Gregory House - A Comfit Of Rogues

Stomping along Cheapside Street Old Bent Bart scowled fit to curdle milk and growled for Kut Karl to bend an ear this way. “They’s all been scoured up?”

The stubbly shaved head paused for a moment’s thought and his knifeman nodded slowly. “Ja…I means yes.”

“And the messengers they’ve all returned?”

“They’s ave, meister,” Kut Karl appeared to hesitate at the end of that answer and then abruptly continues as if spitting out wormy bread, “ Cept for Hobblin.”

Bent Bart chewed over that last morsel of news with a deeper frown, he would’ve cast a look over his shoulder to verify the report. However, firstly it didn’t serve to a leader to doubt the word of a faithful minion, well at least not quite so publicly. Secondly an action like that could be misconstrued into the suspicion that the Beggar Master didn’t trust his company to follow him. This could be dangerous, since doubt breed nervousness and hesitation which led along a very short path to treachery. Thirdly his bent back meant it was either painful or impossible to view behind without spinning right around and he’d appear the most comical buffoon, thus losing the hard won dignity of his position. So as if grinding a stone with his teeth Old Bent Bart marched on trailed by a hundred beggars he fervently hoped.

His determined appearance aside his mind was still a broil, seething with unmentioned doubts and stirred with anger and rancour. The previous night’s conversation with Prioress Abyngdon had set him a thinking over the Comfit of Rogues or Cozenage of Rogues as the Prioress sneeringly referred to it. The compact had sounded so sensible back at the Bear Inn, each lord or master with a fair chance of victory in the quest, although now he’d had time to mull it over, why had they so easily agreed to the terms of Earless Nick? Was he no better than a tosspotting drunkard? Bent Bart didn’t care a fig about the life of the Bedwell lad though his antics over the past year had been a source of great amusement. If Bedwell cony catched the so called Lord of the Liberties in his own house it was no skin off his nose or other regions of his anatomy if Throckmore bellowed and threatened.

But this wager for the leadership of London, now that was another matter. Bent Bart knew the strengths of his ‘Beggarly Fraternity’. If a mouse farted in the home of a guild master he’d hear of it within the hour. However as rogues and swaggering roisters they lacked the means of menace which Earless Nick possessed in abundance. There was little doubt that if that swaggering scrap of codpiece stuffing won out in this game, a sudden and tragically shortened life for Bent Bart was guaranteed. One heard and noted the stories surrounding Master Throckmore’s rise to Liberties lordship, ruthlessness and an inability to suffer rivals were traits frequently mentioned. And the tale of the loss of his ears was just one example.

According to his sources within Newgate Goal, Nick Throckmore, gentleman of the Court, had seen an opportunity for profit by setting up a coining ring. There was nothing particularly unusual in that. Old Bent Bart knew of and tithed several similar endeavours though due to his ‘interest’ the coiners had stuck to common pence and shillings. Master Throckmore had been oh so much more ambitious. His target had been the golden angels worth officially seven shillings and sixpence. As any fool knew the King’s Majesty liked his gold coins or at least Cardinal Wolsey, his Lord Chancellor of old did. He had been an excessively greedy priest, which Bent Bart and so many others thought had been the real cause of his undoing.

Throckmore had been pursuing a very dangerous if profitable venture and apparently unsatisfied with his cut, had as rumour claimed arranged for his main partner to be drowned in a wherry accident. A second partner was coincidentally murdered by rogues in a tavern, while the third seeing the set of the wind threw himself on the Lord Chancellor’s mercy. And that was a foolish play. All the minions were taken, duly tried and hung, but not Master Throckmore. His fate was somewhat different. He’d been banished from Court and had his ears clipped. One could ask how the originator of this scheme avoided choking his miserable life out at Tyburn? That part at least was easy. Patronage was the answer as it often was, in this case that of a King’s Bench judge, a man of learning and stature, well respected in the King’s Service. And for this reason Old Bent Bart was now stomping along as if his life depended on it. Just like any risky play of Hazard except that he was marking the cards, not Earless Nick.

Last night’s discussion had resolved itself into several possible remedies. Firstly he needed allies. A flurry of messages this morning had settled that problem. And now along with his rallied retinue they marched, limped and hobbled towards the Newgate Markets where he’d been informed the Bedwell lad would be by the midday bells. Then they’d see who should be the Upright Man!

Jemmy sauntered along the street looking as if he hadn’t a care in the world, which was not really true, but his practice of cozenage was so good that his small party from Southwark accepted it as God’s own truth from St Paul’s Cross. Even nervous Will was laughing at some outrageous tale from John Plybourne involving a costermonger, two eels and a country lass. He’d heard it before though this version had a few twists and wiggles that set off howls of laughter from their party, especially when Plybourne made the accompanying gestures with such verisimilitude.

In Jemmy’s experienced view they’d have an ‘interesting’ challenge in openly moving fifty odd roisters, rogues, assorted minions and hangers on down Fleete Street, over the bridge and through the portal of Ludgate and then hence into London City. It was common knowledge that the Common Watch of Farrington Without was partial to not so discrete gifts and open bribes. However for Earless Nick to spread his silver also to the parish beadles and constables, not to mention the officers of the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, would mean a considerable outlay. The lords and gentry had it easy stomping around where they liked since their retinues sported a badged livery. A master of rogues would be dangerously presumptuous to try the same.

The Heralds of the College of Arms weren’t just snotty nosed quill dribblers, with their noses stuck in musty old rolls. They possessed power enough to level anyone who wrongly claimed crest, badge, arms or retinue . So it was only good sense to steer their gaze elsewhere.

Earless Nick’s solution to this knotty problem had Jemmy slack mouthed with amazement. It was so damned clever and cunning you could have pasted a tail on it and called it a weasel. All Earless had done was use the simple fact of the season and its festivals. It was the reign of Misrule and thus he’d arranged for his gang of thieves and punks to be decked out in a splendidly colourful array of tassels, baubles and holly wreaths. The feared cudgels and staves usually employed in the cracking of skulls now sported ribbons and twists of ivy. To set the right tone, Wall-eyed Wallis was rigged up like a Hobby Horse and was leading the festive procession. By St Mark what a fearful and gruesome a beast as ever tried to tupp the village girls.

As the uniquely crewed Misrule procession forged its way uphill along Ave Maria Lane pushing past amused and curious Londoners, they received a mixed welcome. Some cheered the Misrule parade, thinking it was a parish celebration from elsewhere in the city. Others somewhat wiser in the ways of the Liberties saw through their festive disguises, and flinched in trepidation then scurried off faster than a rat at a baiting. Jemmy though enjoyed the stroll and found a few opportunities to grab a lass in passing and bestow a kiss. Several taverns along the street seeing a chance at profit instantly set up barrels and trestles out front for the unexpected flood of customers. Or maybe Jemmy considered it’d be a wise attempt at placation. This close to the Liberties every inn, tavern and broken down alehouse had to know Earless Nick and his lads by sight if not by reputation. The constables and sheriffs of the parishes and Guildhall may rule the city by day, but night was another realm and not even a drink sodden fool would depend on the Common Watch for their security.