Read Online A Comfit Of Rogues by Gregory House - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gregory House
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That Wool’s Fleece incident the other day was the perfect example of all the conundrums and frustrations she had with that prideful rogue Bedwell. In the midst of those wine sodden, debauched Christmas Revels of his, Ned Bedwell decided to launch a raid to rescue the brother of one of his companions held captive by roisters and cony catchers. Considering the usual pastimes of the lads of the city she’d seen, the act was be commended, straight out of the romances of King Arthur and his knights. However as she’d seen before, the wildly ambitious schemes of Master Bedwell usually ended up face down in the stinking sludge of the Fleete Ditch, and this had been no exception. It was only by chance or perhaps fate that they’d met Bedwell as unclothed as an Indies native in the depth of winter’s chill, desperate for protection. Scathingly suspicious she’d been prepared to discount his wild fancies as borne by too much sack and a crazed wager. Well she had been, right up until those roisters had charged out of the inky night a raging and a roaring. Then irrespective of the odds Bedwell had faced them off to protect her bleating flock of night schoolers. Meg had a strange feeling in her stomach whenever she recalled that act and she’d almost, kind of almost, regretted the humbling cure for Ned’s cold numbed toes. And he’d had such fine strong legs too. Shaking her head at the distraction Meg looked back at the list of shipments.
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
That Wool’s Fleece incident the other day was the perfect example of all the conundrums and frustrations she had with that prideful rogue Bedwell. In the midst of those wine sodden, debauched Christmas Revels of his, Ned Bedwell decided to launch a raid to rescue the brother of one of his companions held captive by roisters and cony catchers. Considering the usual pastimes of the lads of the city she’d seen, the act was be commended, straight out of the romances of King Arthur and his knights. However as she’d seen before, the wildly ambitious schemes of Master Bedwell usually ended up face down in the stinking sludge of the Fleete Ditch, and this had been no exception. It was only by chance or perhaps fate that they’d met Bedwell as unclothed as an Indies native in the depth of winter’s chill, desperate for protection. Scathingly suspicious she’d been prepared to discount his wild fancies as borne by too much sack and a crazed wager. Well she had been, right up until those roisters had charged out of the inky night a raging and a roaring. Then irrespective of the odds Bedwell had faced them off to protect her bleating flock of night schoolers. Meg had a strange feeling in her stomach whenever she recalled that act and she’d almost, kind of almost, regretted the humbling cure for Ned’s cold numbed toes. And he’d had such fine strong legs too. Shaking her head at the distraction Meg looked back at the list of shipments.
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
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