery jug of freshly warmed wine and two silver cups were placed between them. Master Swarthy Sneer performed the duties of a livery servant and filled both cups to the brim. A delicate waft of rich vapour spiralled up. The Master of the Gryne Dragone and Captaine of Gryne’s Men picked up one of the cups, and holding it under his nose drew in the trail of steaming wine then downed it in a single swallow and nodded with approval. “So Gulping Jemmy, how stands ta Misrule festivities o’ Canting Michael?”
Given his pledge of safety Jemmy took his own leisure sip. Hmm, good Gascon. Captaine Gryne was never one to stint on quality. He slowly put his hand into his doublet and pulled out a heavy clinking pouch and slid it across to Captaine Gryne. “Canting gives ‘is respects Captaine.”
Gryne nodded and pushed the purse to his left. As if summoned a young man with all the mannerisms of a clerk scurried out from a curtained alcove. Without any command he immediately emptied the purse, and tally book open, began to count out Canting Michael’s black rent. The scribbler paid close attention and noted down every coin even to a clipped groat. It was said you could cheat Captaine Gryne but once. A few years ago one clerk had tried to pull some coining cozenage on the Captaine’s rents. Gryne apparently had listened to the gabbled excuses and decided the snivelling penner wasn’t wholly to blame and thus only broke the fingers of both hands. Some may scoff and shake their heads but the play of cozenage did require a certain level of honesty, if only to those above.
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 club
bed 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.
A Comfit Of Rogues Page 2
