Skelton gave an evil chuckle. “Nay need ta worry. My lads looked affer that gang o’ wharf scrapings.”
He growled out a further command to his fellow northerners, and drawing swords, they quietly paced up the stairs. Ned was quite happy to let him lead the way. Norfolk’s man had done a bit of looting of his own earlier that night, and acquired one of the powder sorter’s breech loading wheellock harquebus. With a weapon like that, Ned wanted Skelton in sight all the time.
Whatever the drugs were, they’d worked. Two guards were slumped by the exit of St Thomas’s tower. Ned stooped down and checked them. Well, well. Sergeant Cod Scratcher was one, and he was snoring away like a babe. Ned resisted the urge to kick him. Drugged wine that was a very cunning ploy and helped explain why no one from the Tower had raised any alarm over the affray down by the wharf. He’d been curious about that silence, once he’d had time to think about it after the battle. “Ben, where are the powder stores?”
Master Robinson pointed to his left and swept his arm in a full arc to the far right. It took in most of the inner ward. “They’ll use the ones from Bell Tower around to Bowyer Tower.”
This was looking pretty daunting. Between both groups they only had twenty five men. How were they supposed to cover all that area? He should have insisted that Meg yield those dozen men she’d seized for the ship.
“Why them?”
“Cos I hid all the keys, and only told them where the ones for Lion, Beauchamp and Devereux towers were.”
“What, why do that?”
“Firstly Ned, I wanted to stay alive. Each tower bought me a couple of days.”
Ned shut up. That was a pretty compelling reason. Master Robinson sounded extremely strained. Ned had only seen the results of the powder sorters plots. They’d struck him as particularly evil and callous. Being in their hands for several days would lead to all manner of inventive techniques for ensuring cooperation. At that moment he was glad it was dark. He didn’t want to see how they had persuaded Ben Robinson. He felt guilty enough as it was.
The ordinance official turned to Norfolk’s retainer. “Master Skelton, if you send your men over to the north wall and rip out any slow match cord or powder trails leading to the base of the towers, we’ll scotch these traitors. The quickest path will be along the ramparts from Wakefield Tower.”
Even in this limited light, Ned could see that Skelton wasn’t happy about being given orders. He slowly shook his head. “I’s after that Spanish rat. Where’s the catamite goin’ ta be a hidin’?”
“Beauchamp or Martin on the northern wall has the largest stores. He’ll be there.”
Skelton paused in thought before giving a short nod, and quietly moved off towards the gate of the inner ward.
Ned heaved a sigh of relief. That was one more enemy dealt with, though here in the passage between the inner and outer walls, the silence was eerily disturbing. Ned shivered. Too many ghosts walked here. He’d enough haunting him already. “Excuse me Ben, I’m a bit confused. What’s going on? Why send off half our force?”
The formerly missing royal official lent towards him and whispered. “Do you trust him?”
What kind of question was that? Ned didn’t even have to think about it. “Hell no. I’d trust a weasel or a Frenchman first!”
“Nor do I Ned. Nor do I. Over there he keeps busy while we go deal with Don Juan Sebastian.”
“You know where he is?” Ned wanted Don Juan Sebastian really, really badly. That damned Spaniard had cost him too much pain and humiliation. It was time for recompense.
“After a fashion. The White Tower is where Welkin will be. He’ll know the full plan.”
Ned gave a secret smile of satisfaction. Skelton was going to be furious when he found out he’d been cozened—again.
They kept to the deeper darkness by the walls, following after Skelton’s band, and hoping to avoid detection, Ned had one pistol out with the spring wound in preparation. It may be noisy to use, but he didn’t think it was any more risky than a bout of sword play. More unconscious guards were leaning against the heavy timber gate. The false monks had used them as convenient door props. Ned pushed himself flat against the wall at the last edge of darkness, before the wan light of the gate lanterns. He hoped that Skelton’s lads had cleared any lookouts from above. They should’ve. If the tales were true, northerners had a habit of night time murder and cattle stealing.
He was about to move through the gate when the echo of footsteps and clinking froze him in place. Then there was a loud thud as if someone had dropped a box. “Damn you for an aged measle louse. Pick it up and hurry!”
Ned gave a slow predatory smile and sent a silent pray to Lady Fortuna. Everything did come to those who waited!
As an ambush it was easy. They waited by the wall for the shuffling party to pass by, pretending to be more unconscious guards. After they had passed Ned and company quietly stood up, followed them to Traitors Gate and grabbed them before the water stairs. “Sir Welkin, good to see you again.”
The Master of Ordinance almost screeched with fright. Ned, however, had his left hand over the open mouth, while another shoved a pistol meaningfully into Sir Welkin’s back. His small band of retainers took even less effort to secure. So much for loyalty.
“All right Welkin. What’s going on?”
If any man could be said to be a quivering in his boots, then it was be Sir Welkin. He shook and shivered as if he had a severe bout of the palsy.
“I...I...I don’t know. I escaped from that Spaniard and I’m.... I’m... No you can’t…”
At that point his trembling brought a halt to his inventiveness. Ned had bent down and opened one of the iron chests that his men had so clumsily been carrying. Even the dim light was enough to see its golden contents. Well! It appeared Sir Welkin was doing a runner on his companions in treachery.
“Sir Welkin, at a guess this would be the payments for the powder?”
Tam looked down into the chest and then ran his finger appreciatively along the notched edge of his cleaver. “I reckon he gets ta axe.” Tam could be very perceptive when it came to lawful execution.
Master Robinson though shook his head. “No Master Bourke. This is high treason. It will be the full display on Tower Hill.” Then in a voice full of kindly concern, he explained in detail the full measure of punishment for treason—hanging, drawing and quartering. His former superior gibbered in fright, pleading for mercy, until Ned showed him the path of salvation.
Slowly and carefully they rowed the wherry along the moat, oars quietly dipping into the water. After the right incentive, Welkin had been very helpful regarding the full extent of Don Juan Sebastian’s plot. It was very clever. In their passage, Ned had a brief space of quiet to ponder the simple elegance of it. If you wanted to destroy a kingdom why bother with engaging expensive armies to march around in the mud, endlessly besieging forts and cities? Far easier and cheaper in one fell swoop to exhaust their powder supply, destroy their Gonnes, level the mint, wipe out the royal treasury and leave a great ruin as a symbol of English impotency.
So to do all that, the monks were spread throughout the Tower defences, watching for the signal to light their fuses and successively demolish the keystone of London’s defence, section by section ending at Lion Tower. That final bastion would be blown after they’d crossed the last bridge to Tower Street. And here Belsom’s company was supposed to march across London to Whitehall where they’d expected to join and rally with the Queen’s adherents. Ambitious, insane and unless they stopped it, still possible.
Ned tried not to panic. It was difficult to tell what time it was, but Don Juan Sebastian must have had at least an hour or more to set up the final stage of his demolition. Now he could only hope that Skelton and his barbaric crew were hard at work slitting the throats of monks and ruining powder trails. Right now he prayed that their improvised plan worked. They were almost at the bridge. Any moment now…
***
Chapter 34. The L
ion’s Roar, The Lion Tower, Night–time, 10th June 1
The Tower complex, while being the seat of Royal power was, still at heart, a fortress meant to overawe and defend. The fact that it had rarely ever had to withstand siege or assault was irrelevant. Successive monarchs had incorporated all the new innovations of military architecture as soon as money had permitted, and no where was better than the Tower, where the King’s ‘might’ could be viewed and celebrated by his loyal citizens of London and visiting foreigners, while for the Guilds it gave a certain satisfaction to see where someone else’s taxes were spent. As part of this defensive design, in the past it was considered useful to have a two stage bridge over a moat. The first bridge spanned from the bulwark Petty Wales to Lion and Middle Tower, followed by another bridge to Byward Tower which gave access to the passage between the inner and outer walls. Very clever, very secure and very difficult to sneak through, as long as there was someone keeping watch.
Ned would be the first to damn Don Juan Sebastian as a blackhearted popinjay, but even his daemon readily conceded that the Spaniard knew the Arts of War as well as any captaine. Two men under the gateway lanterns and the faint shadow of another could be seen on the top battlement, as they walked the parapet. There was no way to get across without being seen, as you crossed the bridge.
Which is were Sir Welkin came in. Ned eased the wherry under the span. He could hear the casual conversation of the two guards above. Now he had to depend upon Ben Robinson and Ouze playing their part. A collection of footsteps echoed above him
“Ho fellow, is your master in the tower?’ The quavering voice of Sir Welkin punctured the silence.
“Christ blud sir. Nay so loud. Where’s ye bin anyways? T’ captaine ‘xpected ye back haf a’ hur ago.”
“My varlets here are a damn lazy pack. Took ‘em forever to load.”
“Here watch ut…Arghh.”
Once more a box dropped, followed by an exclamation ending in a gurgle, closely followed by the clatter of a dropped weapon and finally the thud of a body hitting the flagstones. Ned pulled the wherry out from its cover to beside the Middle gate. Ouze dropped a rope over the parapet and Ned, followed by the other four in the vessel, scrambled up and dodged into the shadow of the gate arch. Ben Robinson had a shaky Welkin covered with one of the wheellocks while Ouse, Tam and two more of Gryne’s men scouted the rest of the passage through to Lion Tower. Ned grabbed a lantern off the wall and gave it a couple of waves towards Byward Tower. From deep within the gate tunnel a hooded lantern was opened once. Excellent! The rest of their band was now traversing the western walls. Ned prayed it was enough. Between them and the party Ben Robinson had sent to check the White Tower, he was left with only ten men to take out Don Juan Sebastian and however many retainers. Considering what happened the last time he didn’t like the odds.
Ned recited a quiet prayer.
Pater noster qui es in caelis.
Sanctificetur Nomen tuum.
Adveniat regnum tuum.
By the saints, this was taking for ever. He’d recited it several times already. Another three and up the stairway they’d go. Back at Traitors Gate he’d come up with a rudimentary timing so that they could coordinate their actions. The arrangement was ten slow recitations of the paternoster and then they’d take on Don Juan Sebastian. It’d better be soon. The night wasn’t as quiet as it had been. The sounds of some sort of affray could be heard from beyond Lion Gate bulwark. Ned had the feeling they were running out of time.
He’d say the prayer once more then go for it. The sounds of conflict were getting closer.
Fiat voluntas tua.
Sic ut in caelo et in terra.
His pistol and sword were at the ready and his stomach churned as though he had the gripe. He could only guess what was going on across the short bridge. A yell echoed from just past the lower gateway.
Panem nostrum quotidianum da noblis hodie.
Then the door he was standing next to opened.
“Hey Paul, Paul! T’ captaine wants ta know where Welkin’s at ...Christus who are you?” A heavily built figure in monk’s robes burst through the opening. He must’ve been almost running down the tower stairs from his speed. He took one surprised look at Ned, and tried two conflicting moves, drawing a blade concealed under his monk’s robes, and at the same time throwing himself backwards. Failing at both, the false monk instead slipped over and crashed onto the steps in flail of arms and legs. Shocked by this dramatic arrival, Ned reacted instinctively. His hand flexed and the pistol discharged with a roar that bounced along the stone passageway until it sounded like a Great Gonne.
As if Don Juan Sebastian needed any further warning that his plan was going awry!
Luck had directed the path of the missile, hitting the monk in the shoulder. The wounded man’s screams and a second pistol blast confirmed the potential collapse of the plot. Welkin had made his last poor choice. In the growing racket he’d made a break for freedom. Ben Robinson casually shot him in the back. Though appropriate justice, it didn’t make life any easier for Ned. A talking prisoner may have been useful. With a curse, he kicked the wounded man out of the doorway and made for the stairs. At the clatter and groans from behind him Ned assumed the monk was playing improvised doormat. With luck it signalled two more of Gryne’s men were following.
Ned was concerned with reaching the top of the tower. In the initial surge he’d passed the first and second levels, and though now he’d slowed down, the shouts from the parapet told him that the element of surprise was gone, as did the distinct ring of weapons on stone above him in the stairway. It sound like a hundred armoured soldiers. A similar roar from below indicated that his men where surging up in his wake. Being in the middle of the clash suddenly struck him as a very poor choice, and not part of duties of a commander. Ned reckoned he’d a few seconds before becoming a smear on the wall, so leaping up the stairs two at a time, he made it to the third level, and ducked into an alcove, where he wedged his body into the shadows just as a dozen monks thudded down the stairs.
Where was Don Juan Sebastian getting all these warrior monks? Couldn’t he run out soon? Ned felt a trifle outnumbered. The crash of opposing armies roiled up the stairs. The splattering thuds made him very glad he wasn’t part of this battle. It sounded like morning at the Aldgate shambles.
Cautiously edging back into the stair he gave a quick glance below, before continuing his steady ascent, sword and dagger at the ready. It was the last flight. Ned was almost bent double when he passed through the open hatch onto the parapet space, the better to reduce his shadow from the dim radiance spilling up from the lantern below. That probably saved his life. A heavy axe bit into the oak door where his chest should have been. He dropped and lunged forward with his sword, as Master Sylver had drilled him, and felt the satisfying shudder of blade punching through flesh. His assailant gave a sigh and collapsed onto the stone floor. However the monk kept a firm grip upon the sword. Rather than contest it, Ned cleared the entrance in a diving roll. This was another wise choice. The whisper of a deft sword hissed past his ear.
A light flared. Someone had lit a torch and Ned’s skilful evasion abruptly terminated as he collided with a barrel.
“Master Bedwell! Good to zee you again. I missed you at the wharf.”
It was as hateful a voice as it was last year, heavy with that hawked Castilian lisp. Ned gave his head a shake to clear the stars that flashed before his eyes, and scrambled around until the barrel was between the Spaniard and him.
“Yeay surely, Don Juan Sebastian. And I’ve missed you as much as the Spanish pox!” Ned hauled out the unloaded pistol and pointed towards the advancing Spaniard. His opponent was giving his sword a few lazy swings and grinning with feral delight. This was weird. The Spaniard was ignoring the pistol pointing at his chest. At this range the foreigner must have known Ned couldn’t miss. Did he realize it wasn’t loaded? No, that wasn’t possible. Was it?
“Tch, tch, Master Bedwell. That would not
be a wize act.”
“Another step, Don Juan Sebastian, and you can tell it to Satan’s devils.” Was the Spaniard insane? Why didn’t he take notice of the threat?
“If I do you’ll be by my side. Look at the barrel Master Bedwell.”
Ned spared a glance downwards, and his blood, heated by threat and violence, chilled to ice. It was one more of those damned, cursed barrels of the King’s powder and the bedlam fool had the top open. He slowly got up and backed away a pace still keeping the barrel between them.
“Don Juan Sebastian, your plot is over. I’ve got men going through all the powder stores. You’ll not blow them up now.”
“But Master Bedwell, I didn’t rely on them.” Don Juan Sebastian half turned and snarled a command. A small flash sparked up, illuminating the terrified profile of Welkin’s aged servant. The tardy retainer was trying to light up a powder train. Past that Ned could see three rows of fireworks pointing in the direction of the Tower
“It very simple. The roof of every tower is covered in loose power, a few sparks and well...”
Ned had the impression that Don Juan Sebastian was going to reveal a bit more of his extremely cunning plan. However that was cut short by the ‘sproing’ of a ball hitting the stone parapet to his right. The Spaniard dove for cover. If it wasn’t for problems of his own, Ned would have used the distraction to leap at his foe. Several shots now peppered the small space around him forcing him to seek the same shelter as the Spaniard, though at the distance of a few feet. They weren’t the only ones affected by the volley. Welkin’s old servant gave a loud squeal of fright, dropped his lantern, and scuttled towards the open stairway. The power trail remained unlit. Ned gave an amused chuckle as another volley slammed into the tower. Someone must have found a few harquebuses. From the angle of the shot, it was probably from the top of Byward Tower. You’d get a good sloping angle from there.
The Queen's Oranges Page 39
