Gregory House - A Comfit Of Rogues

That the remedy concerned Dr Agryppa shouldn’t have been a surprise. By specific order all his fine lads reported to the physician during and after their periods of service, relaying any overheard gossip, observation and rumour. Then probably much filtered, Agryppa would inform him of any potential threats or conflicts with his contracts. In truth it was similar to the duties he owed campaign commanders via the use of his company as scouts and warlike pursuivants, though he still occasionally wondered if he’d gained the best of the arrangement. On some level it irritated, working like a well lodged splinter. From time to time the doubts subjected him to a few fingernail chewing pauses for consideration such as now.

Strange that it should be over the issue of the Bedwell lad. As with most news, or in fact all news, he reported Gulping Jimmy’s warning to the doctor. The old man’s smile had grown as bleak and wintery as Lord Frost’s latest blessing. Then he’d fallen to muttering and scribbling before pulling out several of those arcane charts he had stored upon the shelves. Finally Gryne was bidden to return in an hour while the astrologer consulted the ‘signs of the heavens’. Normally he came and went at no man’s bidding save His Sovereign Majesty, but with Agryppa a sharp complaint or cuff was out of the question. He owed the master of physick the use of a leg and what seemed the miraculous cure of the slow stinking wound rot from an arquebus ball.

The eventual instruction though was a damned curious thing, but as he’d found with so many commanders, it was best to silence the incredulous questions and push on with the duty. In the meantime he considered the ‘arrangement’ betwixt the Masters of Mischief as Earless Nick titled them.

It concerned the Frost Fair now settling up on the river ice westwards of the bridge, hundreds of stalls selling every possible comfit or treat that a winter besieged Londoner could want: roasted chestnuts, spiced warm hippocras and surprisingly whole lamb and haunches of beef roasted on a spit. The self-proclaimed Lord of the Liberties was right. It was an unparalleled opportunity for winter delights and Londoners keen for any diversion this season would flock to the spreading booths on the icy Thames. At the Bear Inn yesterday all the assembly could see the glittering temptation, purses to cut, conies to catch and the many plays of practiced cosenage on a distracted and bemused gathering. The Frost Fair was a veritable paradise on earth, or so Earless Nick had described it to his clearly drooling audience.

Gryne paid close attention to the next part. After that outline of temptations, their host had proposed that unlike former Fairs where they’d been restricted by the fretful annoyance of constables and guild or fair officials, the Frost Fair was like the Liberties, an area of vague and arbitrary jurisdiction. That had set the gathering to pondering, if the gleam of greed in their eyes was any judge. Gryne had just nodded in confirmation, quickly calculating the rates for stall security. Yes indeed, an opportunity not to be missed.

Earless Nick though had proposed that the Fair be divided into wards and parishes, each allocated to one of their number to be their exclusive preserve. As expected that had set off an instant raucous argument from the lesser fry of the meeting, until tiring of the shouting Gryne had thumped a table and called for silence. The scroungers and blustering roisters had flinched and Earless had publicly thanked him then smoothly suggested that it would be only sensible that the Masters of Mischief submit to a levy to retain the services of ‘the renowned fair and honest soldier Captaine Gryne’.

That had been a laugh, hired by the wolves and the crows to ‘protect’ the sheep and their shearing! He accepted of course, as Earless knew he would, just as the clever Liberties rogue knew he’d be forced to attend their little meeting, invitation ‘astray’ or not.

His fellow ‘Masters’ had also demurred with only a few quibbles of procedure and continued swiftly on to the other matters of interest, and as far as Gryne was concerned that’s when he perceived a dim illumination of the depth of planning and cunning of Earless Nick. At the Royal Court he’d had a reputation as a twisty fellow. It was little wonder then that when caught out in a coining cosenage, patronage at least saved his head though not his ears. So that was one out of three proposals presented. As for the other two…well by St Katherine he was certainly keen to see how they played out.

Thus here he was supervising the warding for the Frost Fair, as if that was his only interest. The stall holders had each received a quiet visit from his clerk, Stanford, also the legal apprentice of Earless and Old Bent Bart’s grinning knifeman, where the terms and benefits of contributing to the protection levy were clearly spelt out. However that was only part of the business of the Frost Fair and this day other more urgent concerns had him suffering the chill of Lord Frost’s breath. A casual glance towards the London end of the bridge told him the second part of the business was at hand.

Gryne gave another of his mirthless grins in anticipation of the next play, startling a nervous drover who fell over into his bleating charges and so cascading a bridge wide panic of beasts, carts and packtrains. Oblivious to the sudden chaos Gryne strode eagerly towards the city, there were some days when the humdrum of his business brought real satisfaction.

Hugh shivered in the cold and winced as he touched the bruises on his cheek. Today they needed no coloured unguents to simulate the artifice of injury or blight. While cuffs and curses were the usual lot of beggars at any time, he still hadn’t expected anything like this morning. Pushing the frightening memory aside he hobbled along the snow covered street at a fair pace. He had to get to the chantry hospice attached to Greyfriars by Newgate Wall as fast as possible. Considering how he’d gained this burdensome duty it would be best if he didn’t transverse the usual haunts of the begging fraternity. Hugh panted at the effort. He was restricted to the back ways, and what with the snow and streets blocked by broken carts, it was worse than his journey to Pissing Lane the other day.

He’d over half the city to transverse and as he’d found the other day, for all the chill of winter and the festivals of Christmas, the streets were still too crowded for easy passage. If anything the snow made the usual London congestion worse, red faced arguing carters screaming at each other over accidents, not to mention beasts suddenly expiring from the chill and extra strain. So much for an easy day of begging at St Paul’s. As if! That’d been cut short all too quickly and brutally. Hugh shrugged. He supposed it was typical during Misrule’s reign when all was topsy turvy, even beggars.

Starting all the way down by the Thames at New Fish Street hadn’t made this attempt at a hobbling sprint any easier. Curse his crutch and limp! The morning chimes had rung not long before he’d been grabbed, and he’d have to make Greyfriars Hospital afore the noon time bells rang out. Hugh shivered and not just with the cold. He’d been warned about the consequences for the failure of this assigned task. Luckily his knowledge of the small byways and crooked lanes that cut through the wards and parishes was unequalled by any of the begging fraternity which despite his infirmity made him the favoured messenger of Old Bent Bart.

Skirting the edge of Lombard Street he managed to cut up past Grocers Hall into Cheap Ward. Here it became a little trickier making him loop up towards Moregate and head west to avoid the usual cluster of watchers at Guildhall. So he was wet with chilled sweat and panting by the time he’d made it to the narrow two storey building between Greyfriars church and London Wall. Sometime in the past it’d received some donations from a queen so that Londoners deserving charity could be cared for. Hugh used to beg outside when he was young so he knew the layout well.