Gregory House - A Comfit Of Rogues

The rough hand released its grip and Hugh’s head dropped down. His body would have followed but his arms were tied to a pair of posts in the common room of the Labours of Ajax while he received his punishment. His half-closed eyes followed the pacing short legs of Old Bent Bart as he walked back and forth in the clear space before the fire. Beyond was the audience of his fellow beggaring fraternity watching with the keenest anticipation for the renewal of the punishment. It was always a fine entertainment made all the sweeter since it wasn’t you getting the strips. If he twisted his head to the left he’d be able to see the grinning face of Kut Karl as he carefully shook out the leather thongs of the lash in preparation for the next round of chastisement. That was a sight Hugh didn’t need. Instead he closed his eyes tight and mumbled a short pray to Mary, Mother of God, for her to open Old Bent Ben’s heart to compassion and forgiveness.

“Another six Karl,” came the chilling reply to his fervent prayer.

“But Miester the tally calls fr’ a dozen an a ‘alf.” To Hugh’s ear Kut Karl sounded as deeply disappointed as if he’d lost a purse full of shillings.

“Hmm, yes it does…I’m sure we can find a task fo’ Hugh that’ll balance the scales.”

Hugh panted with relief-only another six, only six more. Then the first of those final blows landed on his back and he screamed. Karl, cheated of his pleasure, had laid in extra hard to make up for the deficit. The pain burned white hot across his back and struggling for breath to scream at the agony Hugh shuddered and passed into oblivion.

It may be been an hour later or much longer when the tendrils of dull ache eased Hugh into a wary consciousness and his eyelids flickered open. The room was dark as if it was an early winter evening and one wall was washed by an orange flickering just past his limit of vision. Very slowly beyond the pain of his lash stripped back it dawned on Hugh that he must be in the inner sanctum of his Master, Old Bent Bart. Cautiously he raised his head. His master was sitting in his usual chair by the fire and opposite was a sight he’d never expected to see in the Labours of Ajax .

She wore the accustomed dress of a Prioress, though it was difficult to think of that ruined rogue’s refuge of Paternoster Prior as having any relationship to the magnificent palace of York Place Cardinal Wolsey had built. He couldn’t forget that face. It was thin with proudly high cheekbones and a sharp pointy nose that seemed to unerringly seek out mischief. Every time he’d attempting to dip into the small store of comfits and sweetmeats that were hidden in the old priory kitchen, with unerring instinct the Prioress had caught him. That hadn’t been the only thing he recalled either. When angry her eyes burned like the fire of the saints and for all her parchment white skin and seeming aged frailty, Prioress Abyngdon possessed all the righteous strength in walloping of a woman half her years and twice her size.

There had been rumours around the Beggarly fraternity that Old Bent Bart had a secret hideaway he visited, for some days it was as if he’d vanished from the face of the earth. And in London amongst the sharp eyes of the beggars that was impossible. Some said it was a flaxen haired punk over by St Giles who humped like one of Sir Francis Bryan’s own girls. Another whispered it was a hidden shame, maybe some close kin locked away in Bedlam which conveniently explained his skill at counterfeiting a crank. And some rumours combined the two in various lewd or suggestive combinations. However from what Hugh could see maybe all those were too far from the mark, for his master was sitting down as if with an old friend and the table between them was spread with a simple selection of cakes and wine. And then there was what Hugh noticed about his master’s face-it was so very different, so relaxed and utterly free of any artifice.

Apparently he’d been given a pallet and from the cautious exploration of his chest his wounds had been tended to with bandages and he thought from their feeling also anointments. This was unprecedented and to be here warm and cosseted, what could it possibly mean?

“Yea Bartholomew, of course I’d heard of the events today. I’m not an anchorite. I do watch the passing world. It just so happens that Three-fingered Tom saw it and kindly apprised me of the news.”

His master shifted uncomfortably and pushed himself up from his seat to stand before the fire warming his buttocks. “Why’d Gryne do so and openly mind you? What of the agreement we had yesterday?”

The old woman sniffed primly at a spiced pomander in her hand and shook her head. “Nay it’s not Gryne. He may be only a soldier in this, though a damned clever one when he chooses. This smacks of something deeper, and he’s but the hand in this play.”

Old Bent Bart tugged nervously at his wispy beard and frowned. The flickering light from the flames made his eyes sink back into deep wells of shadow and for an instant Hugh froze in fright and he thought himself to be afore a demon. “Y’ say? I knows he serves some men o’ influence at the court. Could it be one o’ them pulling a play?”

The beggar master shifted position now facing the fire and masking Hugh’s view of their conversation, but he didn’t need to see a face to interpret the meaning behind that cackling laugh from the Prioress of Paternoster Row. It was wry, derisive amusement. “Nay nay, though Gryne serves a sway of fine fellows at Court with his sturdy lads. It’s naught any word from them that has him playing this game. Tis closer to home my friend-that lizard’s roost in Southwark is the source of this.”

The shadow of Old Bent Bart’s head played on the opposite wall like a grotesque mummers doll as he vigorously shook it in denial. At the sight Hugh suppressed a whimper of fear and continued to feign sleep only watching through close slit eyes. “Fawh, those old sorcerers’ tales! They be just ta scare children in breech cloths, an’ the gullibly maze minded!”

The prioress gave another of her rattling cackles. “Oh aye, there is some of that. I reckons maybe half the tales are true, but then which half?”

Her reply appeared to bring some doubt to the discussion. Hugh could see the shadow of Old Bent Bart’s jaw working as if chewing over a rank piece of gristle. “So Agryppa, y’ reckon, he’s the one behind this?”

“Aye it must be so. He’s slipperier than a greased weasel an’ twice as cunning. I’m sure the canker of his fall still gnaws at him something fierce and I’s doubt he’s grown forgiving and merciful in his dotage.”

“What’s he want then do you think?”

“Oh Bart, that’s too easy an answer. Why, revenge pure and simple, and beware any who stands in his way!”

“Hmm and so the apothecary lass and the Bedwell lad are part of his schemes then?”

“Do you doubt it after today?”

“No, not now, though I’s wonder at its import.” The mocking cackle was softer this time and almost regretful.

“Masters of Mischief did Nick call you all-Masters of Mistrust I’d say, each of you keen for the title of the Upright Man of the city. So I ask myself, why is it in the gift of Earless Nick?”

Old Bent Bart shook his head like a horse plagued with flies and thumped a hand against the wall. “By God’s blood, if I’ve been played like a coney…”

The Prioress put up her hands and made soothing sounds as if calming a child. “Sa, sa Bartholomew, not so hasty. It may be your compact has no more substance than a sucked child’s comfit. Ha, a Comfit of Rogues truly! Tell me do ye trust Earless Nick?”

The question came sharp and quick and pausing for a goblet of wine Old Bent Bart spluttered his answer. “By God’s blood no! I’d be a Bedlamite fool locked up and howling rather than a counterfeiter before then.”