Ned grabbed the powder horn and poured a heavy trail along the barrel of the Gonne, especially in any crests or the snarling figures of beasts. He made sure it stopped a good foot or so from the touch hole, then standing well back, he touched it off with the tip of the slow match. The mouth of the Great Gonne flashed in a spout of flame and sulphurous smoke, and the combatants recoiled in shock.
Ned stepped through the cloud beside the fitfully sparkling maw a pistol in each hand. “Yield! Yield I say or I’ll have your souls!”
He must’ve looked like a demon from hell, for several hardened retainers flinched and cried out that Satan was here. He tried a bit of extra stage setting by having sections of burning slow match sticking out of his doublet and looped around his neck. Belsom must have been particularly affected or had a stricken conscience, for he screamed, dropped his sword and fled down the dock. They say that fear lends wings. In this case he needed a bit more, for as he ran his sword hanger straps became entangled with the polyen wing on his gilded thigh armour. He staggered on for a pace until it twitched his stiffened leather scabbard between his ankles. The pursuivant’s clumsiness may have been recoverable, except that Ned chose that moment to level his second pistol and fired. Whether it was from the impact of the ball or not didn’t matter. More’s retainer flinched at its near passage, and as a result, Sir Roderick Belsom, fully rigged in his gilded half armour and helm weighing at least forty pounds in all, and with a despairing wail and terminal splash, tumbled off the side of the wharf into the dark waters of the Thames.
At the disappearance of their lord, the last of his men dropped their weapons and called for quarter. Ned pushed through the crowd and unbarred the prison door, releasing an eager flood, before sagging with relief against the wall.
“Ned! Ned!”
A chorus of shouts pulled him out of his exhausted daze. He turned to see the broad shouldered figure of Rob Black pushing through the cheering crowd of Gryne’s men. Reaching Ned’s side, Rob grabbed him around the waist, lifting him high. “Ned, I saw what you did. It was amazing!”
Ned pummelled Rob on the shoulder all the while trying to breathe.
“Rob, Rob y’ pillock! Let poor Ned down. ‘e’s a tryin’ fo’ a breath!”
It was a sweetly familiar voice and Rob responded to it instantly, apologising for his eagerness. Ned staggered for moment and sketched a brief bow to one of Rob’s pair of Amazon Gonners
“My thanks Lizzie, but how did you get here?”
“Why thank y’s Ned. We wuz in the same wherry as dear Rob ‘ere.”
Ned took another deep breath of clean, free air and looked at the cluster around Rob again. A lot of his crew had skirts—in fact all of them did. The riverside punks from yesterday had returned.
“What are you doing here?” Ned tried very hard to keep the incredulity out of his voice. The extra Gryne’s men he expected, but not half of Petty Wales!
Rob, at least, had the grace to look embarrassed before he stammered out a reply. “Ahh well… That is, ahh… I thought...”
The painful effort was interrupted by Mary who pushed in front of Rob and stood with hands on hips, looking defiantly up at Ned. “Y’r friend ‘ere told us of what wuz going t’ ‘appen. We arn’t high and mighty like them that trots around wit the Lord Mayor, but tis our ‘ome too!”
That got a very loud cheer from the assembly. Ned was impressed, and not a little humbled. None of the guilds had come out to help, but a rag tag of street girls had.
Rob, it seemed, had recovered his voice. He grabbed his friend’s shoulder and pulled him close, gesturing down the river. “Ned, while we were loading the falconet, I saw a string of torches and lanterns off past St Katherine’s. They’re heading this way!”
Ned wearily shook his head—it hurt. That would have to be stage two of the plan, the men to wear the harnesses stored in the ship. Just what was he going to do now? He gave a deep sigh and looked around. Damn, damn, damn and Satan’s merry devils! He’d made such a fuss of proclaiming his right to command all this week to no avail, and here were fifty men and girls all looking expectantly at him, waiting for his orders and he didn’t have a clue.
Searching for inspiration he looked towards the road. The way was clear. No sign of either Canting Michael or Don Juan Sebastian, just a pile of dead and groaning bodies. He gave a silent pray that they’d offed each other, but apart from the open space he had no instant solution. Except for what was here—fifty men and girls.
Fifty men and girls?
Fifty men and girls!
Of course!
And two Great Gonnes!
***
Chapter 32. St Katherine’s Bridge, By the Tower, Riverside, Night–time, 10th June
Ned stood at the end of the bridge, nervously waiting for the marching column to arrive. His palms felt wet and clammy and he could’ve sworn his legs were trembling. So much for being a great leader, his daemon scathingly remarked! At least he had the reassuring presence of Tam Bourke. The mercenary stood beside him holding high the lantern that gave a dim luminance. The wavering lights of the column came closer and Ned could even make out the menacing glint of spear point and bill. He’d been right in his estimation. At four men a rank, there was well over two hundred in the contingent. This waiting was nerve wracking. His tongue felt dryer than rawhide.
Finally, at the other end of the bridge, the column came to a halt and several horsemen rode forward under a shrouded banner. Their hooves rang hollowly as they came onto the bridge.
Ned stepped forward, and in what he hoped was a commanding voice, called out. “Halt in the King’s name!”
The clatter of hooves stopped, except for one rider who slowly edged his horse forward. “Who calls upon us and where is Sir Roderick?”
Ned swallowed. Now they were for it. “I’m Edward Bedwell, pursuivant to Councillor Thomas Cromwell, and I have a warrant from the Privy Council. Sir Belsom is dead. He fell during a brawl earlier this evening!”
Ned felt that was sufficient to make them pause. Two more riders moved forward to join their perplexed companion, and Ned could hear the edge of a discussion. They sounded confused. All the horsemen now trotted to the end of the bridge, and Ned could see their commander was dressed in a more functional version of half armour than the late Sir Roderick. Also, unlike the late unlamented knight, this gentleman had all the presence and manner of a soldier complete with a great Landsknecht style beard. His flankers were also similarly well armed with the look of hard eyed veterans. Ned swallowed again. These were professionals.
“I’m Captaine Harris I was given an Order of Array to bring my Companie here to suppress rioting. Are you telling me there is no disorder?”
Ned felt he’d waited long enough. He raised his hand, and behind him several lanterns were unhooded, revealing the rest of his company in all it martial splendour.
A couple of the horses reared and snorted at the surprise, but not the commander. Captaine Harris kept a firm hand on his rein, rock steady, instead leaning forward to survey the troops before him. It was a long measured minute before he spoke. “Master Bedwell, I note some of your companie are wearing dresses…and ribbons!”
“Yes Captaine. Southwark and Petty Wales Ward Muster, they’re a new parish Companie.” Well it was the best he could come up with at the time. Rob had broken out the hidden armour and everybody wore some of it, even Mary’s punks. Thus Ned stood there in a short leather covered steel brigandine and a polished helm. At a distance and in the dark he’d hoped it looked intimidating.
The commander it seemed wasn’t so easily impressed. “Master Bedwell, if I give the order my men will sweep this lot away.”
It was a simple statement of fact. Even with Gryne’s men, Ned knew they couldn’t stop a determined advance. “True Captaine. However…”
Ned gave another wave and his company split in two. They moved off the centre of the road revealing the pair of Great Gonnes and several falconets lashed to a small dray behind th
e front ranks. Rob stood between them, lit linstock in hand.
The bearded commander gave a very slow nod. London rag tag he could discount, but backed by Gonnes? The man wasn’t a fool or an unskilled, puffed up, glory hound like Sir Belsom. He understood the mathematics of modern warfare. Captaine Harris paused, his head sunk to his chest. Ned knew that at this instant it all depended on the commander’s cold calculation of profit and loss. The lives of all them weighed in the swaying balance of Lady Fortuna.
Finally the commander straightened up, gave a short half bow and tilted his head. “Master Bedwell, I believe we passed a very good Inn a few miles back, the Harts Ease and since there’s no longer a riot, we’ll retire there.”
“That, captaine, would be an excellent idea. As a reward for your loyalty, my master wishes you to have this.” Ned untied his replenished purse, and presented it to the bowing horseman.
Captaine Harris weighed the present in his hand, and broke into a slow smile.
Ned returned his own bow of respect, according to Usages of War. “Captaine, I recommend you all, drink to the health of His Sovereign Majesty.” As if any soldier needed an excuse to have a tankard of ale!
“My thanks Master Bedwell. Would that all my marches were so profitable.” With that the captaine gave an abrupt wave and trotted back to his company.
Ned could hear a series of loud commands, and the clatter and shuffling of soldiers preparing to move. He’d made a fervent prayer that they’d see sense. Then a moment or two’s hesitation and the lights of the column began to move back down the river.
His company gave a wild cheer and Tam Bourke clapped him on the shoulder almost felling him. “Well done, Ned. Ye’ll make a fine captaine!”
His company crowded around, slapping him on the back and kissing him. The first from Gryne’s men had to be endured. The second from the Petty Wales punks he enjoyed despite their helmets almost boffing him on the nose.
In the midst of these celebrations another sound intruded, the clatter of arms and shouts from behind them! “Ware! There’s a company a heading this way!”
Ned could have cursed. He’d forgotten about Don Juan Sebastian. It looked like he wanted the bridge clear. With no time to swing the heavy Gonnes, Ned rallied his band to face about. The dim pools of lanterns swung closer. He’d put Gryne’s men in the front rank. Mary’s punks may have been willing, but donning on a suit of Almain Rivet and waving a pole arm didn’t make them warriors.
“Ho. Tis Red Ned wit’ ye?” A loud coarse voice rang out from the approaching band.
Ned could have sagged with relief and cursed at the same time. It was that damned northerner and his heavily armed lads. “I’m here Skelton. Come no further! What do you want?” Ned didn’t step forward. He felt quite safe as it was.
“That Spanish cur. Has ye seen ‘im ‘ere?”
“He was with thirty men dressed as monks. That was back by the wharf during the fight. I haven’t seen him since and he didn’t come this way.”
That answer received an interesting stream of northern dialect swearing. From the invective, it sounded rightly profane. Ned was glad he didn’t understand the barbarous tongue. “Well, I can deliver a summons ta ye. Ye lass an’ her friend wants ye back at the dock. She seems a mickle distraught lad.”
Ned wasn’t sure if this was another trap by Norfolk’s man, and he wasn’t taking chances either way. “I’ll meet you there, Skelton.”
“Aye lad. See ye keep an eye o’t for’n that Spaniard!” The band of northerners turned and jogged back the way they’d come.
Ned wasn’t so eager to follow without precautions. He left Rob in charge of the Gonnes with the Petty Wales punks, the Ruyter sailors and a dozen of Gryne’s men just in case. The rest formed a solid block at his back and they hurriedly tramped back towards the Tower Wharf. Well at least he could find out what Meg Black was so teary about.
And now his better angel gave him a pointed reminder of what that could be– a dead Ben Robinson. Ahh, that could be it. For a moment shame overwhelmed him. Damn, Ben was a good friend and he’d failed him!
Distraught? How in the seven levels of hell could Skelton call her distraught! The northerner was leaning against the wall, an amused grin on his face, and flanked by his laughing retinue. Ned would have challenged the lying sheep fondler there and then, if he didn’t have more pressing matters. Even Tam Bourke, his solid shield, had shirked his paid duty.
“You miserable measle–brained idiot! The Good Lord spare me from the stupidity of men!” The rage of Meg Black had surpassed anything he’d seen before. She stood there, hands on hips, incandescent with righteous wrath, eyes glowing and hair sparking with anger.
“Damn you for an ungrateful shrew Meg Black! I saved your ship, your cargo and killed Belsom! I stopped his men from plundering the city, spoiled their scheme and saved your life!”
“You louse pricked fool. They weren’t important! It’s Don Juan Sebastian who led the plot!”
“No he was just the messenger. How could he be in charge anyway?”
“I fear Ned lad, the lass has it aright. The Spaniard’s the head o’ the treachery.”
Ned swung around to look at Skelton. The northerner actually appeared to believe that. “How do you know?” he asked suspiciously.
“Cos o’ yon braw heid clerk.” Skelton waved over towards the shadows past the warehouse were Ouze was supporting a hobbling figure.
Ned suddenly felt a rush of relief. There was no mistaking that gleaming dome and prominent nose. “You found Master Robinson!”
“Aye lad. Twas where ye said he’d be a muckin’ about wit the powder, though the Spaniard weren’t there as ye promised.”
Ned heard the threat in that. Skelton still wanted his pound of flesh. A slap across his face reminded him of the ignored Meg.
“Ned Bedwell! Where’s the Spaniard? The whole idea of letting you run loose was to capture Don Juan Sebastian!” Now that was typical. Meg Black thought she was in charge of the venture.
Ned felt a very justified surge of anger. “Me? You were supposed to catch him, as he went to set off the powder at the old abbey! That’s why I sent you there with Skelton!”
“Ahh lad. We did in a few monks on the way, some dozen or so, but nay Spanish catamite.”
Another voice broke through the growing argument. “Ahh Ned. That wasn’t what Don Juan Sebastian had planned. I overheard Watkins and Edwards talking about it.”
Master Robinson had arrived. He sounded a little hoarse and looked blacker and grimier than a turd carter. Ned hoped the colour had more to do with his recent trade than the effects of the powder sorters’ ‘encouragements’.
“Well if he didn’t plan on blowing up the city, what was he going to do?” That may have come out a little waspishly, but it had been a really rough night so far, and his tolerance had fled with the blow from an ungrateful Meg Black.
And no surprise to Ned she interrupted everyone. “Blow up the Tower you dolt!”
Oh no! Ned ignored the fierce scowl of Meg Black and looked up at the darker bulk of the Tower wall. Could the Spaniard do that? For once his angel and daemon were in unison—they both vehemently whispered definitely.
***
Chapter 33. To the Tower! The Tower of London, Night–time, 10th June
Six thousand barrels! Six thousand barrels! Six thousand barrels!
Those numbers were a litany of doom that revolved in his thoughts. What kind of unimaginable destruction could you wrought with that great quantity? Ned would’ve cursed himself for a fool. How could anyone be so moonstruck as to encompass such a plan? To think he’d actually thought himself rather clever with the solution he’d come up with. Having seized the Tower it seemed so simple to hold it and use it to set fire to the eastern part of the city. Wasn’t that what those two hundred or so men he’d turned back were for?
He fended off the approaching wall with his oar as they glided towards the wharf at Traitor’s Gate. This was a damned omino
us entrance to the Tower. Though it was used by His Majesty when the King boarded the Royal Barge, its other use was the traditional portal to which gentry and lords were brought to be incarcerated for the length of His Majesty’s pleasure. Last year Londoners had crowded the riverside leading to this channel, expecting to see transported hither the disgraced Lord Chancellor, Cardinal Wolsey. To their disappointment, Wolsey had gained a reprieve from the King.
Now Ned was cautiously tying up their wherry on the wharf next to another moored boat. The tide was still high so that the water occasionally lapped the slick timber planks. Very quietly the other three boats joined him, hands outstretched to stop the vessels thudding against the oak piles. A muffled curse reached Ned’s ears. Someone in the second boat had caught their fingers between the jostling timbers. He gave a thankful prayer that they’d left Meg Black behind dealing with the injured. She just couldn’t be trusted to keep her mouth shut.
Tam was the first off and moved his large bulk silently towards the iron gate. Preparing for the worst, he cautiously tried it. It was unlocked and easily swung open. The low squeal of poorly oiled iron echoed up the stairway, but nothing happened—no call or cry.
“Where’re ta’ guards?”
That was a good question. Tam was being very observant tonight. Ned leant past him and peered up the stone stairs. The lantern at the top was sputtering. It was a good question. Where were the guards? This was the heart of the King’s realm. Usually fifty yeoman guards patrolled the walls and the gate, so what had happened?
Master Robinson hobbled along the wharf to join in the inspection, closely followed by a wary Skelton. The royal official sadly shook his head. “I heard Edwards gloating over the opportunity. Blackford had drugged their ale and wine. No guards will be awake. Those rats were looking forward to this night. They’d gathered twenty odd scum from the riverside in preparation for a looting spree.”
The Queen's Oranges (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries) Page 38
