Gregory House - A Comfit Of Rogues

Now as a beggar he had picked up more than a few tricks and skills of the trade. As Old Bent Bart was wont to say, you could get all the hints you need for a successful cozenage just by watching how the cony moved and acted in company. This particular company was so packed full of moods and tension that Hugh was wishing he could pull some ploys of his own just to see which way they jumped. For instance the mousey looking gentleman in dark cloth with the watery eyes seemed to be desperately searching for a way out of the room. To make his task more challenging whenever possible he kept his distance from Bedwell and Hawks, almost treading on the hem of the apothecary’s kirtle. As for Bedwell, frequently when he thought no one was looking he’d twitch his lip in a disdainful sneer at the turned back of Hawks. The girl though, she retained most of his attention and by the acclaim of his codpiece she deserved it.

Eventually the soft swish of the kirtle stopped by his pallet and that delightful face bent down solicitously towards him. “I don’t recall you being here at my last visit. What malady ails you friend and how can we help?”

Hugh was suddenly struck with an unaccustomed bout of shame regarding his deformed limb and flushing a deep red dropped his head with an embarrassed mutter.

“Now, now friend, don’t be like that. The same lord God made us all and shared his son even with the most afflicted.”

Encouraged Hugh allowed her to view his clubbed foot gently tracing her fingers over his long time infirmity. Made bold by this solicitude Hugh tapped his nose and spoke in a low voice. “Bless y’ mistress but I’ve a message fro’ over Southwark way.”

“What is it?”

The question from the mistering angel was asked in the most normal tone of voice as if, Hugh mused, she received secret missives every day. He closed his eyes for a moment and moved his lips in silent recitation, then in what he thought a fair imitation of the original growling accent gave over the message. “Fra Southwark wards a family friend says Lord Frost’s blessing tis a fertile field ta plough ta seed o’ ta spirit.”

The face of the girl went blankly still for a moment then she nodded and bent closer whispering in his ear. “Anything else friend?”

At the warm and scented puff of her breath Hugh felt a sudden urging in his ragged codpiece and all the hairs on his neck vibrated delightfully. It took a deep calming breath for him to come back from the paradise he’d briefly visited. “Oh ahh…yea. Ahh, he also said that ye should recall Matthew fourteen, ahh seven and ahh eleven.”

Those beautiful blue grey eyes blinked at him and Hugh could have sworn he’d melted into the pallet.

“So, Matthew fourteen, seven and eleven, is that right?”

“Ahh…ahh yea.”

“Did the messenger say why?”

Hugh waggled his head to get his thinking back together. He didn’t have a clue what any of that was about. However he wasn’t a measle brained tosspot and could put a few simple facts together. His eyes quickly darted towards the approaching figure of Bedwell and he pushed himself nervously back against the wall.

“Mistress Black, is this rogue causing you trouble?”

“No, no Ned, just recalling the sayings of a wise teacher.”

Bedwell stopped, hand casually resting on his sword hilt and loomed over Hugh. “You sure, because I could’ve sworn his words disturbed you.”

Hugh shrank back a little more wishing the wall would open up and swallow him up. Bedwell had a certain look about him that Hugh recognised all too well, that of the parish beadle considering whether to beat him through the streets, or just use the pillory. To his growing alarm there was also a deep flicker in the eyes, as if he were sorting through known faces and trying to find a match.

A hand from Mistress Black stopped Bedwell’s advance as she ferreted around in a satchel slung from her shoulder, then apparently satisfied with her search she thrust a small pot into his hands. “This will ease the pain at the joint. Rub it on and warm them with a heated compress.” And with a smile his beautiful angel moved on leaving Hugh open mouthed and blushing.

The rest of her party soon swept along after, though Bedwell paused and gave him a last speculative inspection. Hugh sighed in relief and slumped against the wall his heart hammering almost more than his cods throbbed. After that little adventure a fellow definitely needed a restorative and he knew just the place by Newgate Shambles.

Hugh gulped down the first draught in one steady swallow. Oh by St Jude and the blessed angels that brought tears to the eyes. At the second cup of Brandywine Hugh’s shakes subsided. It was after all a very successful play. An hour past and he began to acquire a more optimistic view of his recent escapade. True he did get a little bruised and roughed up by Captaine Gryne’s men, but that was wasn’t much worse that the common run of kicks and cuffs he received while begging. Plus there was the consoling gain of six pence for delivering the message and possibly more according to the promise of the Captaine. Just one extra cup and maybe a bowl of the Redd Lyon’s roast ordinary, then he’d be fit for any further duty. Damn but this Christmas was proving to be a time of bounty. Hugh smiled and as if toasting the Lord of Misrule and the Masters of Mischief raised his cup.

A chillingly familiar voice broke through the pleasant glow of his reverie. “Why me Hobblin’ little maggot here y’ ere. da Miester’s been lookin for y’ all day!”

The rough and heavy hand of Kut Karl clapped him on the shoulder. “I…I…I can explain!”

“Oh surely y’ will little maggat, b’ Gott’s son y’ vill!”

Hugh gave a loud gulp and looked up over his shoulder. Kut Karl was smiling and that was never a good sign.

“Noo, please noo…ARRRGGHHH! Nooo…nooo.” The scream tapered off to a snivelling whimper as Hugh vainly tried to avoid the impact of the lash on his bare back. His vision clouded as his eyes watered and the face of a sadly disapproving gargoyle swum into view. It was that of his Beggar Master Old Bent Bart and he didn’t look very pleased. “Hugh y’s my best lad. I feels saddened by yer lapse in obedience.”

“Master…Master Bart, I’s niver meant ta cause offence. Really I didn’t.” Hugh stuttered this out in between gulps of breath and blinding washes of pain from the torment of his back.

A heavy hand came up and grasped his jaw, moving it from side to side as if absently playing with a child’s poppet. “Yea may have intended ta do me right Hugh but it doesn’t look like that ta me or the rest of our company.”

Hugh blinked back the tears of excruciating pain and tried to shake his head in denial. “Master Bart I’s hurried ere as soon as I could!” That plea was loaded with all the desperate truthfulness of avoiding more pain.

Old Bent Bart paused in his close inspection of Hugh’s face, his own heavy features shifting in puzzled rumination. Hugh tried to project that extra ounce of misjudged innocence, as well as convey that what he’d said was God’s own simple truth. And despite his accustomed craft of deception and beggarly cozenage it was. After all how could he know Kut Karl was on the hunt for him, or that his stop at the Redd Lyon at Newgate for a much needed bracing cup of brandywine would be construed as wilful evasion by his lord and master?

The heavy dark brows of Old Bent Bart shifted closer, almost grazing his cheek as the Master of Beggars seemed to sniff out any falsehoods. Eventually the misshapen head gave a slow steady nod. “That’s as maybe Hugh, but lad y’ still failed yer duty and y’ must be punished for it.”