The dreams were cold and shivery with the chill damp. Ned twitched violently in the morass of sleep and came to in a sudden jolt, gasping and sweating. Oh good Lord save him! It seemed like a phantasm or nightmare, though the images had the sharp clarity of memory. They were flashes of a fight, a wine dark fountain that splattered the wall after he had withdrawn the blade, the forlorn wail of a man scrabbling in the mud while the fellow’s life blood tricked from the wound. Ned recalled the long blade clenched in his hand and turning to face another, then pain and darkness. How such an event came to be, he had no idea. The golden memory of his angels was dimmed by the sudden visitation of the grim reaper. Life, or rather death, could be like that in London, walking down the wrong street or a disputed gambling debt, or a robbery. Ned pulled his legs up and clasped his knees to stop the trembling. Somehow the Southwark Common Watch had stumbled on whatever had happened, and as a consequence, he was here in this miserable hole.
In a spasm of anger Ned struck the wall with his shackles. Damn, it would be an inquest and then a trial! He didn’t have near enough to bribe the judge or any jury. Perhaps he could always claim benefice of clergy and escape hanging. Reluctantly he pushed that solution aside. Being branded made any future career fraught with difficulties. Ned considered whether his uncle would stand good lord for him. Well it could sway either way, depending on the old sneerer’s calculations of advantage. His shoulder daemon muttered it was a desperate chance and not a risk to stake his life on.
Ned carefully rubbed his face with his manacled hands. Escape may be possible—it all depended on whether the Watch had dumped him in the Clink or the Compter. If it was the first, Old Josiah, the warder, was known to favour the not so discrete present for the quiet release of prisoners before their arraignment to the local justice. But if it was the second then the problems were only starting. Henry Kemp, its warden, had a sinister reputation—relatives of any gaoled man knew that unless the good warder was suitably rewarded, their loved one would suffer. It was common talk that he’d kept one poor soul half–alive, surviving on wormed bread and biscuit for three years, till the family was bled dry. Even worse was that since Kemp reported to the Surrey Justices, the usual officials in London across the river, possibly amenable to his family influence, were as much use as petitioning the Pope.
It was a quandary. He was not in the common gaol with the rest of the gutter sweepings, so that may be promising. However a separate cell also meant something else a bit darker than normal prison. They didn’t give you your own cell just for murdering a soul in the Liberties of Southwark. According to rumour at the Inns of Court, this treatment presaged the death of someone of standing who’d be missed and if they had connections with the church…? It was a church court before the Bishop of Winchester, a man of ill temper and completely lacking the milk of human kindness.
Grimly Ned considered his options. It didn’t take long, maybe a few minutes. He wished it was an hour, but that would be delusion. The possibilities were painfully short—maintain his innocence till they hanged him, keep his silence till they pressed him with weights and he died, or confess, and hope that claiming the rights of the learned would protect his life. No matter which way Ned looked at it, a rosy future was unlikely.
In the midst of these black thoughts Ned heard the slow shuffle and cough of the dwarf gaoler finally returning. Since it was still the long dark hours before dawn, such a visit gave hope. Most releases were in the second or third hour after sun up, just to be sure they had the right prisoner, as well as to judge the quality of the payment.
The rattling cough reverberated down the corridor, along with the sound of dropped keys. The echo of a thud and accompanying curse lifted his spirits—maybe he had a chance. After all no one hired gaolers to think and that dwarf appeared dimmer than a village idiot. Pulling himself up, Ned edged around the wall in preparation.
Freedom was a step away!
Chapter Three–An Uncle’s Kind Regard? St Lawrence Poor Jewry
Or not.
Slowly the heavy door had opened and the small jailor stepped in, blinking as he’d held a battered lantern above his head. It could have worked. It should have worked but the two armed men behind were brighter and followed the dwarf too closely for surprise. The larger one had raised a pair of shaggy questioning eyebrows at his attempted ambush, shook his head and tsked loudly in disappointment, while his friend gave a deep nasty chuckle.
Feeling cheated by Lady Fortuna, Ned dropped his clenched hands and, resignedly, took his place between the amused guards. As they left the building, the flickering lantern told him the news—it was the Clink. Oh no! Ned wasn’t going to be done over by old Kemp’s warders until he was a toothless wreck! He struggled free and attempted to make a run for it. The abrupt sharp thwack of a pole across his legs terminated the escape and brought him face down into the mud of the street. The sneering guard picked him up and swiftly pulled a coarse cloth bag over his head, then gripped tightly between them, they marched through the dark streets of Southwark. For Ned it was a painfully short journey that terminated abruptly as he was dropped into a waiting boat.
The landing was awkward, setting his damaged ribs complaining afresh at the treatment, but he hadn’t time for that. Instead Ned was disciplining his breathing. The gagging stench from the shrouding cloth almost had him throwing up, and he had no intention of being smothered by his own puke. So for whatever reason they were crossing the river to London. It certainly beat tripping over the turds and refuse via the bridge. Any relief soon passed as once more he found himself still hooded and blind, being led through successive alleys of the city.
The difficulty of travelling in a concealing hood was that your feet were ambushed by every rock and hole, while the uneven cobbles conspired to trip you up. As for the turds and the filth of the gutter, they made a poor situation even worse. Ned had voiced a few complaints regarding the steering of his escort. Their abrupt reply had set his ribs aching again. The other problem was that in the dark, in the dead of night, he had no idea where he was being dragged to. The question of a destination was uppermost in his thoughts, surpassing even the matter of bruised feet and slimed boots. The only hopeful omen for this clandestine escort was that Ned could be fairly certain they weren’t heading for the Tower, for which he sent up a private prayer of thanks. Discrete night time journeys to the royal prison cum residence tended always to use the water gate from the river. Obviously, by the ruts and cobbles, he was in the city proper, so not Southwark. That was…good? Ned didn’t know whether it had been the headache, sore ribs, or lack of water that had him so thick headed. But now suspicion and fear coursed through his body, firing up his previously dulled mind. Someone important paid out a hefty ‘Clink bribe’ to get him. It’s a pity his memory felt so fogged. He couldn’t instantly recall any powerful men who might think that young Ned Bedwell had a debt to pay. While it was possible some London aldermen and guild masters looked less than kindly upon him for various misdemeanours or ‘misadventures’, none sprang to mind as being in the Canting Michael class of grudge holder or vindictiveness. As his feet tripped over a mound of something extremely squelchy and putrid, Ned’s instincts came into shaper focus at the stench. He clamped his jaws shut at the urge to vomit.
Even with the twists and turns this was a long passage. Was this the centre of the city? The sounds of the night were muffled by the hood and he struggled to remember the feel of the cobble stones under his feet. Was this Cheapside? The surface was teasingly familiar. One dreadful consideration caused a shiver of apprehension. Maybe the other night, had he by mischance slain a relative of one of the premier families of London? It was whispered on the street, that some senior aldermen had an impatient attitude to the due process of law. If it was so, then this could be his last journey!
As that implication of his current suspicion worked thought to its logical conclusion, Ned threw himself sideways and collided with the guard on his left. His shackled hands swung down, thudding i
nto the man’s thigh. He could hear the guard grunt with pain and collapse. Next he dropped to a crouch and lunged to the right. The second guard must have been stunned by the sudden violence for he barely turned before Ned’s shoulder drove into his midriff, followed by the rest of his six foot frame. Guard two slammed into a wall and fell to the ground gasping for breath. Ned straightened up and began to drag off the hood when a pole knocked his hands away. A band tightened suddenly around his throat as a voice from behind gave a menacing drawl.
“Nay! Naught o’ that master strife. We’s can drag yea there like a carcase or yea can walk. Troubles me naught. Which is it to be, lad?”
The rope tightened around his neck and Ned felt a sudden, clawing need for air. His shoulder daemon whispered fight it out—with two down the odds were good. However his guardian angel counselled prudence. Mayhap he could bargain later—he was good at bargaining. Ned chose a longer span of life and dropped his hands. The other two guards, once they were back on their feet, made sure he remembered every stumbling step of his journey. The one on the right had a penchant for slamming his charge into walls. So it was a much more bruised and battered Ned who finally reached his destination. The deferential knock at a solid timber door and the click of the lock had that well oiled, heavy tone that bespoke care. Then under foot was the squeak of floorboards rather than the rustle of rushes, or the hollow tap of stone flagging. So the miscellaneous sounds hinted at a private house, rather than another prison. That could be useful—a house offered greater hope of escape.
With none too gentle jabs in the back, Red Ned, hero of the Paris Gardens Bear pits, was urged forward, up a timber staircase and face first into a hanging bracket. Their jeering laughter echoed in his ears and Ned swore quietly. Those vindictive whoresons would get theirs soon enough!
The final passage was down a corridor and to the left through another doorway. At least it was warm. Ned could hear the steady crackle of a fire, and smell through the stifling cloth, the rich scent of fresh chestnuts. It made his mouth drool in easily recalled hunger. However it was another more familiar aroma that had him stiffen in startled shock, one of sweet cinnamon, tinged with the tang of lemons. Oh damn, it had to be here, didn’t it? That would account for the elusively familiar route through the city.
The rank cloth was pulled from his head, and with a subservient bow, his guards left, one of them sniggering loudly as he closing the panelled oak door behind them. Ned pulled in a couple of clearing breaths. Free of the taint of the hood, the room’s rich tang became more apparent, as did its occupant. He was a solidly built man, in the middle years of his prime, with the sort of light brown to blonde hair that was common in Middlesex. Grey eyes set him apart and gave him an open and friendly appearance, aided no doubt by his usually pleasant smile. The scene was completed by a fur trimmed robe, left open to reveal the hint of silk lining, and a languid hand resting beside a heavy pewter tankard, from which exuded that heavy, sweet scent flooding the room. Ned recognised the concoction from its aroma, as a hippocras, one favoured by the more expensive physicians for balancing of the humours and also as a sovereign remedy to the miasma of the sweating sickness that had claimed so many this past season in London. Whether this was true or not, it was currently the preferred drink of London’s wealthier citizens.
The hand steadily drummed its fingers on the elm sidetable beside the beverage. It was an annoying sound, never quite finding the beat, and used to drive Ned mad with exasperation. That was probably why his uncle did it, especially as a prelude to a dressing down. Richard Rich lent forward slightly and made a throat clearing harrumph. As with the drumming, this was another off–putting habit used for its effect before he started to speak. “By the love of all the saints and the blessed Mary, have you not the least amount of sense of duty, honour or obligation to me or your family?”
It was a wearingly familiar refrain and every admonishment always began along this well–worn road. That he was beholden to his uncle for his bread and education had been beaten into him at every chance. It was a dull resentment that Ned tried to mask, with varying success. He could see no reason why he should continually be punished for some indiscretion of his mother or why the taint of bastardry should be embroidered on his sleeve. As far as Ned could tell, a man’s quality and standing depended more on his skills and abilities, than on any assumed superiority, inherited by the chance of birth. Once foolishly Ned had made the mistake of angrily declaring this belief during one of the many lectures on position and duty from his uncle. It had been a painful error, after which he had been more careful to guard his tongue.
“I expect a certain amount of ribaldry and rashness from the youth of today, wastrels and drunkard that they are, but this?” His Uncle Richard paused for his indignation to supply the necessary words. “This act of red handed barbarity! Where you were so taken with drink that common sense totally fled? Fool, I can see no way to hide this disgrace! Jenkins’ll put you a ship bound to Calais afore the turn of the tide. If you’ve any sense left in your diseased and feeble wits, leave the Pale afore the writ arrives!” It was a voice heavy with suppressed anger and doom.
Ned blinked like an owl in shock. From the quivering undertones, his uncle was truly enraged. He had expected the usual anger, threats and punishment for his misdemeanours, and there was no escaping the gravity of his most recent situation. A charge of ‘manslaughter’ sharpened the mind, but this reaction was way past his prior experience, so sense of righteous anger fuelled his reply. “What, am I being exiled for slaying a cutpurse? How low has justice fallen in England?”
Uncle Richard pursed his lips. It made a tight red line across his face, as he struggled for a moment or two to regain sufficient composure to reply. For once words failed and launching himself to his feet, he struck Ned across the face with a weighty arm. Ned almost dropped to the floor. He’d tried swaying with the blow. His ears still rang and blurred the following bellow.
“CUTPURSE! CUTPURSE YOU SAY! What have I raised? A drooling, swaggering wretch who, while taken with drink, slays a royal official!”
The shouting didn’t help Ned’s new found headache and while Uncle Richard usually ranted nonsense when angry, this was more confusing than usual. Ned gave his head a tentative, open jawed shake for clarity though to Uncle Richard he probably resembled the Bedlam idiot of the tirade.
“How…How could even you, mistake John Smeaton, personal servant of his eminence, the Lord Chancellor for a brawling cutpurse?” His uncle dismally shook his head and dropped back into his chair, exhausted by his choler and continued to growl out his disgust. “You’ve ruined us. I am supposed to take up the post as a Commissioner of Peace for Essex and Hertfordshire. It took years of petitioning the Cardinal, and calling in favours we couldn’t afford from the Earl of Oxford and Secretary Cromwell. Now I will be lucky if I retain anything. Damn you and your whoring mother, Edward Bedwell!”
Ah yes, as expected—the bitter fruit of a bastard nephew! The admonishments always ended up there. Despite the strain, Ned pushed his flagging brain past the common degradation and allowed the tirade to wash over him. Something his uncle said jarred, apart from the banishment! A clear image came through from the brawl the night before—it was part of the dissonance. He had to think fast or before dawn he would be on the Thames, shipped off to foreign lands. While it may be a better fate than the noose, it didn’t preclude a quick slash with a knife and a tumble into the river. He’d still get to France in a manner of speaking, if the crabs didn’t strip him first. Blood and kinship were supposed to count in family but Ned often had the feeling that his Uncle Richard gave him as much regard as did another more infamous uncle of the same name to his royal nephews in his care. Uncle Richard possesed an abhorrence for inconveniences. They tended to be removed quickly and quietly.
Instinct and his shoulder daemon prodded him into action. He had to make himself useful to his uncle or else suffer the consequences! Kindly was not an adjective that readily sprang to his min
d in reference to Master Richard Rich, lawyer of the Middle Temple. Still manacled, Ned held up his hands halting the still flowing anger in mid stream. “Uncle, I think I recall the fight.”
That was a stupid move. His uncle’s eye’s blazed and rekindled anger launched him out of his chair fist clenched. Ned put up his shackled hands and intercepted the blow staggering backwards in the effort. “It… it wasn’t Smeaton I slew!”
“You claim? You’re probably so much the tosspot that you could barely recall the name of your blessed mother.” His Uncle Richard had given up on the imminent assault, stepped back half a pace and glaringly, cracked one set of knuckles. Perkins, his retainer, had gossiped that as a younger man, Richard Rich had been a known brawler and breaker of the parish peace. Right now Ned could believe every tall tale.
Another part of Ned noted, with brindled ranker, the goad of his dead mother. This time he ignored it and concentrated on the here and now. “No, I…I remember Smeaton. Isn’t he a tall, lanky man, with a shock of grey hair like a badger, with all the strutting arrogance of a bishop? He always served the Courts with the commands of the Cardinal. Smeaton liked to make a show strutting around, preceded by a dozen of Lord Chancellor’s men, pushing through the crowd. The man is, ah was, vainer than a peacock.”
His uncle gave a brief sneer and his eyes turned colder than flint. “What of it? Yes, that’s him, and you put a blade in the fellow, and we’re all ruined!”
With little to lose Ned took a chance. Stepping forward, away from his friend the wall, he knelt before his uncle in an unaccustomed show of humility. It wasn’t easy. The pain from his ribs made him grimace with the effort. As for his damaged pride, well he’d see. “I swear, Uncle, on my mother’s soul I didn’t kill him. I may be wayward and disobedient in your eyes, and that night I did slay a man, and will stand at any inquest to answer for it. Though that was more likely one of Canting Michael’s roisters from Southwark. Not Smeaton!” Ned deliberately made an exaggerated sign of the cross with his shackled hands. This had to work. Red Ned Bedwell wasn’t going to end his days eating French swill!
The Cardinal's Angels (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries) Page 5
