*
Old Bent Bart had quickly recovered from his shock at the number and distinctive plumage of the Liberties gang. Pulling himself up to his full bent height of five foot he was about to temporise over the terms of the agreement to buy some time. Canting Michael’s sudden intrusion had changed that and now despite the Southwark gang lord’s strange words Old Bent Bart was uncertain as to which of the messages or proposals he’d sent out should be honoured. True, it was the three main contenders here and by his estimate they may have been evenly matched depending on who sided with whom. Still they lacked two more important signatories to the charter, so he wavered beset with doubt and for now clamped his jaw shut.
*
Meg’s efforts at the Frost Fair although thorough had been tinged with a measure of urgent rush and vague panic. The Good Lord knew she’d tried to deal fairly with the dozens of mummers, players, mountebanks and animal trainers, though each and every one had started off their reply with a list of difficulties and unfortunately rising costs. She was normally a tolerant and forgiving person, not given to the ill humours of anger and intemperate language. However on this day at this time that resolve had wavered. Meg had skirted very close to the overwhelming impulse to box the ears of these stupid measles and rogues. That’s when the helpful shadow of Captaine Gryne had stepped in, to as he explained ‘smooth over points o’ difference’. While it was true she’d felt some guilt about using the threat of the cudgel or very large fist attached to an arm that’d be capable of felling a draught horse over sweet reason and ready silver, Meg consoled herself that the Lord always placed tools fit for use before his servants in their tasks. Anyway those particularly menaced she’d promised an extra bounty for their efforts. At the end having achieved more for reform in an hour than a dozen translated books and near to running she’d met up with young Robin and headed off towards her appointment with Bedwell and company.
Not alone. Taken by some strange humour Captaine Gryne claimed he had some business to investigate by Newgate and accompanied her. What particular matter Meg didn’t inquire, though since Gryne reckoned he needed the services of a dozen of his armed rogues to ensure a successful transaction, she doubted it was buying a festive bauble or sweet comfits for a Misrule treat. She’d frowned suspiciously at Gryne’s transparent attempt at guile, suspecting some scheme of cozenage or debt collection that required her presence as distraction or cover. Well it was no use complaining or scowling. She wasn’t a babe in skirts and had seen more than enough of the ways of the world. The Captaine and his hidden patron Agryppa had aided her endeavours so despite her worry over Bedwell, Gryne deserved right and proper recompense.
The hourly bells of St Paul’s had begun their usual slow and sonorous chiming by the time Meg and her unexpected party reached Newgate. Along the way her ill humour had evaporated, undoubtedly due to her recounting of Ned’s now notorious Fleete Street race. Her version which she tended to regard as the most accurate one, was based on an amalgam of the two tales of the participants of that doomed escapade. The first part, seriously in need of editing, she’d gained after an intensive grilling of Bedwell while she was applying healing ointments to his ice chafed and cut feet. As a sign of Bedwell’s exaggerations she’d whittled down the numbers he’d faced from a hundred to a more modest and she felt realistic dozen. Meg also had the advantage of a brother who was painfully honest in his telling of the glaring gaps in the plan and his own overly modest rescue of young Reedman. So Meg started at the sorry beginning of the drunken escapade, then on through Ned’s clumsy cozenage at the Fleece and proceeded what she felt was the high point of the story, Ned Bedwell as naked as an Indies savage, teeth chattering like the rattle of drums charging Flaunty Phil’s pursuing Fleecers all the while warbling some strange war cry that to her ears sounded more like the high pitched squeal of a scalded piglet. Her audience was much taken with her imitation of the battle cry and her later description of Ned’s injuries and cure, though between fits of laughter she did assure them that as a demure Christian lass she most certainly didn’t lather Ned’s ballocks with pepper and stinging nettle salve. And now it had been suggested her mind teased at an appropriate list of ingredients-pepper, yes, and maybe cumin and an ounce or two of those dried red peppers newly discovered in the Spanish Indies. Hmm very tempting.
Her consideration of a new ‘regime of physick’ for Bedwell was abruptly halted once Captaine Gryne and his party pushed through the crowd at the corner of Ivy Lane and Newgate Market by the Shambles. The place was packed and not just with the usual clusters of servants, apprentices and gossips. To their right was the largest gathering of beggars she’d ever seen, over a hundred at a guess, while to the left stood a beribboned party of Misrule frolickers looking keenly at the beggars. Opposite Captaine Gryne standing in front of a tavern was tall lanky fellow that she could’ve sworn looked like Canting Michael from Southwark. But no, that just could not be. Even Meg knew Bishop Stokesley had sworn to have Canting burned as a heretic if he caught him in London. What was going on?
Meg’s confusion was soon compounded when an extremely familiar figure slipped out of a side alley. One hand on the shoulder of a thin limping lad the other hefting a weighty purse Roger Hawkins walked straight up to the ugly hunchback in front of the cluster of beggars and tossed him the leather purse. What? Why?
Chapter Sixteen. The Shambles of Newgate
Old Bent Bart proved livelier than his hunched figure lead one to believe as the crumpled Liberties rogue now discovered. The Beggar Master had sidestepped the assault and smartly clipped Earless Nick’s minion across the top of his head with a cudgel. Master of fakery and cozenage he may be, but a young beggar lad didn’t rise to the top of his ‘trade’ on deception and wheedling alone. If you didn’t know how to defend your garnishings then within a month you’d waste away and end up in a pauper’s ditch dead, food for worms. The affray swirled past him for a moment and Old Bent Bart stepped back into the relative shelter of a market stall. From the pile of stinking sheep’s guts to one side he’d lay money on it being a butcher’s stall. Well this was the Newgate Shambles after all and the battle raging in front of him certainly lived up to that title. He’d lay an even wager that the owners were not a dozen feet from here laying about with beef bones.
When the affray had broken out as riots were prone to do it naturally acted as a whirlpool, drawing in an extra tithe of locals as keen for mischief as any Liberties rogue, most especially apprentices, the damned scoundrels.
Now this spreading brawl wasn’t even remotely as he’d envisioned. Given this tiny sanctuary out of the battle Old Bent Bart scowled fit to curdle milk and shook his head. His ploy had been going so well until Satan’s own imps and devils had worked their mischief.
Earless Nick was here, somewhat beribboned and festive, true. Even Canting Michael had arrived in response to the message as well as a slightly tardy Captaine Gryne. For a moment the three main leaders of rogues, roisters, beggars and nips in the city and the Liberties had stood there in perfect equilibrium and he’d opened his mouth to speak after Canting’s strange declaration. He’d had the words all practiced thanks to Prioress Abyngdon’s coaching and the moment was there, his to possess.
Curse the crutch of Saint Giles, betwixt one instant and the next it was ruined, all because of that evil grinning bastard, Hawks! The Liberties knifeman and foul murdering swine had suddenly stepped out into the street not five yards away and pushing his own lad Hobblin’ Hugh afore him as bold as anything he strolled over and deposited a weighty purse into his hand much to his surprise. After that Hawks had the bold faced effrontery to thank him for the assistance in this Bedwell business in as clear and loud a voice that would reach the spire of St Paul’s. Damn him, the pestilent cozener!