*
Like a storm’s wave breaking upon a rocky cliff Earless Nick’s men smashed against the wall of Captaine Gryne’s guards, and like the sea rebuffed, they ebbed away drawing sullenly back for another charge. Meg from her lower and more sheltered vantage point didn’t see all this. There were too many broad shoulders and flailing elbows about to risk a closer view. But she did hear every thud of cudgel on flesh and the accompanying scream or curse and winced as she unconsciously catalogued the impact points and likely damage. In her many tasks as an apothecary’s apprentice she’d seen and heard the work of a barber surgeon as well as caring for the injured and ill. Life in London wasn’t even close to the earthly paradise that her country cousins imagined. As she’d proved a few months ago during Bedwell’s crazed romp through London and eventually all the way to Grafton Regis, Meg Black wasn’t one of those merchants’ daughters who stuck to needlework and sighed over knightly romances. But the sights and sound of this affray made her want to squeeze her eyes shut, muffle her ears with tight clenched hands and maybe utter a quiet whimper or two. However while that strong desire prompted her to cower or flee another part of her spirit wasn’t so timorous. Was this how Judith slew Holofernes or how the early martyrs faced mobs of howling Romans in the arenas? Meg bit her lip and metaphorically chewed over the fact of her cowardly stance. Was this how one of the modern reformers should act, to let her friends and retainers do all the fighting while she swooned prettily from a balcony?
That last pointed reminder of the pallid romance damsels did the trick. Meg unbuckled her ever present satchel and reached inside searching for inspiration. Hmm, a skeleton key. No, nor the set of latch picks, roll of surgeon’s tools or jars of ointments. All these could be utilised in the most devious manner, but not for affray. Then Meg’s fingers grazed a small pottery sphere and then its twin and she smiled in mischievous delight. Oh yes they would do just fine, all she needed was her steel and flint.
*
Jemmy’s lads had proved as fine a set of roisters as any about. By dint of cudgel, fist and knee they’d cleared a path almost all the way to Canting Michael. Whom they fought, wrestled and brawled Jemmy couldn’t tell. A few may have been Earless Nick’s rogues. Others from the odd thump of a crutch and glimpse of a disfigured face, he’d swear were beggars. Mean little rats them, always on the lookout for an unguarded shin or codpiece to wallop. Jemmy winced slightly and tried not to think of the purple bruising spreading along his inner thigh from a skipped blow. He suspected a night with Gentle Alice at the Cardinal’s Cap was probably out of the question for a week or so. He’d heard the cry of ‘clubs’ a few minutes ago and shook his head. Curse this! Just what they didn’t need-a horde of rowdy apprentices keen to join the mischief.
This brawl had but a quarter hour to run afore the Shambles was teeming with city sheriffs, constables and the Watch. For Southwark lads with fouled bills at the city courts this was no time to linger. Jemmy could have prayed for a providential distraction if he’d been of a religious bent though a few years with Canting Michael tended to cure even the most devout of any such leanings. As if the thought transmuted lead-like into alchemist’s gold, clouds of choking sulphurous smoke began to spew across the Shambles clouding the affray. Jemmy didn’t need any prompting. Pulling his cloak over his mouth and grabbing hold of a rather battered and proudly bloodied Will he launched a last charge to clear the trap of Newgate Shambles.
*
Old Bent Bart coughed and spluttered wiping away streaming tears with a grimy hand. What devil’s work was this? One moment the Shambles was full of brawling figures striving to do mischief and to maim, and the next the place stank like a belch from Satan’s own arse and was twice as murky. Now in one respect this shielded him from targeting by those keen for revenge. However Old Bent Bart was as lost in the choking gloom as if he were at the game of blind man’s bluff. Worse still his shadow and watchdog Kut Karl had disappeared. This lack of armed and looming backup made him twice as nervous and wary of every scrape and nearby groan or cry, though being deliberately sought out in these choking fumes he fervently hoped was near impossible. He could barely discern anything beyond two paces.
A sudden thump across his shoulders sent Old Bent Bart a tumbling and sprawling on the muddy cobbles. Dazed by the surprise blow he still managed a clumsy roll as his hand groped for a concealed dagger. Out of the smoke a cudgel lashed out knocking the blade from his bruised and stinging fingers soon followed by a familiar sneering voice. “Now, now Master Hunchback, plotter and schemer, well naught have any of that ‘mischief’ to spoil our friendly chat…after all yea did invite me, didn’t yea!”
His hand numb Old Bent Bart struggled almost upright. Another deft blow to his shoulder forced him down to his knees, the chill water of the street slush making his joints ache.
“Hmm yes, that posture suits yea Master Hunchback. A skulking traitor should be on his knees in the filth before his betters.”
Old Bent Bart flinched and bowed over as the cudgel prodded him savagely in the gut. Even in the smoke’s gloom he could see the gleam of Earless Nick’s white teeth as the Master of the Liberties grinned, clearly amused by his play. Wheezing from the blow that’d knocked the wind out of him Old Bent Bart shuffled forward still on his knees in the most abject manner. “Oh please, I beg yea Lord o’ the Liberties, don’t hurt me. I’s promise I’ll support yea as the Upright Man!”
Earless Nick nodded clearly amused at the attempt. “Tsk tsk Master Crookback. Is this the best yea can do? I’d heard ye was a great player o’ the crowds at Bedlam, tugging their heart strings with your piteous cries and lamentations.”
This remark was punctuated by a heavy strike to his bent back and Old Bent Bart didn’t have to counterfeit his cry of pain. Instead still down in the street muck he clutched at Earless Nick’s boots. The Lord of the Liberties laughed at the scene and tapped his cudgel in contemplation of his next strike.
Old Bent Bart may have been a good foot or more shorter than other men thanks to his infirmity, but as many a beggar could attest that didn’t mean his strength was as paltry as a child’s. Nor was his cunning. With his hand firmly clasped around Earless Nicks ankles he pulled backwards and the gang lord joined his victim in the filth of the Shambles street, his cudgel clattering off and away from him.
As any beggar or true roister or rogue could attest no matter what lordly skills a man may possess or how much tutelage in the arts of sword, lance or axe, in a brawl advantage and opportunity trump all. Oh yes and a lack of scruples. Old Bent Bart hadn’t acquired his position by being sweet, gentle and forgiving. The graveyards and ditches of the city were full enough of fools. So with his tormentor now at his level Old Bent Bart didn’t let the chance go a begging. He opened his mouth wide and with all the power of his heavy jaw chomped down upon Earless Nick’s conveniently positioned codpiece.
*
From his hiding place Hobblin’ Hugh heard the most gut wrenching scream so close to him that instinct took over and he bolted from his hidey hole. Not the best of moves since three hobbled steps flight had him slam into an unyielding figure. The brawler seized his cap and hair in a strong hand and drew him closer in almost a lover’s embrace and lifting him up without effort shook him just like a hound with a rat. A second strong hand wretched his crutch from him and threw it down the narrow alley where it clattered against the water butt. A gripping hand swung him round like a mummer’s puppet and Hugh beheld the face of his captor. It was his master’s enforcer Kut Karl, the knife man. The Lowlander was as happy as a pig in mud at his catch, though if Hugh were a bold rogue and not shaking and quivering in terror, he may’ve quipped that Kut Karl would be more at home in a sty than a street. He wasn’t and haltingly cursed the grim facts of fate.