A Comfit Of Rogues Read online

  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 good 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.

  Meg pulled herself back from that lingering image and strived for a more credible reason. “No we need Bedwell. His signature is on the deed for the purchase of the Ruyter of Bremen, not to mention several requests for export licences.”

  And now it was Roger’s turn to look surprised. “I–I thought y’ didn’t want him involved in the bringing in o’ ta books fro’ the Low Country.”

  “Well, uhh…I don’t. Ned wouldn’t understand…that is not yet. His good lord suggested it as a common merchant’s ruse.”

  “What, Rich? Y’ asked Master Richard Rich, that coin cozening lawyer of Middle Temple?” Her retainer was clearly shocked.

  Meg waved off the accusation with an abrupt flick of her hand as if removing clinging street filth. “By the blessed saviour no, not him. It came as a suggestion from the Lady via Cromwell.”

  Roger still shook his head as if doubtful of its wisdom though he did appear relieved the connection with Ned’s uncle was to remain a distant one. Her retainer though was clearly displeased. “He’s a Rich by blood if’n not name. I’d sooner trust that slippery courtier, More.”

  “Whoever it came from is irrelevant,” snapped Meg, angered at her servant’s intransigence. “What concerns us now is what to do about saving Ned…ah, I mean Master Bedwell from this foul plot.”

  Roger still appeared reluctant to accept this latest commandment. His face was the very mirror of disappointment. Meg pursed her lips in concern. She wasn’t blind to the interaction between her faithful retainer and ‘Red Ned’. The whole situation smouldered of rancour and jealousy. They were as prickly as a pair of hounds snarling over the same bitch. At this none too subtle allusion her frown deepened. That wasn’t going to happen…ever!

  Meg crossed her arms and stared at Roger intently. If she had any say in the matter that arrogant attitude would be banished from both men. She didn’t need this bickering. The two of them held so much promise for the cause.

  Inspiration it was said had a divine source, and in the midst of her growing anger the spark of reason shone forth, lighting a path to salvation. Her furrowed brow cleared and Meg smiled all kind solicitude. “Master Hawkins, I believe I have a task most fitting for your skills…and for our cause.”

  Chapter Eight. A Chance goes Begging

  Though the day was briskly chill and the breeze ruffled his ragged cloak Hugh didn’t mind. He was out of the Labours of Ajax and despite the stinging punishment for his errors had been given another important duty by his lord and master Old Bent Bart. He’d been sent to the Farrington Without Liberties a hunting one of the Lords of Mischief with an offer for alliance. How this chance came about he’d no idea, though there was his slightly blurry memory of the strange discussion last night between the Beggar master and the old Prioress of Paternoster Priory. That his betters routinely dealt with the weighty matters of high politics in the city hadn’t really occurred to him before. The daily concerns of a beggar, gaining enough food to fill out a lean belly, and escaping cuffs and curses kept him centred on the gutter level of existence. Now it was different and he strutted or at least hobbled with a certain puff–chested pride. Kut Karl might still glare at him with undisguised longing to inflict those forgiven lashes, but as ‘chosen messenger’ he still stood high in his master’s esteem.

  Despite the chill day this honour gave Hugh a warm glow and given a morning’s respite as well as the blessed relief of the cooling ointment on his stripes, he now reckoned the slip in quality of service had been forgiven. Maybe even a chance of redemption. Old Bent Bart was favouring him with this choicest assignments and it must be a sure and certain sign of his value and growing stature amongst the ranks of the beggarly fraternity. Who knew what could happen? One Hobblin’ Hugh could sit at the right hand of his master at the May Day Revels, honoured and esteemed by his grovelling compatriots. Soon he’d earn enough for a less worn and tatty scarlet gown, something with substance that could more easily keep out the cold. Maybe if this current task went well his rewards could be a newer pair of shoes. To Hugh puffing and wheezing through the winter world of the Lords Frost and Misrule, where the season had once looked to be full of pain and privation, now it shone with promise and opportunity.

  A flurry of snow whipped up at the corner of Seacoal Lane and Hugh bent low into the steep slope of road from Holburne Bridge seeking shelter. The icy impact of the crystals wiped away his daydreaming fancies and Hugh concentrated on the slippery footing of the road. The muck of the piss channel had overflowed then frozen sheeting the cobbles in a treacherous layer of ice. His iron–tipped crutch cautiously probed each step prodding the deceptive
slick for a firm footing. All the while he had to hurry. It was vital he reach the Newgate Goal by the eleven o’ clock chimes of St Paul’s.

  His sight was so locked on a safe and fast path up Snow Hill that his usual beggarly instincts were submerged by the effort not to slip over and tumble down the hill. So it was probably understandable why he missed the little clues like the soft crunch of snow behind him.

  “Why if’n it ain’t me favoured limping little rat, Hugh o’ St Paul’s!” The long remembered and unwelcome voice hissed in his ear.

  All a tremble Hugh spun around and made to hare off. An unwanted hand grasped his shoulder halting the attempted flight. Then a second easily swung him around and slammed his body into a nearby wall.

  “How’s y’ been Hugh? The word on the streets is y’ been a busy lad an’ is graced wit’ such favour o’ ta Southwark wit, Old Bent Bart, and even messenger fo’ Captaine Gryne.”

  Hugh flinched and tried to shrink away from the leering face of Roger Hawkins. Even the evil grin of Kut Karl was preferable to that of his current captor.

  “Y’know I thought that were yea on the pallet at Greyfriars hospice yesterday, y’ twitching little nose poking out o’ them blankets. Then I wonders what would a limpin’ rat like yea be scurrying all over the Liberties?” Hawkins’s scarred face gave the most gruesome smile, full of the promise of torment and pain.