Gregory House - A Comfit Of Rogues

It cost him a tuppence bribe to get past the chantry hospital porter and a penny more to acquire a pallet at the front of the room by the door. He’d have sighed at the expense, but at least he was warmer here than his usual post by St Paul’s. All he had to do was to wait and his assigned task would be over…or so he earnestly hoped.

In the meantime Hugh made himself comfortable and sent up an almost silent but earnestly felt prayer that his newly vacant bed hadn’t been made so by the dreaded Sweats or the Plague. He felt sore and feverish as it was, but that had to be due to his recent rough visitation, didn’t it? As a distraction Hugh surveyed the rest of the room. There were some twenty beds or pallets, ten odd a side and they mostly contained only one inhabitant. Compared to the cramped quarters of his room in the ruined house opposite the Labours of Ajax which held over a dozen and where three sharing a pallet was normal, this was positively luxurious. For the first time this week he was actually warm. The fireplace at the end of the room even had a pair of timber benches for the patients to sit at. Hugh was stunned, all this for the ill. He should be half as lucky for the halt and lamed, it’d be like heaven itself.

As for the blessed denizens of this delightful place, they appeared as diverse a gathering as one would find in the less salubrious care of Newgate Goal. Several were racked by the phlegm ague that was so common this winter season. Two suffered from broken limbs since their leg or arm was strapped and splinted. Others suffered from maladies that couldn’t be readily identified but left them groaning or comatose. Surreptitiously Hugh crossed himself and made a few gestures to avert bad luck and illness. The air was thick with the slightly bitter scent of wormwood so maybe that banished the stenches that brought on sickness. Settling back into the unexpected comfort of his pallet Hugh waited and reflected over his dramatic change in fortunes over the past few days.

His most treasured memory hugged close for its warmth was still yesterday at the Bear Inn in Southwark. He’d been accorded the rank of herald and trumpeter for the retinue of his master, Old Bent Bart. It still gave him a deeply warming thrill that he, a lowly hobbling beggar, was allowed to witness the greatest meeting of the Masters of Mischief of London in decades. It had been whispered by many at the Labours of Ajax that this could see the crowning of the Upright Man, the absolute lord of all beggars, rogues and players of cozenage within and without the city. Common tales said that there’d been one long ago, before the time of old Henry Tudor who’d battled for the throne. Simon Clifford had been his name, a fellow so canny and skilled he could charm gold out of a Guild master’s purse. But onset of the Sweats and plagues had scythed their ranks and broken them into the many groups, now beset with rivalry and suspicion as he knew only too well. Or so their master had said.

The meeting though had been an eye opening spectacle for a lad like Hugh. Earless Nick was such a generous host full of solicitous courtesy. He imagined this was how the great lords and churchmen must act. The Lord of the Liberties had presented even lowly Hugh the sweetest wine then made the most amazing offer. Hugh still tingled to think of the opportunity it offered his master. To be acclaimed the Upright Man, a sworn compact of all the captaines, lords and masters present signed and witnessed by a legal notary! It was the stuff of tales and legends like old Thomas Crunner used to tell the children. All that was required was the successful conclusion of a certain peculiar commission. Simple really. His Master, Old Bent Bart, had been if not ecstatic at least satisfied with the results of the Comfit of Rogues as he’d called it. A sweet morsel it would be indeed for the winner.

Hugh though had been dizzied by the prospect. He knew he stood high in his master’s esteem. There was now a chance he’d be elevated from begging to become a personal servant to Old Bent Bart, so as the Upright Man the prestige and rewards would trickle down bountifully to the most loyal and closest.

The ringing of a small chime brought Hugh out of his happy reverie and the rest of the inhabitants of the hospice shifted with a sudden surge of energy, at least most of them. Several continued to moan or twitch locked in fever or delirium. Hugh sat up though, still clutching the thin coverlet over his legs and looked towards the entrance.

A small group came in lead by a monk in the common robes of the Greyfriars. It consisted of three men and a young girl. Hugh recognised them all and devoutly wished he didn’t. After the bald-pated monk in the grey robe the leading member of the company was tall and rangy with a puckered scar across his face that gave his features a mean and predatory cast like that of a wolf pacing out his domain. Those fierce eyes gave the assembly a long steady inspection as if weighing each one up for disposal in the Fleete Ditch. Hugh tried not to cower or cross himself. The tales of ‘Hawks’ and his bloody savagery in brawl and affray had been enough to set the younger beggars whimpering with fright. The second fellow was dressed more like a gentleman in a dark doublet and a matching heavy fur-trimmed gown. Hugh wasn’t even close to being intimidated by him, a lad of about sixteen, tallish and thin with straggly, buttery yellow hair that hung limply over the collar of his gown. If Hugh knew anything at all of the fine art of cozenage this one was the veriest cony. His washed out grey eyes and weak chin just begged to be led into a skimming game of cards and dice.

However it was the final gentleman bringing up the rear of the party that really pulled at Hugh’s attention. He was maybe a shade under six feet tall, of promising build, not as lean as ‘Hawks’ though with a good set of shoulders. Unlike the more sallow potential gaming coney, he had well combed locks of golden red hair about neck length and a spread of freckles across his face and long nose. The fine quality gown and doublet automatically had Hugh toting up a worth closer to that of the gentry. At a guess it’d be worth a few pounds. He didn’t really need the description. All the beggars of London had heard of Red Ned Bedwell and his battle in the Paris Gardens baiting pits. From the glowing tale of his feats Hugh had expected some strapping giant like the Duke of Suffolk, not this. Hugh shook his head. Old Bent Bart always said clothes gave you the measure of a man’s purse, not his worth. He found it hard though to credit that this apprentice lawyer had set such a flea in Earless Nick’s collar to have declared Bedwell the crowning prize of yesterday’s arrangement. However two of the other Masters of Mischief had been ready enough to agree to the details of the compact even with, as Hugh viewed it, a certain amount of vindictive eagerness.

It was the last member of the party that drew his real attention. She was some five foot tall and even with winter padding of velvet trimmed gown and cloak was a tasty morsel. She was wearing those fashionable pearl fringed caps he’d seen at the Guildhall pageants and looked every inch the young daughter of a prosperous merchant. No wonder those other two were playing such close attention. She’d be a fine catch for any marriage bed. A girl like that was hard to miss and Hugh had seen her around the city over the last week. It was said by the other beggars that the apprentice of Williams the apothecary was a blessing to an ill man, better than any barber surgeon or doctor of physick. By Saint Jude he’d feel enormously improved with that fair face and bosom by his bedside. Slowly the girl went from one patient to another starting on the opposite side from Hugh, so he had an excellent opportunity to watch his mark.