Gregory House - A Comfit Of Rogues

While possibly true in theory rather than fact, it was an error in the here and now. The swung satchel hit Phil across the side of his recently cleaned face and his head smacked into a timber post. For Flaunty Phil Misrule’s day was over-in a blossom of pain and darkness. Sometimes the right words could be so dangerously hurtful.

Sauntering along towards the Newgate Shambles Ned idly made a play of kicking at the snow-covered ruts. In earlier years he would have skipped along quite merrily, pretending to be a giant from the old tales smashing the walls of rebellious vassals of King Arthur. That was at least a decade ago and it had sort of lost its allure since then. Anyway even if he wanted to indulge in that childish pastime it wasn’t a worthwhile impulse today. His present company would have taken him as either ale sodden or crazed with the sudden onset of the Sweats. Ned scowled briefly as he looked over his shoulder and gave a resigned shrug. Sometime the impulsiveness of a child was so damned tempting, especially after the last few days and even more so after the last two wasted hours. Christ on the Cross he was so cursedly bored!

It wasn’t right. It shouldn’t be so tedious. He’d the company of Christmas Revels back at the Sign of the Spread Eagle, good cheer by the tankard full, and those oh so diaphanously clad nymphs singing songs of a Maying and other rural idylls. Ahh yes, it was a blessed refuge abounding with games of dice and decent play of Hazard at cards, all honest and free from the common Liberties plays of cozenage. If those diversions waned then he could always stroll off down to the Frost Fair on the Thames. It was said to be a marvellous diversion full of players, mummers and tumblers, as good as the annual St Bartholomew the Great Fair or so one of his fellow revellers claimed.

Whatever the wicked temptation or lewdly suggestive diversion the Frost Fair might hold it just wasn’t going to pull him out of his current mood-or predicament. The present evening may be full of merriment and diversion, well at least more so since his revolting remedy for the black canker of frostbite was concluded. Having his feet and private parts drenched in warm fresh piss hourly wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination a cheery occasion.

However that matter aside he was still shackled with another weightier responsibility that dragged down his lighter spirit-that cursed reforming weasel Walter Dellingham! Boon companion of the dicing tables and devotee of the wild Liberties punks, young watery-eyed Walter was still his damned charge. The consolation of a steady stream of silver coming in via ‘fines’ for Walter’s more than frequent misbehaviours didn’t make up for having to watch the arch cozener every blessed minute of the day and night. The strain was beginning to take a dire toll on his joyful humours. Ned found himself called upon almost hourly for the most Christianly restraint and forgiveness, even resorting to muttered prayer to stop him from shoving Walter head first into a privy. His daemon had whispered a few suggestions of a more permanent nature, but to be honest complexly intricate schemes of disposal wouldn’t work. No matter how devious or cunning it was he suspected that Secretary Cromwell would have thought of it first. So though richer in purse he was poorer in spirit.

Ned cast another short glance over his shoulder. Even to the untrained eye Walter was a devoted and perpetual cozener. Here in the open street of Ivy Lane as they approached the Newgate Markets he was still trying a play on his escorts, John Reedman and his troublesome brother. At the cock fight it’d been an attempt to fiddle the bet and then a mewling whimper that he must needs use the privy urgently . God’s blood you’d think he had the bladder of a babe from the number of times they’d stopped for Walter to water a wall. Then he claimed that having a pair of fellows pressing him betwixt their shoulders made his bladder run dry. As if they’d would let the measle stray a foot outside without a ‘guard’. Anyway for Ned that was a constant drain upon his temper and patience, thus having Meg beg off their morning rounds of the prisons and hospitals was an opportunity for excitement too fleeting to be missed.

Some lads at the Revels had heard of a much touted cockfight to be held in a small tavern on the comer of Ivy Lane and Paternoster Row and to Ned that sounded a perfect excuse. So they pulled on gowns and cloaks for protection from the biting chill, strapped on swords and daggers for other more or less obvious threats and stomped off through the mounds of frozen slush and snow.

You’d think from the tavern’s name, ‘The Cock’s Comb’, they’d have the sport all sewn up. Sadly as with so much in this decayed and sinful world it was high on puff and bombast, but lower than the cesspit when it came to sport and diversion. The game fighting cocks proved to be a disappointment. He’d seen pigeons larger and gambolling spring lambs had more fight in them. The half hour spent there was a dreary bore. They’d have had more fun and sport counting rats at Newgate Gaol. To Ned, used to the constant surprises around every city corner, that tawdry bout was only exceptional due to one factor. It must have been the only baiting in town without a resident nip, roister or rogue. Apart from the excitement of the beasts Ned tended to derive more real pleasure in watching the side plays within the audience. Such as the surreptitious cutting of a purse from a distracted patron or any of the several cozenage gambits to cony catch a gull. Today though he was denied even that opportunity. For once a London den was hosting the most honest game ever and he could have expired from tedium.

Ah well their ‘respite’ had ended at the ringing of the twelve o’ clock bells. By arrangement they were to meet Meg at the entrance to Newgate Gaol and once more take up the guise and mantle of devoted reformers and good Christians. Lady Dellingham, that most dour and joyless embodiment of reformers, was due this afternoon at the prison to witness Walter’s dedication to the cause. So it was the Bread Street Compter cozenage all over again. For his part Ned had to play the devoted friend ‘inspired’ by the Dellingham scion’s example. By the saints he gagged at the thought of having to simper and grasp Walter by the hand as a brother in the Lord . Oh the burdens he took on for Mistress Margaret Black-she’d better be damned thankful for his suffering.

The strange scattering of limping figures hobbling down the street and slipping into the narrow side lanes may have given Ned pause for thought, though he was too sunk in self misery to notice. Thus it was only as his little company strolled into the street of the Newgate markets that he became aware that anything was amiss. The normally bustling Shambles usually packed with apprentices calling out the freshness of their wares and the noisy haggling of customers was strangely silent and the cobbles of the street were covered with the wreckage of broken stalls, muddy ribbons and discarded shoes. In the centre of the ruins lay the shattered rig of a festival hobby horse and the place reeked worse than a tanner’s yard, thick with a drifting yellow tinged cloud. Ned pulled the sleeve of his gown over his nose to block the sulphurous stench and cautiously picked his way along, trailed by the pair of Reedmans and a watery eyed Walter.

Some yards along at the high tide mark of the chaos sitting on an upturned barrel was Meg Black frowning in contemplation as if surveying the results of her labours. To one side was her sneering minion Gruesome Roger polishing his cudgel with clear gloating satisfaction, and on the other side the impressive figure of Captaine Gryne was wiping his hands with a large scrap of bloody jerkin as if it was after a feasting.