as he’d seen the courtiers employ as a sign of disdain. It was well received with a round of hearty cheers.
Thus having spread the word of his arrival in the most useful fashion, Phil resumed his triumphal progress up Snow Hill. This was a good day and to think it had started so poorly back in the Wool’s Fleece on Fetter Lane. Delphina had been a cursed, whinny punk since that affray by the Fleete Ditch Bridge. All night she’d moaned about what the Bedwell brat had done to her hair. And if that where all, he’d have gritted his teeth and borne it, but the stupid slut had then gone on about how the bruises ruined her complexion. As expected her snarky complaints about his lack of regard blew up into a screaming row with her going on about slights to her honour!
Delphina may be his favourite girl and a fine earner with the bath tub cozenage but Flaunty Phil took abuse from no one and especially not a measly lying punk. The extra bruises would no doubt reduce her price, though his blows had steered clear of her face. He wasn’t a lackbrained fool to damage an asset too much. Delphina would limp for a week or so, not that it mattered for her work. Next time she’d remember who was master of the Fleece.
By Lazarus’s rotten crotch it was as foul a way to greet the dawn as a man could be cursed with. What did he wake to? A piss poor hump and a hefty serve of screeching bitchery. All the fault of that Inns of Court weasel, Bedwell. To be cony catched in his own hall! By the left arm bone of St Anthony he swore he’d have revenge.
He could see it now, Bedwell trussed up on the ground before him, a pleading and a begging for his life. Phil had lovingly replayed the scene over and over in his mind. Yes, first the pleas for mercy and of course he’d consider them and being magnanimous suggest a ‘repayment’ of four pounds value might ease Bedwell’s ‘debts’. He’d even draw up a contract using that tame Gray’s Inn scribbler, Gylberte Fowlke. Then Bedwell would be stored in Delphina’s secret room—for ‘safety’. Anyway the walls were thick and the screams were rarely heard out in Fetter Lane. Afterwards when the gilt came through Bedwell would be released from the Fleece, bruised, battered and most of all repentant, and by the most unfortunate of mischances be discovered head down in the Fleete Ditch within the hour. So sad, such a promising young life cut short by ‘accident’.
This morning though all those pleasant imaginings were naught but moon gilded fantasies as Phil had morosely munched on his manchet loaf and downed a horn of small ale. The compact betwixt the Masters o’ Rogues had offered the most glittering opportunities. For a start he’d been accorded an equal status to Earless Nick, Old Bent Bart, Canting Michael and Captaine Gryne. That alone was a boost to his pride and standing in the Fleece after the Bedwell incident. Several wavering roisters had fronted up and reaffirmed their loyalty, pledging to spend their blood in his service. He’d smiled at the puffed up strutting, but still it had warmed his downcast heart after the black morning.
There was of course a problem. There always was some stinking dog’s turd in the pottage of pleasure. Flaunty Phil, as master of the Wool’s Fleece and surrounds could call up some twenty lads, roisters and rogues, all fit for a brawl or bloody affray. But that was just the vain crowing of a cockerel compared to the stature of Earless Nick. Forty men he could whistle up without effort or debt. So the compact was as tantalising as faerie gold, fine and glittering afore his eyes but as elusive as mist when grasped. That was until he’d received the limping messenger from Old Bent Bart. From there his morning had bucked up to its current glorious pinnacle. According to the squeakings of that lame lad, the Master of Beggars was as worried as himself over the vaulting pre–eminence of Earless Nick, suspecting the Lord of the Liberties
Thus having spread the word of his arrival in the most useful fashion, Phil resumed his triumphal progress up Snow Hill. This was a good day and to think it had started so poorly back in the Wool’s Fleece on Fetter Lane. Delphina had been a cursed, whinny punk since that affray by the Fleete Ditch Bridge. All night she’d moaned about what the Bedwell brat had done to her hair. And if that where all, he’d have gritted his teeth and borne it, but the stupid slut had then gone on about how the bruises ruined her complexion. As expected her snarky complaints about his lack of regard blew up into a screaming row with her going on about slights to her honour!
Delphina may be his favourite girl and a fine earner with the bath tub cozenage but Flaunty Phil took abuse from no one and especially not a measly lying punk. The extra bruises would no doubt reduce her price, though his blows had steered clear of her face. He wasn’t a lackbrained fool to damage an asset too much. Delphina would limp for a week or so, not that it mattered for her work. Next time she’d remember who was master of the Fleece.
By Lazarus’s rotten crotch it was as foul a way to greet the dawn as a man could be cursed with. What did he wake to? A piss poor hump and a hefty serve of screeching bitchery. All the fault of that Inns of Court weasel, Bedwell. To be cony catched in his own hall! By the left arm bone of St Anthony he swore he’d have revenge.
He could see it now, Bedwell trussed up on the ground before him, a pleading and a begging for his life. Phil had lovingly replayed the scene over and over in his mind. Yes, first the pleas for mercy and of course he’d consider them and being magnanimous suggest a ‘repayment’ of four pounds value might ease Bedwell’s ‘debts’. He’d even draw up a contract using that tame Gray’s Inn scribbler, Gylberte Fowlke. Then Bedwell would be stored in Delphina’s secret room—for ‘safety’. Anyway the walls were thick and the screams were rarely heard out in Fetter Lane. Afterwards when the gilt came through Bedwell would be released from the Fleece, bruised, battered and most of all repentant, and by the most unfortunate of mischances be discovered head down in the Fleete Ditch within the hour. So sad, such a promising young life cut short by ‘accident’.
This morning though all those pleasant imaginings were naught but moon gilded fantasies as Phil had morosely munched on his manchet loaf and downed a horn of small ale. The compact betwixt the Masters o’ Rogues had offered the most glittering opportunities. For a start he’d been accorded an equal status to Earless Nick, Old Bent Bart, Canting Michael and Captaine Gryne. That alone was a boost to his pride and standing in the Fleece after the Bedwell incident. Several wavering roisters had fronted up and reaffirmed their loyalty, pledging to spend their blood in his service. He’d smiled at the puffed up strutting, but still it had warmed his downcast heart after the black morning.
There was of course a problem. There always was some stinking dog’s turd in the pottage of pleasure. Flaunty Phil, as master of the Wool’s Fleece and surrounds could call up some twenty lads, roisters and rogues, all fit for a brawl or bloody affray. But that was just the vain crowing of a cockerel compared to the stature of Earless Nick. Forty men he could whistle up without effort or debt. So the compact was as tantalising as faerie gold, fine and glittering afore his eyes but as elusive as mist when grasped. That was until he’d received the limping messenger from Old Bent Bart. From there his morning had bucked up to its current glorious pinnacle. According to the squeakings of that lame lad, the Master of Beggars was as worried as himself over the vaulting pre–eminence of Earless Nick, suspecting the Lord of the Liberties
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