The whole gathering went silent for a moment as they collectively drew breath, and no doubt made what cursed connections their God rotted souls were inclined to. Even so a few words might have smoothed over the flaring suspicions, if it hadn’t been for that mud befouled fool, Flaunty Phil. He’d pushed his way through Earless Nick’s men followed by a half dozen similarly ragged and bruised rogues and on sight of Hawks’ payment, screamed out that this was damned treachery. After that the Newgate Shambles dissolved into chaos.
*
As if by some arcane instinct Jemmy could sense the brewing trouble as soon as he’d seen the scar faced lanky rogue and the hobbling beggar lad walking towards Old Bent Bart. He’d also remembered where he’d seen that evil faced bastard before. He was the grim shadow that lurked at the beck and call of Bedwell’s sweetheart, Mistress Black the apothecary. What’s more the sneering smile and coldly amused glint in the rogue’s eyes also jolted loose a few other memories. The fellow’s name was Hawkins, Roger Hawkins, a former knife man of the Liberties who’d carved his way through fifty men, or so it was said. Jemmy grabbed the swaying Will and with his small cluster of lads tried to push through the gaily dressed Liberties gang. He didn’t get far. Some filthy and grimy rogue with his face a mess of mud and blood shoved past to the front of the Misrule party and knocked Jemmy off his feet. Several similarly muddy feet came close to treading him into the brown sludge of the snow. Long practiced moves of street brawling came to his aid and Jemmy lashed out with foot catching an interloper behind the knee, and bringing him down to a more convenient level. A second kick caught the wet and muddy roister under the chin and he spun backwards crashing into some of the colourful Liberties lads. As if to give tongue to the evidence of their eyes the cry of Treachery rang out causing a spreading ripple like a rock dropped in a still pond. Jemmy found himself a clear space and scrabbled to his feet, head snapping left and right spying out threats.
The festive mood of the Liberties gang had evaporated. Several were already involved in scuffles with the interloping gang of wet and bruised rogues. Two paces away with their backs to a handy wall stood the rest of his Southwark lads. Even young wilting Will had his club out making a half decent attempt at being a bold rogue. Jemmy moved towards them until a rough hand grabbed at his shoulder. His elbow jerked backwards in reply eliciting a pained grunt. The Southwark lads had to get out of here and over to the relative safety of Canting. Like a cornered rat Jemmy took a chance and darted through a crack into the midst of his lads, then fists and cudgels out they began to push their way towards the heart of the Shambles.
*
To be a successful player of cozenage you required many skills; deception and cunning, not to mention an ability to read the intent of the cony, but if you dealt with cards and dice, eyesight and a quick hand beat them all. Flaunty Phil possessed all these traits but he was most proud of his ability to see the subtle nicks along the edges of cards which made his cony catching so much easier. Also despite the blood and throbbing pain that glazed his eyes he could see as clear as a knave on pasteboard that grinning bastard and the lame beggar hand over a clinking purse to that stinking Judas and treacherous dwarf Bent Bart. Rage hotter than that which had driven him up the rest of Snow Hill subdued the flaring agony of his twice broken nose, now launched him yelling through this thick crowd of Misrule revellers. One fool tried to stop his passage. Flaunty gave him a blow across the jaw. The fellow crumpled spitting blood. No man was going to stand between him and revenge! That twisted little hunchback would shortly regret his cozenage. So fuelled by the fires of absolute rage at the ambuscade Flaunty Phil screamed out the accusation. “Treachery!”
*
The rush of events and confusion came about with such rapidity that Meg didn’t have time to cast up even a quick prayer of thanks to the Good Lord for shielding Ned. No’ she was a trifle busy for devotions, burdened a she was with questions, such as why Roger had approached the grotesque looking hunchback. Even that pressing issue was shoved aside though by the sudden cry of Treachery and the chaos it unleashed.
A more urgent demand to her attention was the approach of Earless Nick and a dozen of his roisters decked out in ribbons and baubles led by a large man girded in a hobby horse harness. Neither the mock horse nor Earless Nick looked ready for the usual Misrule frolics. Their faces where fixed in that snarly grin of rogues anticipating a ‘bit o’ rough’ not to mention a spot of bloody affray’. Meg automatically stepped back and collided with one of Captaine Gryne’s men who without ceremony grabbed her shoulders and thrust her firmly behind the suddenly closed rank of broad backs and ready cudgels.
Gryne’s commanding voice roared out over the hubbub of the growing brawl. “She’s under my protection Throckmore. If’n y’ want the compact ta hold y’ll step back!”
“God rot you an’ the pact Gryne. Hand her over. That hell cat ruined my house with her trickery. I’ve a claim upon her hide and I means to have it!”
Meg shivered possibly in fear though she’d never admit it and peered nervously between two of Gryne’s men. Earless Nick had a ribbon crossed cudgel in his hand and was striding closer, his eyes burning with a savage fire. The intensity shocked her. The Lord of the Liberties may not be able to get Bedwell but he’d be perfectly satisfied with an apprentice apothecary in his place. Meg clutched her hands together and gave out the most fervent prayer for aid…or inspiration.
*
Dodging a missile Old Bent Bart took cover behind the now upturned butchers stall, Kut Karl’s reassuring bulk by his side. Cautiously he peered over the edge at the scene of riot affray and general commotion. Earless Nick and a clutch of his roisters were thankfully occupied elsewhere, which was fine with him since the Lord of the Liberties at the moment seemed damned keen to use his head as a cudgel’s drum. Old Bent Bart fervently prayed to any saint who happen to be about to keep it so.
Earless Nick had been deflected from his course by two other distractions, a collision with some of Canting Michael’s men and a forlorn assault towards the well-dressed girl standing by Captaine Gryne. Each of those in Old Bent Bart’s opinion was a foolish division of effort. Not that he could claim any better. Most of the beggars had been sucked into the swirling affray. Just who they fought and why didn’t seem to matter anymore. They were here at their master command in case of trouble and thus here it was. Who needed rhyme or reason? Bart had noticed a strange kind of restrain had taken hold of the participants of the affray though. Knives, swords and cleavers though readily at hand where eschewed by all the cursing and grunting combatants. Cudgels it appeared were the weapon of choice, though the useful God-given implements of assault such as fists, knees, elbows and teeth seemed to be equally employed to settle individual affairs.
Wryly he thought about the great compact they’d signed just the other day. Prioress Abyngdon had been right. It was indeed the Comfit of Rogues, now chewed up and tattered, not even fit to be used as a privy rag for a leper’s arse.
*
Hobblin’ Hugh squealed in open terror as the rogue’s body thudded down at his feet. He’d no idea what had prompted the Liberties man to head his way with clear intent of violence. However if only for the shortest of seconds he was very glad that Hawks was at his side since it had been his hand that struck down the lunging figure. Before he could frame a stammered thanks, if he were so minded, Hawks seized him by the collar again and threw him into a pile of mounded snow behind a rainwater butt. For whatever reason Hawks had stashed him out of the way of the brawl. Hugh didn’t need any further encouragement and seized the chance to hide, burrowing like a badger deep down into whatever cover he could find, ignoring the icy cold biting into his rag wrapped hands.