Gregory House - A Comfit Of Rogues

Gulping though kept up his smile as his eyes darted around. He wasn’t one to fall prey to suspicion and dread fancies, but if Earless were to spread a little silver around this band of desperate and hungry fellows afore hand, well by the chimes of the next hour from St Mary Ovaries, the main point of discussion could be were to dump the bodies of the newly deceased and sadly mourned Canting Michael and his lieutenant.

Before Gulping could work out the calculations of murder they were joined by a tall, well-dressed gentleman fully kitted out in the puffed and slashed finery of the Germans. He swept off a broad-brimmed, plumed hat and exposed a heavy bruised face and swollen nose. Thus they were granted the company of Flaunty Phil of the Wool’s Fleece.

Gulping clenched his teeth together in an effort to halt the spread of a wicked smile. Hmm, so that tale was true. It had been a bucket in the face. Flaunty’s fair escort was similarly fitted out in the more feminine version of the gaudy slashed dress of the Landsknechts. Damned but the lass strained the codpiece, though this time the sweet Delphina, pale of skin and golden of hair had completely hidden her tresses under a white cloth cap and over her face was a linen veil. And thus were the rumours of the pair losing the Fleete Street race to that impish rogue Bedwell given even more credence.

What could have been the sound of a rupturing cow expiring of the bloat rent the air. Curious Gulping craned his head around the bulky figure of a Southwark lad and saw their latest guest hobble in followed by a limping trumpeter with a crutch and a pair of swaggering knife men. The velvet slashed doublet and gilt finger rings didn’t do much to dispel the gruesome image of the hunched back and heavy grotesque face of Old Bent Bart, the Master of London beggars. So the quorum of crime and cozenage was complete.

Earless Nick summoned the grovelling Innkeeper with a beckoning flick of his immaculately clean fingers. Immediately a small procession of tapsters appeared bearing trays each containing a gilt ewer and cup along with an array of sweet comfits and wafers. Gulping stepped forward to inspect the offerings as did the Beggar Master’s knife man and the squinty eyed fellow beside Flaunty Phil, though how one checked for poison short of shoving a sample down the throat of a ‘volunteer’ was ticklish problem of protocol.

They’d paused for an instant’s indecision when a loud thunder like impact of a bolt from the heavens snapped everyone’s attention to the riverside Inn entrance. The heavy iron-strapped door had been flung open and in stepped Jemmy’s old friend and boon companion, Master Swarthy Sneer. The Gryne retainer gave the room’s company a warning glare then apparently satisfied stepped aside to allow the larger man behind him to enter.

Captaine Gryne brushing off a few snowflakes strode in and gave the assembly what could only be termed from its brief flicker a cat like smile of satisfaction. “Tis snowing ootside sumwot fierce, sa much Earless I fear’s y’ messenger’s gone an lost ‘imself.”

As if expecting the grand entrance by Captaine Gryne, Earless Nick returned a half bow as to an equal and snapped his fingers. A previously hidden tapster stepped forward with yet another tray as if just waiting for their latest guest. Even from across the room Gulping could see the flicker of acceptance in the Captaine’s eyes at Earless Nick’s ‘preparations’, and returning a gracious tilt of his head the Captaine of Gryne’s Men took his seat.

Earless appeared satisfied with the turnout so with ease and grace stood up, silver cup in hand to propose a simple Yuletide toast. “To the Lord of Misrule and his Masters of Mischief, I have an arrangement, a wager and a challenge!”

Even on London Bridge with the shelter of the buildings and the warm jostling press of daily traffic the breath of Lord Frost made the sensible and well provided huddle deeper into cloaks or fur trimmed gowns. That was when merchants thanked the saints they weren’t having to suffer the slow plodding chill of the carters and pack trains, faces reddened by the cold and hands wrapped in woollen rags as they urged their reluctant charges along with whips and foul oaths. Even in the midst of the twelve days of Christmas the needs of the city had to be met, cattle, sheep and plump capons for the market by the Newgate Shambles or sacks of corn and barley for the ever hungry brewing vats and baking ovens.

To any servants of the acclaimed masters of mischief all this hustle and bustle on the bridge represented a mouth-watering potential bounty of cosenage and theft. However to Captaine Gryne it represented something else, the steady wealth of opportunity and protection. For no matter how outrageous or cunning the plots and schemes of the practitioners of cosenage, his prosperity was assured, in fact the worse the times, the greater his return. For Captaine Liam Gryne some decades before had chanced upon a simple fact of daily life in these decayed times that so many others abhorred-violence, its practice and profitable application.

As the priests so frequently hectored from the church pulpits, man was steeped in sin, giving in to gluttony, lust, greed, anger and covetness, all of which spawned like maggots from a dead dog, theft, disorder and bloody affray. Now as a veteran of the King’s campaigns as well as service in the Baltic and the battlefields of Italy, he counted himself a past master in the play of violent deeds. However he’d soon noticed that come the inevitable truce, soldiers were dropped from musters quicker than a dog shed fleas which of course considering the tardiness of pay and lack of plunder made for hard winters and the steady leakage of a Captaine’s main asset, the men of his company. The remedy to this wasteful attrition had him perplexed. After all commanders had a jaundiced view of companies swapping sides or leaving partway through a campaign, the lack of ready coin notwithstanding. But past upsetting the touchy pride of lords and princes there had to be a way of halting the wasteful drain in between battles.

The answer had come with the chance request from one of the wilder courtiers, while he was laid up recovering from a wound. The desperate fellow was keen to pay gold to have a dozen lads skilled in sword and affray in his service for a month. The ‘what for and why’ of the urgent request hadn’t concerned him, though at the end the courtier had paid over a handy bonus of four angels. Whether it was for silent discretion, or quality of retainers was irrelevant, it had been the start of a very profitable enterprise.

You’d think that it would be easy to stroll into any tumble down boozing ken and flash a few shilling to whip up a quick pack of rogues and roisters for mischief and assault. However they were usually drunken amateurs as ready to run or puke as fight. Now a professional was more reliable than a scrawny pisspot, and any merchant requiring guards for warehouse or pack train naturally sought him out, as did a growing number of ‘clients’ who despaired of the costs of lawyers and lengthy court proceedings. It was well known amongst the London guilds that a modest payment to Captaine Gryne always brought a prompt solution to outstanding debt arrears. As for the usual argument and rivalry betwixt lords or gentry, hiring a few of Gryne’s Men made for satisfactory resolutions to slights of honour. Over all of these arrangements Gryne maintained a rigid code of honesty. Service paid for was service rendered, and naught of his lads played the traitor to their temporary master, no matter the duty, though the policy had seen a few ticklish occasions when employers strayed into the dangerous waters of treason. But there had been a solution to that difficulty, one that still had Gryne scratching his head in muddled confusion.