A Comfit Of Rogues

by House, Gregory

  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 Earles
s 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 alchemist’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!”

  His hand numb Old Bent Bart struggled almost upright. Another deft blow to his shoulder forced him down to his knees, the chill water of the street slush making his joints ache.

  “Hmm yes, that posture suits yea Master Hunchback. A skulking traitor should be on his knees in the filth before his betters.”

  Old Bent Bart flinched and bowed over as the cudgel prodded him savagely in the gut. Even in the smoke’s gloom he could see the gleam of Earless Nick’s white teeth as the Master of the Liberties grinned, clearly amused by his play. Wheezing from the blow that’d knocked the wind out of him Old Bent Bart shuffled forward still on his knees in the most abject manner. “Oh please, I beg yea Lord o’ the Liberties, don’t hurt me. I’s promise I’ll support yea as the Upright Man!”

  Earless Nick nodded clearly amused at the attempt. “Tsk tsk Master Crookback. Is this the best yea can do? I’d heard ye was a great player o’ the crowds at Bedlam, tugging their heart strings with your piteous cries and lamentations.”

  This remark was punctuated by a heavy strike to his bent back and Old Bent Bart didn’t have to counterfeit his cry of pain. Instead still down in the street muck he clutched at Earless Nick’s boots. The Lord of the Liberties laughed at the scene and tapped his cudgel in contemplation of his next strike.

  Old Bent Bart may have been a good foot or more shorter than other men thanks to his infirmity, but as many a beggar could attest that didn’t mean his strength was as paltry as a child’s. Nor was his cunning. With his hand firmly clasped around Earless Nicks ankles he pulled backwards and the gang lord joined his victim in the filth of the Shambles street, his cudgel clattering off and away from him.

  As any beggar or true roister or rogue could attest no matter what lordly skills a man may possess or how much tutelage in the arts of sword, lance or axe, in a brawl advantage and opportunity trump all. Oh yes and a lack of scruples. Old Bent Bart hadn’t acquired his position by being sweet, gentle and forgiving. The graveyards and ditches of the city were full enough of fools. So with his tormentor now at his level Old Bent Bart didn’t let the chance go a begging. He opened his mouth wide and with all the power of his heavy jaw chomped down upon Earless Nick’s conveniently positioned codpiece.

  *

  From his hiding place Hobblin’ Hugh heard the most gut wrenching scream so close to him that instinct took over and he bolted from his hidey hole. Not the best of moves since three hobbled steps flight had him slam into an unyielding figure. The brawler seized his cap and hair in a strong hand and drew him closer in almost a lover’s embrace and lifting him up without effort shook him just like a hound with a rat. A second strong hand wretched his crutch from him and threw it down the narrow alley where it clattered against the water butt. A gripping hand swung him round like a mummer’s puppet and Hugh beheld the face of his captor. It was his master’s enforcer Kut Karl, the knife man. The Lowlander was as happy as a pig in mud at his catch, though if Hugh were a bold rogue and not shaking and quivering in terror, he may’ve quipped that Kut Karl would be more at home in a sty than a street. He wasn’t and haltingly cursed the grim facts of fate.

  “When I’z saw mine own little maggot wit that arseknudle Hawks I knew that ye would be mine afore ze day were done.”

  “N…n…n…no, tis not what y’ think. Twas Hawks, Hawks did it!”

  Ignoring Hugh’s stammering pleas Kut Karl shook his head and retreated deeper into the shadows of the alley. Hugh tried to struggled and squirmed, but Karl held him tight as the knifeman hissed in satisfaction. “Y’ little maggot, y’s betrayed y’r miester. Naught will save y’ now!”

  Kut Karl’s hand gripped Hugh’s chin with a strength enough to pop his teeth. Hugh tried to speak but the clenched hand trapped his words. He stared up into the face of his master’s most feared henchman from the distance of only a few inches. The knifeman’s pale blue eyes were icier than the Thames and Kut Karl’s grin was full of gloating satisfaction and broken teeth. Hugh knew his last moment on this earth was at hand. He’d have tried to frame a quickly inventive plea or prayer but his mouth was held fast. Not even a whimper escaped. Slowly Karl tucked his cudgel into his belt and then drew out his beloved knife, his precious darling and the reason for his name. Every day in the Labours of Ajax he lovingly skimmed the edge with a whetstone crooning to it with an affection he showed to no living man…or woman.

  Hugh closed his eyes. He didn’t care about honour or bravery or any other foolish pastimes. He didn’t want his last sight to be the gleam of pleasure in Kut Karl’s savage features. The tip of the blade made almost a loving caress along the line of his throat before coming to rest at the spot above his Adam’s apple. Then as if he could feel the pressure of the fingers tighten for the lunge the blade trembled.

  Driven by curiosity Hugh’s eyes slitted open and beheld a strangest sight, in fact a miracle given by one of the archangels. Kut Karl, the bane of his short life, had dropped the dagger. Right now he was trying to talk but all that came out was a stuttering wheeze, then a trickle of foamy red fluid leaking over his lips. Very slowly as if he was a mummer’s doll with its strings cut one by one, Kut Karl sagged and dropped to his knees still trying to speak but his words whatever they were came out as more reddened froth.

  Then as if he was the archangel Michael made flesh and wreathed in smoke and a piercing shaft of cold winter light was a tall figure, bloody dagger in hand. The man or angel reached down and tugged off the sleeve of Kut Karl’s ragged gown before casually cleaning his blade on it and shook his head as if saddened by t
he act of slaying.

  “Karl always were a fool. I’s never seen a soul so caught up in the act o’ murder that he’d forget ta watch ‘is back in a brawl.”