Free A Comfit Of Rogues by Gregory House Page A

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.
     
    His sight was so locked on a safe and fast path up Snow Hill that his usual beggarly instincts were submerged by the effort not to slip over and tumble down the hill. So it was probably understandable why he missed the little clues like the soft crunch of snow behind him.

    “Why if’n it ain’t me favoured limping little rat, Hugh o’ St Paul’s!” The long remembered and unwelcome voice hissed in his ear.
     
    All a tremble Hugh spun around and made to hare off. An unwanted hand grasped his shoulder halting the attempted flight. Then a second easily swung him around and slammed his body into a nearby wall.

    “How’s y’ been Hugh? The word on the streets is y’ been a busy lad an’ is graced wit’ such favour o’ ta Southwark wit, Old Bent Bart, and even messenger fo’ Captaine Gryne.”

    Hugh flinched and tried to shrink away from the leering face of Roger Hawkins. Even the evil grin of Kut Karl was preferable to that of his current captor.

    “Y’know I thought that were yea on the pallet at Greyfriars hospice yesterday, y’ twitching little nose poking out o’ them blankets. Then I wonders what would a limpin’ rat like yea be scurrying all over the Liberties?” Hawkins’s scarred face gave the most gruesome smile, full of the promise of torment and pain.
     
    Hugh’s trembling made him shake like a leaf in an autumn storm. The tales of Hawk’s deeds were spoken in fearful hushed tones. Forty souls stood the tally, men, women and some whispered babes still suckling at the breast wrenched from the world by his bloody hand. Hugh’s mouth dried up like an abbot’s charity and rather than words he gasped out a rattling wheeze.

    Hawks took that as a pleasant greeting and lent closer in a seemingly comradely manner. Hugh gulped in terror and shook his head trying to wedge his shoulders deeper into the unyielding wattle wall behind him as if seeking to burrow out of the trap. The pain of yesterday’s beating was forgotten in his urgent desire to be away from the most dangerous knifeman of London and the Liberties.

    Whether mistaking his silence as reluctance to answer Hawks lent even close, his breath warm on Hugh’s