Gregory House - A Comfit Of Rogues

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 the 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.”

Hugh wavered in indecision. By rights he should avenge the slaying of his fraternity brother even if it was the feared and hated Karl but somehow he felt more inclined towards kissing the feet of his saviour. One thing stopped him though, one small thing. It was his tormentor and bane of this Misrule week, the cursed trickster and cozener Hawks.

*

Meg dusted the soot from her hands and gave a satisfied nod at her efforts. Those smoke grenadoes were an excellent choice for an affray. She must remember to tell Agryppa that his mixture was so effective especially after she’d added an extra two ounces of sulphur. The whole Shambles was wreathed in the thick clouds of acrid smoke, and the combatants were staggering around coughing, well those that hadn’t fled. Best of all Meg had earned an amused smile and nod of approval from Captaine Gryne, who immediately set his retainers to clearing out the last reluctant pockets of brawling rogues. So at a loss she carefully picked her way amongst the debris of overturned stalls and beast carcasses looking for any injured in need of aid.

*

For Flaunty Phil the day had tumbled out of control from its triumphal peak. Now from how his body and face felt he was the very image of a suffering wretch. His nose pulsed with vivid scarlet pain at every heartbeat and he’d swear that a few of his ribs were cracked from some cursed rogue’s boot or cudgel, probably both and then a deal extra. Phil lifted his head up from the reddening puddle and looked around. The brawl was over.

Whether he’d had his revenge on Old Bent Bart he couldn’t recall. There were so many rogues he’d punched, struck or bit maybe one of them was that miserable, Crookback. No matter! The beggar would be hunted down. In the meantime Phil pulled himself out from under the wrecked stall and using a post to steady himself, regained an almost standing position. His head ached as if it’d been pounded like a drum by one of Satan’s imps. What they’d used his mouth for Flaunty Phil didn’t wish to speculate upon, but by Christ’s blood it was foul. Damn but he could do with a firkin of Brandywine. It didn’t take much thought to sort out that his campaign for the Upright Man was now worth less than punk’s chastity. Blood trickled down over his eyes blurring his vision, and he wept with despair, pain and loss.

A light hand touched his shoulder and a soft voice spoke in his ear. “Are you sore hurt friend? Here let me cleanse the blood from your face.”

Surrendering to the tender ministrations and a cool soothing cloth Flaunty Phil eased himself down to squat on a barrel. His vision cleared and before him stood a small lass. She was young, maybe fifteen or so, attractive and dressed in a fine scarlet kirtle. From its quality he’d say she was perhaps a merchant’s daughter. The girl was holding a satchel in which she was rummaging. In some fuzzy part of his mind she appeared familiar and Phil shook his head attempting to clear if only briefly the last of the muzzy pain. Memory sudden and jagged blazed and he lurched upright throwing out a hand, pointing. “You! You’re Bedwell’s bitch!”