He gave up the hunt for the elusive flea and concentrated on the scene below. Other matters were of more concern to him at this moment than factional politics. It was his desperate need to attract the elusive ‘angels’ that had him all disguised and at risk. More so, since this quest wasn’t due to any concern for his soul. The heavenly hosts that served as the guardians of almighty God were no help to him. No, the ‘angels’ Ned so keenly needed, while still golden in hue, were of a grosser, earthier nature, being in essence and fact as his old tutor would say “dug from the manure of the sin and struck with the transitory imprint of worldly pomp and vanity”, or rendered to the understanding of the common man; one gold coin worth seven shillings and sixpence. If Ned was to keep his soul firmly attached to his body past this week, he had to find at least twenty angels. What with, ahh, ‘entertainment expenses’ and an unsurpassable ‘business opportunity’ presented by one of the Lincoln Inn lads, his purse was now emptier than a Bedlam’s wits. He couldn’t even afford the few pennies wherry fare across the Thames, so instead, had cadged a ride up river the night before on an empty barge and jumped ashore by Lambeth Palace. After skulking around the hedges like a beggar, he’d met up with his companions this afternoon, once they’d left St Mary Overie stairs wharf. He didn’t want Canting Michael to have any warning of his presence, as he knew the idling loafers at the wharf were his retained spies looking for wealthy or gullible marks to roll. The capture of an apprentice of Gray’s Inn, one Ned Bedwell, or rather as he was known in this region of Southwark, “Red Ned”, would earn any man several gold angels, and alive maybe double that.
So no matter how itchy, the beard stayed.
Ned payed very close attention to the last circuit of the beasts, and with the fitful blowing from a couple of sackbuts, the first round began. A pair of great English mastiffs, two and half foot at the shoulder and heavily built, were unchained and set against the towering six foot of Terrible Tom, each massive paw armed with claws large enough to disembowel a beast at a single swipe . With their short, tawny coats bristling with outrage, they dropped into a half stance, snarling and clashing their heavy, black faced jaws. The crowd screamed, hungry with anticipation, and the dogs’ howls were overwhelmed by the storm of noise. If those ravens hadn’t left, the wave of noise would have washed them off the eaves like a roiling flood. However it was not the dogs that Ned was watching so carefully but the pattern of wagers made down by the counting table. Slowly a mischievous smile arched across his face and he settled down to watch the show.
Baiting was an old and favoured pastime for Londoners. Even the King liked to watch the contests. The idea was that an animal, be it bear, bull or other combination of beasts, was loosely tethered in the centre of a sand covered ring, and fought to the death against well trained dogs singly or in pairs. A good bout could last for an hour and a prized bear could maim or kill over a dozen dogs. The whole trick of the play was to place your wager on which set of dogs or the bear would triumph at the end of the match. A good bet could see you walk off richer by a heavy bag of golden angels. A loss, of course, was not so good, and left a man vulnerable to the ill winds of fate and an easy mark for the hucksters who prowled the Southwark stews. At the centre of all this commerce stood Canting Michael, the canny cony–catcher who managed the Pits, the wagers and was the master of the rough and tumble lads who ensured the collection of debts, as well as other nefarious tasks. Unfortunately for Ned, Canting was at this moment dead keen to renew an old acquaintance, and openly boasted of his plans for young ‘Red Ned’. Only the musty player’s beard stood between him and an unwelcome reunion. But Ned had a plan of his own for Canting Michael.
***
Will Coverdale was beside himself with anguish, shredding his fine linen kerchief in clenched fingers, as he staggered through the bear pits doorway. “Oh No! Sheer knavery, a half a dozen angels lost!”
Ned gave him a pat of consolation and carefully guided his companions to the street outside, making sure they always walked between him and Canting Michael, who was hissing his discomfort to a pale faced, nervously twitching minion. It was too bad about Will. His friend had been so happy a short while ago, gustily cheering the dogs on with the rest of the audience.
It was the fifth pair of dogs, and Terrible Tom was clearly flagging, his fur was torn and bloody along his massive forearms. Those ferocious claws had downed the previous four pairs of mastiffs, scattering their remains across the clotted sand. Now it had come to the final pair of dogs and the crowd was roaring with frenzy at this, the last battle. Unlike the previous set, these beasts moved their hundred and fifty pounds of eager muscle in linked symmetry, one baiting while the other lunged at the exposed belly or flanks. It was a useful tactic and spoke of good training by their handler. By this stage the betting had been closed down and Canting Michael could be seen leaning against a post with a sneeringly satisfied smile. No beast had ever survived so long. It was going to be a victory for the mastiffs. And then in an instant it changed. Both dogs lost the pattern of attack and halted in midst of a joint strike before being bowled over by a single backhanded blow, landing heavily against the flint stone facing of the pit. The fight was over—Terrible Tom o’Taunton was victorious.
Ned’s remembrance of the struggle was broken by another peevish complaint from Will. “Ned! I can see your smirk through that infested face mirkin. By the saints, what do you have to happy about? This wipes me out for a month. No more parties and dicing at the Boars Head and I’ll have to grovel to my uncle for silver. Nooo ... he’s such a sanctimonious tight purse!”
Poor Will, he wasn’t taking his loss very well. From the heart felt wail, you’d think he’d been robbed rather than eagerly handing over his share for the wager. Geoffrey’s sour grimace and clenched lips betrayed a similar disappointment. Like Ned, he was more used to the travails of chance. As for Ned, he was so excited it was hard not to burst into laughter at the morose faces of his friends. Anyway despite continued moans and complaints, they allowed him to steer them away from the Paris Gardens until he finally saw his target—a well built lad with impressive shoulders and a head surmounted by a thicket of spiky brown hair waving to him.
“Ho, Master Bedwell. Over here.”
Ned winced slightly at the booming call of his name and hurried over before grabbing the young giant’s arm. “Ahh, could we not shout out. Secrecy is the watchword, remember.” Ned glanced nervously over his shoulder, scanning the clustered road for signs of sudden interest. So far there was none.
“Oh, sorry Ned.” The young giant grinned and thrust a large weighty purse into Ned’s open hand. “Here’s your wager as you’d asked. The gentleman at the counting table didn’t seem too happy to hand it over. I think it’s right—over eighty five angels you reckoned.”
His other two companions stood there in the roadway, mouths dropped open in surprise. That sight alone would have been worth the itchy beard even without the golden reward. Ned made a point of giving the pouch a quick jingle in front of their amazed faces and with a cheeky grin asked “Well, where to now to celebrate?”
Since his two companions were still lost in the wonder of the cony catch at the Bear Pits, they missed their chance. The genial former possessor of the purse gave a broad smile and waved his arm towards the centre of Southwark “Ahh good sirrahs, I know a place– good food and ale all at reasonable prices. Anyway I have to meet someone there and you are welcome to join me.”
With Will and Geoffrey still too stunned to argue, Ned seized the chance to lead. So far so good. He slapped his large purse bearer on a broad shoulder and gave a jaunty wave. “That’s a generous suggestion friend. Excellent—lead on and we’ll split the winnings over a meal.”
The party moved off down the muddy road, towards the spire of the bishop’s palace, well away from the rising sound of Canting’s displeasure. While Ned was bubbling over with excitement and satisfaction, he still cast a wary look over his shoulder. None of the crowd they strolled with had t
hat lean and menacing demeanour favoured by the more common roisters. So far he was safe and once more he’d won out over Canting. Now his future looked secure—his share over sixty glorious golden angels. Lady Fortuna had cast her bright smile upon him. One more careful play and his days of having to grovel to his uncle would be over!
As they walked towards Southwark, Ned grinned in wicked memory. In desperate times, a man must steel himself for desperate risks. Every man knew that Lady Fortuna did not reward the timorous or the unprepared. So over the past week Ned had been his own intelligencer, sneaking across the river at night to spy out the Paris Gardens and the associated beast enclosures. The heavy touting of Terrible Tom by Canting’s men had him suspicious, and a few nights ago his effort had paid off. He’d found a good spot, wedged underneath an eave by the beast cages. This hidey hole had been dry, sort of warm and well out of sight, though the insects and mice had favoured it as well, and their bites and scamperings had been a sore trial. Concealed and shadowed, he gained a good idea of the keeper’s rounds and learned all manner of useful remedies to spice up the condition of a wan beast. However, as handy as these may be if he was reduced to the level of a dung sweeper, his real gift had been Canting’s visit, as he relayed his instructions to the dog handlers. The bear was to survive four sets in good condition, but the fifth was to do him in. These fellows first had grovelled compliance, until Canting slipped off on other business. Then while sheltering from a sudden rain burst under the thatch further around the corner of the building, Ned overheard them chortling over some trick they planned with a whistle. One of their mates was fixed up to lay a wager of twenty angels at odds of 3 to 1, and by the end of the match they’d be both rich and gone. They must have been fresh in from the counties. Whether they’d survive such a trick was doubtful, but they meant to try.
That had set Ned to thinking. Since the art of cony–catching was to be practiced, he may as well join in and catch out the catchers. What he needed was an accomplice, someone unknown to Canting, but also trustworthy. In a city like London such a person was rarer than a unicorn or the virgin who went with it.
For days the problem plagued him and he was fast running out of time and silver with still no way to solve the conundrum of where to find such a paragon. That was until he was walking along Breadle Street one morning earlier this week and became caught up in a wagon jam. There at the front of the yelling, cursing carters and the amused crowd was a miracle. Some aged goodwife had lost a wheel off her small dray and the London swaggerers were using the misfortune as good entertainment, teasing the poor, distraught woman by offering to help, then spinning the wheel across to their jeering mates. Not that he wasn’t amused, but he reckoned the joke was well past its welcome and the fools had more than their share of fun—now was time to make good. Then before he could speak up, a veritable giant of a man had pushed through the crowd. He casually seized the wheel and, almost with one hand, lifted up the dray and put it back on. Feats of strength were to be applauded but then the young Hercules went a step further. He quietly chastised the swaggerers for their unchristian acts and helped the old goodwife pick up her load of spilt sea–coal. It was then that Ned saw his future. His shoulder daemon whispered possibilities. The blessed saints were with him and instinctively he stepped forward to help his new found partner!
Chapter Two–The Clink Southwark
The dampness seeped in from the clouded darkness beyond the bars, and slowly condensed on the green moss that clung tenaciously to the rough face of the wall. Every minute or so a large drop would detach and plummet past the worn grooves and mortar, speeding its way to the spreading puddle in the muck below. Eventually it found its way past the stones and mud, till once more it joined the waters of the great river beyond.
This time it was different. The stately cycle was halted as it dropped into a dark yawning cavern and its journey took another path. A slumped figure came to, coughing and spluttering, spat a noisome gob at the opposite wall, then collapsed once more, thudding his head against the wall and moaned loudly. Ned Bedwell tried to rub his face with open hands, and cried in pain as the iron shackles battered his already bruised features.
“Sweet mother…never again!”
Despite the heavy tendrils of musty darkness in his brain, a flash of the earlier rush lit evening came back to him. It was at the Paris Gardens baiting pits– they must have started there, they always did, then onto the stews of Southwark. Of course he crossed the river, but damn him if he could remember. Then one fragment of bright memory shot through the cloying morass of pain, a heavy bag of eighty five clinking, golden coins, each with the reassuring embossed figure of an angel landing in his hand. Instinct, hope and reflex made him reach for his purse. It was gone. Noooooo! Angels, his beautiful angels! The space was as empty as a tosspot’s tankard. Belatedly he grabbed for his blade…damn! May as well wish for the Queen of the Faerie. Either the Watch or the gaoler had already pawned it for a firkin of sack.
Cursing, Ned fell back and winced at the pain in his head, as it bounced once more on the wall. Usually he would have fallen into a red rage at the indignity, shouting and roaring, but his head hurt too much for anger. So instead Ned breathed deeply and clutched for a remote inner stillness. It wasn’t just his face or the dull throbbing ache from the lump on his forehead. Spasming pain racked his body until he’d learnt to take shallower breaths. Experience cajoled his dulled wits, a cracked rib or two—God’s curse on the scum who must have kicked him. Hopefully the sot had broken his twice cursed toe.
Once more Ned tried to dredge the darker patches of his memory for the night’s proceedings. What had gone wrong and why was he shackled in a cell? He searched hard, straining to grasp the gimlet of fleeting thought, but no, it was just a jumble of blurred images. One face occasionally stood out—a large smiling lad with a deep laugh, but that was all. Grunting in pain Ned shifted on the damp pile of what he hoped was straw. Maybe the dawn would bring better tidings.
It didn’t. All the light brought was a clearer view of his cell. The walls were covered in multi coloured slime, obscuring some of the scratched marks and incised lettering of despair. A crack in the mortar half way down the wall trickled water into the muddy waste covering the floor. Despite its battering, his nose still worked fine. Ned was quite inordinately proud of his nose. He felt its long, fine appearance gave him a distinguished demeanour. This magnificent proboscis told him clearly that the mud at his feet had passed through many a poor soul before being deposited here.
It would have been close to midday before anyone appeared. He’d heard all the bells of the morning mass chime. The distinctive peel of St Mary Overie sounded close. At a guess that placed him still in Southwark. As the last ring tolled into the cell and faded, he heard an approaching wheeze and the welcome rattle of keys. After an impatient wait that seemed to last an eternity, a single eye peered over the bottom ledge of the door grill. The singular orb was attached to a small man who hopped up and down, straining to reach the lofty height of almost four and a half feet. For a few minutes it provided a welcome distraction, but after that, when nothing further happened he called out. “How about some food and a firkin of ale?”
Ned knew the ritual well– you paid for food and lodgings, or were ignored by the gaolers, or worse still, were fed the slops and leavings they gave to men too destitute to care. Damn, no coin—some thieving foister would pay for that insult when he finally remembered. Ned considered leaving his belt and shirt as surety until he got a message back to his lodgings. Surveying his slim resources, Ned felt that boots were a necessity. The rain had not been heavy enough to wash the accumulated filth from the streets into the river, and that was one indignity he preferred not to suffer. Presumably the charge would be brawling so a small bribe and a fee spread around, and he should be out by this evening, much lighter in silver. Though, how to magic coin out of an empty purse required more ingenuity than he was currently capable.
The short gaoler didn’t answer, b
ut the sound of a retreating cough gave him some hope that the man wasn’t afflicted with deafness as well as being a dwarf. With a frustrated sigh, he cautiously lent back and waited. By inclination he was not patient. So he’d give an hour past the midday bells, then raise as much ruckus as his aching ribs would allow.
It was closer to the None bells, a few hours before sunset—he had counted them all. The whole day had past and nothing—the stumpy jailor had not returned. He would have cursed roundly, damning them all to the devil and hell and beyond, except that his mouth now felt like the floor looked, though a good deal drier. Ned had considered sucking moisture off the spongy green growth above the bars, but he was not near parched enough to succumb to that dubious temptation. So he was left to compose himself as patiently as possible, and that was proving a sore trial.
Anger sat hard with him, but reciting some prayers helped. Well maybe for the first hour or two after Vespers. Now in the deep night of the cell, even that was beginning to wear thin. Ned could hear the evening sounds of the city, distant and muffled by the thick walls. Still it drew him and helped fuel a low, sullen rage. As almost a gentleman, he deserved better treatment than this! Surely his companions, Geoffrey Sutton or Will Coverdale, should have noticed his absence by now. Ned did at least recall that they accompanied him the other day, so why hadn’t he been released or bailed? They’d helped each other before in similar scrapes. Shivering in the evening damp, Ned curled up on the straw as far from the muddy tide as possible, and slowly drifted into a fitful sleep.
The Cardinal's Angels (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries) Page 4
