Gregory House - A Comfit Of Rogues

The master of Gryne’s Men gave a slow nod in reply but other than that made no further comment. Acquiring his retinue including the reeking Will on the way out Jemmy strode happily into the grey light of Christmas whistling a jaunty tune. Tomorrow was promising to be very entertaining and fair bulging with golden promise as well.

The winter winds were as sharp as an icy knife cutting through the tattered collection of rags Hobblin’ Hugh called apparel, even with the extra padding and mock bandages serving as insulation. He muttered and cursed, shivering without any artifice as he hobbled towards Pissing Alley, crutch firmly locked under his right arm to avoid the peril of the thudding iron butt on ice slicked cobbles. Unlike some of his beggarly fraternity Hugh didn’t need to over play his infirmity with oozing pustules and withered limbs all of which would be miraculously restored to health of an evening. A clubbed foot and wrenched face were the merciful God’s gift to this son of Eve, so it only required the morning application of some minor props for him to acquire the semblance of pitiful undue suffering.

As of this instant all of that was of little concern. He had news that couldn’t wait, so despite the treacherous conditions and his potential loss of coin from pity struck citizens a limping he must go. It was an urgent necessity, a damnedly cursed one that drove him from his perch. All the usual beggars were clustered at the church doors since the deacon of St Paul’s was planning to bring in an even dozen for a festival chantry feast. It was worst still because Hugh had gained the foreknowledge of this festivity by good fortune and so to be here on the appointed day he’d traded a week of his spot at Blackfriars with Blind Whitton. Now all that was lost, and he’d be damned lean by week’s end if he couldn’t shift a better play of cozenage or begging.

Abruptly Hugh halted his face full of the stinging lash of a horse’s tail caked with mud and ice. The way ahead was choked with pack trains of horses. Whereas in warmer seasons this would be rich pickings for the little minchins and lads of the beggarly fraternity, this day in the midst of the grim reign of Lord Frost and Lord Misrule the usual cover of London street life was holed up inside their warm houses by their fires.

Hugh gave a regretful shiver as he tried to sidle past the weary beasts and cold racked packmen, faces pinched and hard eyes reddened by the whipping snow. They looked ill-disposed to charity towards the halt or lame so choosing a narrow gap between two towering houses Hugh squeezed down the narrow passageway. It was warmer out of the biting wind and the abutting thatch eaves kept it clear of mounded snow though not of the common street refuse or a large pig that was snuffling through the pile. Leaning against the wall and using his crutch Hugh fended off the inquisitive beast which gave an indigent squeal before lumbering off to find better prospects.

As any beggar Hugh knew this season was hard coming as it did after three lean years of poor harvests. Around the hearth fires some muttered of wolves hunting the lanes of the Liberties by night. He didn’t give those tales much credit. The two legged beasts that prowled the night streets in his opinion had a fiercer and more certain reputation for merciless slaughter.

His breath puffed white through the improvised scarf of threadbare scarlet, and favouring his lame foot Hugh pulled himself out of the tight confines of the nameless alley into the broader measure of Friday Street by the Cordwainer’s Hall. Its entrance was warm and sheltered and was usually a decent patch to loiter for useful parish gossip. Hugh brushed aside the temptation and continued onwards. This was far more important than who’d purchased a new set of gilt plate.

Finally, puffing and throat wracked from the effort, he paused a moment to regain his composure outside the ruined boozing ken. In the city and Liberties of London taverns and inns possessed the stated grandeur of names such as the Sign of the Spread Eagle in Wood Street or the Redd Lyon by the Newgate Shambles. Ale houses and lowly boozing kens mostly didn’t bother, relying on the simple green bush on a pole for identification. As for this example in Pissing Lane the local citizens of the parish gave it as much regard as a stinking jakes spewing an overflow of filth into the lane. So many worthy Londoners complained scornfully in that colourful manner that the master of the house possessed of a fit of strange fancy had spent good pennies to put up a well carved sign. It was of an antique warrior seated on a throne wrestling a serpent. With due solemnity it had been called Labours of Ajax , and once the choice had been explained to the rowdy denizens they’d howled and roared with laughter at the joke. Soon any beggar who was straining to drop a turd in the privy merrily called that they were strangling a snake.

Hugh gave the swinging sign only the twitch of a smile as he limped quickly inside. A hand shot out and grabbing his ragged doublet pulled him bodily behind a thin curtain into the sudden glare of inspection. “S’ Hubblin’ wat’s y’ doin bacz s’ early?”

Hugh tried to suppress a shiver or at least make it look like it was brought on by cold rather than codpiece drenching terror. The ice blue eyes may have been the reason or similarly it may have been the glistening line of sharp steel held some finger’s breadth from his throat. “A…A…a ‘as a urgent message fo’ ta master!”

Normally he didn’t have a stutter but a moment in the all too keen company of Kut Karl would set even the boldest rogue a quiver. The Lowlander was reputed to enjoy his employment as Bart’s knife man all too well. The door warden paused for an instant’s consideration then with a lip curling sneer thrust the quivering Hugh back into the boozing ken’s common room.

The audience of beggars and gutter sweepings had paused their eating, drinking and games in momentary anticipation of a spray of blood or scream. Lacking the sharp thrill of cheap entertainment they returned to their own pursuits. Hugh made an effort to clean up his rumpled appearance and heading past nodding in reply to a few greetings and made his way to the solid iron-strapped timber door at the rear of the dark, smoke filled space. Even with his legitimate reason Hugh paused before tapping respectfully at the heavy door. Undue and frivolous interruptions were always given a commensurate reward…always. The door creaked open and another glowering face gave him a close inspection. Bowing with deference Hugh stepped inside the inner sanctum of the Master of the London Beggars.

Old Bent Bartholomew possessed Hugh’s unmeasured and unwavering admiration as well as a deep loyalty separate from the common obedience inspired by the menacing presence of Karl. Just the thought of that throat cutting rogue of a Lowlander could easily play upon a man’s fears not to mention his dread, inventive and painful use of edged weapons. Intimidation though could only go so far as a motivation for a due honour and deference. Hugh didn’t need that extra edge of violence. Instead his duty was freely offered as by a humble apprentice to a master craftsman of the city guilds.

As was expected the master of the city beggars was as should be, the most excellent cozener of them all. Every week he plied his avocation of counterfeiting a crank outside St Mary’s of Bethlehem or other diverse hospices for the diseased in wits. With foaming mouth and twitching limbs and all laid out on the cobbles, he was a sight to move even the hardest hearted Londoner, especially as his favoured minchin Maud toured the crowd begging for alms for her poor stricken father. It never failed.

However all that consideration didn’t serve Hugh one wit as he stood quavering before his master. It was a small room past another alcove of guards. A warm fire blazed in the hearth giving unstinting warmth as well as a wash of orange light. Bent Bart was at his accustomed bench fronting a table covered with pots of paints and noisome unguents. It was whispered quietly in the shadows that the products of their master’s alchemical tinkerings were the secret of his success. None knew for sure, but when light fingered and imprudent Dickon Watts had tried to slip one into his sleeve Bent Bart had Karl take the offenders hand off at the elbow.