Gregory House - A Comfit Of Rogues

“Aye, Hobblin’. Wot brin’s ye’ in aways fro’ y’ service at St Paul’s?” It was a low quiet voice that rumbled out of the hunched frame, so at odds with the heavy features that might have more naturally been found gracing a carved church gargoyle.

Hugh found his throat closed with the drying rigour of fear, all his spittle sucked out by apprehension. “I…I’ve news master.”

The heavy browed head nodded slowly and Hugh took heart from the simple fact. He was still alive and unbeaten so closing his eyes he called up the exact sequence of the message. “Anthea o’ St Paul’s gives yea respectful greetin’s fro’ Earless Nick. She says that ‘er Lord o’ ta Liberties would request ta honour o’ London’s Beggar Master tomorrow by noontime bells t’ sup wit him at ta Bear’s Inn ta ‘ave talk o’ matters o’ interest ta all ta masters and lords o’ the city.” Sweat dripping from his face Hugh halted his recitation his breath coming in short, rapid gasps.

Bent Bart pinched a lip clearly mulling over the message then nodded with a tight smile. “Well done Hugh.”

A silver groat spun up in an orange glinting arc and the crippled beggar snatched it from the air with lightening reflexes. “Take back a message o’ thanks t’ sweet Anthea, an on the way tells Humble Harry and Friar Fettling by the Conduit t’ sweep all the Liberties fra’ word o’ Earless. Oh an Hugh, tell Mansie yo’r ta ‘ave the capon ordinary at two firkins o’ double on yr’ return”

Hugh gave a halting bow and exited his master’s chamber as fast as his limp would allow. In passing he snagged a proffered steaming bowl of bacon and pease pottage gulping it down with a satisfied slurp. After the chilly and dire prospects of the morning this day was looking so much better. For one thing he’d gained stature and reward from his master and a full belly all afore midday. For a beggar in London that was living well. And for supper he already drooled in anticipation, a whole roasted capon of his own plus the finest ale o’ the Ajax. This was a fine Christmas indeed!

Rubbing his gloved hands Gulping Jemmy peered around the corner towards the Bear Inn. Protocol and honour were such prickly matters for gang lords and captaines both. Canting of course had accepted Earless Nick’s invitation for a meeting. Whether the driving motivation was business, vanity or just plain curiosity, the gang lord hadn’t seen fit to give his faithful lieutenant any glimpse of his mind, simply a command to gather four men as a retinue. So here they were, a few houses down sheltering in this draper’s shop waiting. The merchant, a round little fellow with a gleaming pate, fussed around the lean cadaverous figure of Canting with a sort of desperate urgency to be of service, no doubt hoping that the Southwark gang lord wasn’t about to ‘tithe’ his stock.

Jemmy had to grin at the play. Master Cordley was making too much of this little sojourn. Perhaps later he’d casually suggest to Canting that the draper be watched, for the fellow acted as nervous and guilty as if he were about to be caught by his wife a bed pounding a punk.

No matter. Gulping waved the gnat’s annoyance of the draper aside. The burning issue for him was one of unbridled curiosity as to why the Bear Inn? According to Southwark lore the establishment was said to have served both Noah after the flood and the mighty legions of Caesar. Now Canting, being a man of some learning, may have known the truth of that tale but for Gulping his knowledge of the Inn was of more practical consideration. The Inn’s wharf on the river served as the terminus of the Gravesend ferry and for many eastwards and westwards travellers on the Thames, a way point where they changed wherries rather than risk the treacherous and deadly tidal races of the London Bridge starlings. Thus it was the perfect place to weight up the cozenage potential of newcomers to Southwark and London, which meant that on any day he could rub shoulders with as fine a selection of the region’s unhung rogues and roisters as lived outside of Newgate Gaol, Bread Street Compter or the Clink. By Gulping’s reasoning this had to be the only neutral ground in the region apart from the ruined Paternoster Priory in the heart of London. So that was the where, but not the why.

Sooner than he’d expected a large hulking roister wrapped in a heavy cloak took station by the Inn entrance and proceeded to glower menacingly at an approaching cluster of apprentices. Taking the hint they sheared off in search of a less intimidating source of ale. Gulping gave a brief signal to Canting who immediately shed the buzzing annoyance of Master Cordley with a brusque wave of his hand and stepped into the busy street. They all knew how this worked, even that poor excuse for a fearsome roister, young Will. One of the meaner looking lads led the way. Gulping walked at the right hand of his master and the rest kept close as the retinue guard and tail.

The next stage in the play went smoothly. Earless Nick’s man was obviously primed to expect his master’s guests and on their approach stepped to one side, bowing his head in a decent show of respect. Gulping was secretly impressed. He had never considered Wall-eyed Willis capable of learning any of the skills and manners of deference. His usual mode of polite address was a gob of spit lobbed towards the intended, and that was a step up from his more common greeting of a mashed nose or broken arm.

As for the interior of the Inn it was pretty much as Gulping had last seen it afore Christmas and the freezing of the Thames. The ground floor was the main common room and each wall had several windows, some even with lead framed diamonds of glass. It was a stoutly built and prosperous place that frequently attracted the patronage of lords when they travelled to Westminster. To the left on the other side of the room were the heavy doors leading to the riverside wharf. Considering the ‘brisk’ weather and a lack of wherries and ferries they were closed. That left the large square cut stone fire place on the right side as the focus, and predictably there sat Earless Nick, not so much in a chair of state but presenting himself very much as the host. As had been promised the self-proclaimed Lord of the Liberties had three retainers standing at his side. Whether more were secreted in the storeys above Gulping had been unable to ascertain. As of last night his watchers reported only the usual company of merchants and travellers.

With Gulping at his side Canting strode easily into the empty common room and returned a wry half nod towards his host before accepting a seat at one of the nearby tables. As if their arrival was the warning tocsin of roguery, other small groups began to arrive. Next in was Black Richard, a snarling fellow with coal black hair and a savage temper who plagued the King’s highway with his small band of cutthroats, usually by Hampstead Heath, though he’d been known to range as far as Wimbledon Bridge down the Wandle. After him another lowly rat-faced skulker slunk in, Will Kylty from past Wapping. He was supposed to be a tide waiter for the London Customs House, checking on wine prissage and cargo duties. If that was all he’d be notorious enough, but Wading Will, as he was known up and down the river, was also partial to a touch of riparian roguery towards unwary vessels coming up from Gravesend. He looked damned lean and hungry. The cold breath of Lord Frost had stilled his usual source of gilt for a week or more.

With a small trickle of several more puffed up rogues boasting barely a half handful of backers the common room filled up. Despite the loud boasts of the ragged and desperate few, they had little clout, nor except for Canting and Earless were they the real recipients of the ‘invitation’. The ‘true’ masters of mischief had yet to make an appearance.