The frozen Thames was doing more than provide a new field for London pastimes. The thick ice and snow storms had blocked the arrival of the last two cargoes. If she didn’t soon find some remedy this delay would prove to be gallingly expensive. Frowning pensively, Meg bit at an annoying hangnail. What with the prior problem caused by that deceitful cozener Walter Dellingham this was proving to be a Christmas season fraught with peril and farce. One could almost suspect it was a scene lifted from a Lord of Misrule mummer’s play.
A slightly hesitant cough sounded from the doorway behind her. Stifling unwarranted irritation Meg brushed the dust off on her kirtle apron. Roger Hawkins her erring retainer had returned. It always amazed her how such a tall rangy fellow could move so silently. An unchristian thought whispered that considering his former trade as a Liberties cutthroat it was just practice made perfect.
“Mistress Margaret…” Roger appeared to halt in his report unwilling to speak.
Meg had a premonition that ill news strangled his words. Taking a deep breath she held onto her composure and closing the ledger turned to face him.
“I’s been out an around Mistress.”
Meg knew better than to ask where. She’d had an few hints from her father before the Sweats took him last year that Roger Hawkins, though dedicated to the cause of reform, had been steeped in sin, lewdness and vice. His pain choked confession the other day of past misdemeanours had been a great sign of progress on his path of redemption. However the particulars of his former life of sin had been graphic…and detailed. Perhaps she didn’t require so much sudden fleshing out of previously obscure and certainly obscene practices of the Liberties. In reply she just nodded.
Taking that as his cue Roger continued. “The hunt is on for Bedwell. Tis said the city Lords o’ Mischief ‘ave proclaimed a reward o’ five angels fo’ his head.”
“By the blood of Jesus, no!” Shocked and stunned Meg thumped the leather cover of the ledger with clenched fist, then realising that maybe she’d revealed too much of her inner thoughts quickly temporised. “This will be of no help to our plans.”
Roger appeared to think otherwise and with an unpleasantly suggestive smile shook his head. “I reckons Bedwell ‘ll be nay loss ta the cause. Master Hagan’s already offered ta deal quietly with him.”
Meg’s eyes’ flickered with suspicion. Yes, a few months ago she did have a discussion about the permanent removal of an inconvenient Red Ned Bedwell with her family friend and trade partner Albrecht. However Roger Hawkins wasn’t present at the time and nor should Albrecht have mentioned it later. During the affair of the Cardinal’s Angels due to the many connections between Bedwell and her brother she’d forbidden any further precipitous action. Apart from the natural Christian abhorrence of murder, she’d felt that despite his roguish ways Ned still had some uses in the push for reform. Anyway as she’d confided to her cousin Alison she hated to ruin all that effort at steering Ned Bedwell onto a Godly path. And of course, there were his fine, strong thighs.
Meg pulled herself back from that lingering image and strived for a more credible reason. “No we need Bedwell. His signature is on the deed for the purchase of the Ruyter of Bremen, not to mention several requests for export licences.”
And now it was Roger’s turn to look surprised. “I–I thought y’ didn’t want him involved in the bringing in o’ ta books fro’ the Low Country.”
“Well, uhh…I don’t. Ned wouldn’t understand…that is not yet. His good lord suggested it as a common merchant’s ruse.”
“What, Rich? Y’ asked Master Richard Rich, that coin cozening lawyer of Middle Temple?” Her retainer was clearly shocked.
Meg waved off the accusation with an abrupt flick of her hand as if removing clinging street filth. “By the blessed saviour no, not him. It came as a suggestion from the Lady via Cromwell.”
Roger still shook his head as if doubtful of its wisdom though he did appear relieved the connection with Ned’s uncle was to remain a distant one. Her retainer though was clearly displeased. “He’s a Rich by blood if’n not name. I’d sooner trust that slippery courtier, More.”
“Whoever it came from is irrelevant,” snapped Meg, angered at her servant’s intransigence. “What concerns us now is what to do about saving Ned…ah, I mean Master Bedwell from this foul plot.”
Roger still appeared reluctant to accept this latest commandment. His face was the very mirror of disappointment. Meg pursed her lips in concern. She wasn’t blind to the interaction between her faithful retainer and ‘Red Ned’. The whole situation smouldered of rancour and jealousy. They were as prickly as a pair of hounds snarling over the same bitch. At this none too subtle allusion her frown deepened. That wasn’t going to happen…ever!
Meg crossed her arms and stared at Roger intently. If she had any say in the matter that arrogant attitude would be banished from both men. She didn’t need this bickering. The two of them held so much promise for the cause.
Inspiration it was said had a divine source, and in the midst of her growing anger the spark of reason shone forth, lighting a path to salvation. Her furrowed brow cleared and Meg smiled all kind solicitude. “Master Hawkins, I believe I have a task most fitting for your skills…and for our cause.”
Chapter Eight. A Chance goes Begging
Though the day was briskly chill and the breeze ruffled his ragged cloak Hugh didn’t mind. He was out of the Labours of Ajax and despite the stinging punishment for his errors had been given another important duty by his lord and master Old Bent Bart. He’d been sent to the Farrington Without Liberties a hunting one of the Lords of Mischief with an offer for alliance. How this chance came about he’d no idea, though there was his slightly blurry memory of the strange discussion last night between the Beggar master and the old Prioress of Paternoster Priory. That his betters routinely dealt with the weighty matters of high politics in the city hadn’t really occurred to him before. The daily concerns of a beggar, gaining enough food to fill out a lean belly, and escaping cuffs and curses kept him centred on the gutter level of existence. Now it was different and he strutted or at least hobbled with a certain puff-chested pride. Kut Karl might still glare at him with undisguised longing to inflict those forgiven lashes, but as ‘chosen messenger’ he still stood high in his master’s esteem.
Despite the chill day this honour gave Hugh a warm glow and given a morning’s respite as well as the blessed relief of the cooling ointment on his stripes, he now reckoned the slip in quality of service had been forgiven. Maybe even a chance of redemption. Old Bent Bart was favouring him with this choicest assignments and it must be a sure and certain sign of his value and growing stature amongst the ranks of the beggarly fraternity. Who knew what could happen? One Hobblin’ Hugh could sit at the right hand of his master at the May Day Revels, honoured and esteemed by his grovelling compatriots. Soon he’d earn enough for a less worn and tatty scarlet gown, something with substance that could more easily keep out the cold. Maybe if this current task went well his rewards could be a newer pair of shoes. To Hugh puffing and wheezing through the winter world of the Lords Frost and Misrule, where the season had once looked to be full of pain and privation, now it shone with promise and opportunity.
A flurry of snow whipped up at the corner of Seacoal Lane and Hugh bent low into the steep slope of road from Holburne Bridge seeking shelter. The icy impact of the crystals wiped away his daydreaming fancies and Hugh concentrated on the slippery footing of the road. The muck of the piss channel had overflowed then frozen sheeting the cobbles in a treacherous layer of ice. His iron-tipped crutch cautiously probed each step prodding the deceptive slick for a firm footing. All the while he had to hurry. It was vital he reach the Newgate Goal by the eleven o’ clock chimes of St Paul’s.