The shop was finally cleared with the old dame hobbling out clutching a pot of ointment. Now he had the full attention of the two girls. Once they stood still it was clear they were twins. Light brown hair hung over their shoulders in loosely beribboned plaits with wisps of escaping hair curling around their faces. Both girls waited with a patient, interested repose that he found quite calming. Ned took the few paces to the counter nervously, suddenly awkward and painfully aware of his bruised and scruffy appearance.
“Good day to you mistresses. I…I…I arrh …well I…” Ned stuttered to a halt as both sets of sea blue eyes took in his state. Then gulping down a steadying breath he blurted out. “I need to see Master Williams!”
The girls looked at each other, a mirror image except for the fact that one had a blue ribbon woven through her plait and the other a red one. He thought he saw the twitch of a smile before the one with a blue ribbon quietly replied. “Why, good sir?”
This was the difficult part and with a suddenly blank mind he stammered out an answer. “It…It is a private matter—I need to speak to him.”
To Ned’s embarrassed ears that sounded worse than the first effort, and both girls glanced from his face to his codpiece, and almost simultaneously raised their hand to hide smirking grins. He was certain he was blushing redder than a beetroot from collar to cap. . Finally after what seemed long minutes the blue ribboned girl stepped behind a heavy curtain that separated the rear of the shop while he was subjected to a continuing inspection by the remaining sister. He decided that Red Ribbon would do her for a nickname. The colour did enhance the warmly inviting colour of her lips after all. If it were possible Ned could feel his blush deepening further. Soon he would look just like the Indians of the New World. A few moments later Blue Ribbon returned and held a whispered conversation with her companion.
Perhaps he should have tried another tack, but Blue Ribbon who seemed to be the spokesman suppressed a giggle. “The apothecary isn’t in, but you can see his apprentice.”
Ned was deflated—all this way and still nothing. Well perhaps the apothecary’s lad could help. Bethany had some reason for sending him here and it was probably easier to go in than admit defeat. Anything was better than having these two continue to smirk at him. Ned pursed his lips and gave a short nod of acceptance. Blue Ribbon escorted him through the heavy curtain that screened off the rear of the building with a knowing smile. In response he straightened up and strode through with his best nonchalant swagger. The heavy cloth swung in place behind him but did little to block the sounds of ill–concealed mirth from the shop front.
Chapter Seven–The Apothecary’s Apprentice Greyfriars
If the front shop was curiously beguiling with its scents and aromas to tempt one in, then this part of the establishment was the true heart of the apothecary; the workshop. For Ned it was like entering the secret shrine of an Italian alchemist who had embarked on the quest for the philosopher’s stone. Every inch of space was filled. The benches and shelves were packed with all manner of glass and pottery vessels in the strangest of shapes; ambics, retorts and cloudy flasks, jostling cheek by jowl with wax sealed jars stamped with strange symbols.
Then on the small cleared corner of a bench abutting a small brick furnace was an ominous array of trade–known tools—long sharp edged knives, fine toothed saws, polished hooks and what he thought were probes, all gleaming in threatening repose, set out in a rollup leather pouch of the sort barber surgeons used. Ned swallowed nervously and forced himself to look elsewhere. The rest of the space resembled a vastly upgraded version of Goodwife Johnson’s herb and medicine closet. That recollection triggered a surge of guilt. It had been too long since he sent his old nurse any letters. Then his conscience gave his buttocks a kick– he really should find out where these vessels came from and send some as a gift back to Suffolk. Then while he was trying to sort out the function of a coiled copper tube attached to a set of glass spheres a voice spoke out from somewhere amongst the scattered equipment. “If you are looking for a cure to the French pox, go find a doctor to take your money. We’ve nothing here.”
Both its tone and asperity took him back to the night of the brawl. He had a sudden flash of an image—an open hand connecting with the side of his face! But this was better than the next picture that accompanied it. Smeaton was bent double, a purple pained expression on his face as he gasped for breath.
Ned spun around. The callous comment came from yet another young girl of middling height. She looked similar to the two out front, but where they reminded him of graceful sprites flitting between flowers, this one had a more earthily reassuring presence. It was first the blue grey eyes that sparkled in the lantern light with broad flecks of mischief, and then further features registered on his memory—the small pert nose and the light brown curling locks aglow with a chestnut shine brushed off her ears with a distracted flick. “I know you! You were at the Cardinal’s Cap the other night!”
That was a mistake, as the open handed blow that snapped his head into the wall proved. “I will not be insulted by a flap mouthed lewdster!”
Ned slumped against the wall and slid down to the floor, displacing a couple of besoms of dried herbs that tumbled over him. The curtain burst open and his former audience from out front stormed into the workroom. They didn’t look quite so ethereal now. Red Ribbon had a cudgel idly slung from a leather strap, while her sister Blue Ribbon held a wickedly sharp looking poniard, in a meaningful manner.
“Any problems, Cousin Meg?”
By all the love of the saints, this was definitely turning into the worst day of his life! Though dazed Ned raised his open hands in supplication. He needed a very quick intervention by his watching angel. Luckily he took inspiration from a book of verse he had recently perused while bored at the Inns. “You mistake me gracious maidens. I would never impugn the honest virtues of such. Why, the muses themselves would blush to behold three such lovely hued, fair flowers, that shine so bright with beauty. You would dim an Ethiop’s gems, to emerald or blood ruby, that are so delightful in grace and form.” Ned tried very hard to look both non threatening and innocent. It was perhaps as his daemon remarked a doomed enterprise but what did he have remaining to lose?
‘Cousin Meg’ glowered at him suspiciously and could be seen to be weighing up the possibility of another assault, until an expressive sigh sounded from behind. “Ohhhh, how sweet. I wish Jonathan would speak to me like that.” This was Red Ribbon. The cudgel forgotten swung from clenched hands as she sighed deeply again.
At the interruption ‘Cousin Meg’ gave her rescuers a penetrating frown. Blue Ribbon answered her with a resigned shrug and shepherded her still sighing sister through the curtain. Once more Ned was subjected to intense scrutiny. The affronted frown slowly coalesced into a marginally reluctant glower. “I remember you…you spoke as sweetly at Pleasant Anne’s. Not that it will get you anywhere.”
Well it was dismissive, but still an improvement. No one was threatening him with weapons or thumping him—he must have done something right at last. Ned struggled into a more or less upright stance with a couple of winces and groans, not that such sounds elicited any sympathy from ‘Cousin Meg’, who stood there impatiently, arms crossed and foot tapping. Ned gave a semblance of a courtly bow. Damn but he needed to guard his ribs. They complained loudly as he made a bow to the girl. “Let me start again. You would be the apothecary’s apprentice?” That received the briefest of nods. Well it was a start at least.
“I am Edward Bedwell.” This elicited a disbelieving stare and the suggestion of a snigger. It was not the first time his name had encouraged mirth. It was a worn joke but still it flushed his colour once more. “I prefer Red Ned.”
“I can see why. You said as much the other night.” That really didn’t make it much better, but least she was listening. “You don’t remember my name from the Cardinal’s Cap, do you? From what you said I was either Calliope or Erato. Pray tell me, who were they?”
It w
as asked so sweetly and convincingly, he almost fell into the trap. All that saved him was the hint of a warning flicker in her eye that reminded him of the two slaps so far.
“Why they are ancient Greek goddesses who couldn’t possibly compare with your wit and charms.” It was a quick save and somehow he just knew that ‘Cousin Meg’, the apothecary’s apprentice, already knew that those two were the muses of epic and love poetry. Perhaps he’d better be more cautious in his turn of phrase.
She’d paused for a moment listening to his reply. He could have sworn her lips quivered on the edge of a smile. “Since, Ned Bedwell, you were so merry with celebrating that night, you may not remember our previous introduction. I am Margaret Black, and as you now know, apprenticed to my uncle, Rhys Williams.”
Alright, now he was getting somewhere and had an idea what to call her apart from Meg. Now Ned decided safety lay in continuing to play the gallant and opted for a more becoming title. “Well Mistress Margaret, I crave your assistance.” This was answered by a raised eyebrow, so daring all, he pushed on. “I’ve been accused of murdering the gentleman from whom I believe I tried to rescue you.”
He may have expected shock, surprise or any one of a number of similar reactions. As with the rest of his day, the usual didn’t happen. Margaret Black just shook her head in denial. “I don’t see how that is possible. He was giving you a good kicking last I saw, with you groaning and on the ground.”
This was getting frustrating. Why was it that no one he spoke to gave him a straight answer? He’d traipsed all the way through the city just to hear that Smeaton was attacking him? This new information didn’t necessarily aid his case for if Smeaton had truly been attacking Ned then surely he would have made his best endeavour to defend himself. In the eyes of any court under Wolsey’s influence that was a death sentence. Ned massaged his forehead. The ache had only marginally diminished before Mistress Black’s tender taps gave it further cause for complaint. Ignoring the mounting fuzziness he pushed on with his questioning. “How in the name of St Michael did that happen?”
Mistress Black now looked suspiciously at him, more as if he were a louse than a man. “Why ask me? You were there.”
That did it. His temper, never under the tightest rein at the best of times, let loose. He was tired of this and slapped his hand on the bench, precariously rocking a number of glass vessels and growled out his answer. Strangely it was essentially the truth. “Because, for the love of all the blessed saints, I cannot remember! I’ve spent two nights in the Clink, and unless I find out what happened, and why, I will be arraigned for the murder of a servant of the Cardinal, as will everyone else from the gaming house!”
His outburst caused an immediate response. Mistress Black turned very pale and that pallor made the freckles on her nose stand out. Despite the peril of his situation, Ned found himself distracted. Mistress Black had a very attractive nose, oh and eyes. However he lost the train of that thought before he’d encompassed the rest of her features as her frown returned, this time darker than ever.
“You fool! Why’d you drag honest folk into your stupid brawls?” Ned felt deeply offended—it was a biased and twisted slander. He couldn’t remember much about the affray, but he’d rarely been brainless or befuddled enough to challenge four armed gentleman. So in this case, his honour stood in for his memory. If he’d faced them down on her behalf then there had to be a compellingly good reason to risk his life, though her unfriendly welcome was beginning to make him reconsider his undoubtedly noble and selfless intentions, thus does rancour lead to anger.
“Otherwise they’d have taken you and killed your two friends, as they threatened, Mistress Ungrateful!” That just burst out from the morass of his memory. Ned had no idea where it came from, but it seemed to sound right. At least his angry response halted the growing argument.
Mistress Meg Black crossed her arms and returned a cooler stare, just maybe there was a touch of doubt and hesitation in her sparkling eyes. “So Master Bedwell…what now? How do you suggest we escape Wolsey’s Star Chamber?”
Such a simple question and so full of complications. Her tone had him intrigued despite his aching head. It sounded almost thoughtful, lacking the bitter edge he would have expected. It also told him that Mistress Black understood the problem—that possibly was a pleasant surprise. He knew more than a few third year law apprentices who wouldn’t get it, even at the end of the trial. Not that the processes of law were complicated in regard to the slaying of a senior royal official—they were really very simple. Everyone even remotely involved would be seized, thrown into prison and eventually, when they got around to it, questioned by the Cardinal’s men. A witness may hope to only spend a day under lock and key. That in truth would be a vain hoe. According to what he had seen in the Courts, if it was a complex or delicate matter, remand could last for months, unless a patron with sufficient influence intervened. Then the difficulty lay in whether the case involved any current court factional battles. If so, it could be either a blessing or a curse, depending on your allegiance or facility to supply a ‘gift’, otherwise you rotted in goal.
However it was not all bleak. In her reply Mistress Black appeared to have agreed to joint action. Well a trouble shared was a trouble halved. If so it was his first piece of good news. In answer to her question, Ned could only see one solution. “Well Mistress Black the answer is easy. We find who killed the Cardinal’s man as well as why.”
Mistress Margaret stood awhile in pensive thought, one finger lightly tapping her folded arms, and looked at him speculatively. While she hadn’t disagreed her intense scrutiny was making Ned feel more than a little nervous. That had been an impulsive act to ask as he did, but what choice did he have here? Perhaps it was his patron saint who had prompted it. He’d briefly considered subterfuge as his daemon had whispered, until he was more certain of her response, but conscience, calculation and temper had prodded him to honesty. Maybe Lady Fortuna had stepped in as his benefactor and he wouldn’t be left as a scapegoat.
“Anne, Alison?” Red Ribbon and Blue Ribbon returned through the parted curtain. From their rapid appearance, ears must have been very close to the other side of the cloth barrier. Both however still looked warily at Ned, and he was sure that their implements of threat defence were very close to hand. “Close the shop and find your father. Tell him it’d be a good time to check the harvest at the Hawkhurst farm.”
Her pair of skirted retainers gave each other a significant look and rapidly disappeared without a word. Then it was his turn once more for Mistress Black’s attention. “How long before you’re called to the inquest?”
Ned was still trying to catch up with the departure of the menacing twins. Now Mistress Black was grilling him on law procedures as though she possessed some familiarity with the subject. This was confusing. A small section of his mind clawed out of the morass to ask why was Master Williams’ establishment accustomed to closing on very short notice and disappearing into the countryside? There was something in that exchange between the girls he should have been paying attention to, but in his current state that question sank back into the dull mire of a headache. Instead he fixed Mistress Black in his blurry vision and once more resorted to unaccustomed honesty. “I have ten days from this morning until my uncle fills out the writ. The Surrey magistrates may have already done so.”
That earned him a very sharp look. She was about to ask another question but Ned waved it off. “Look, it’ll take several days until it hits the Lord Mayor’s Council. We still have some...”
At this point of the discussion, his brain cashed in its loan on his body and shut down. Ned blurrily recalled collapsing onto a stool and the scene of the apothecary’s workshop became blurry and indistinct.
“…time.”
Chapter Eight–The Apothecary’s Secrets, Greyfriars
It could have been minutes—it may have been hours, but when Ned came too it was without the dull ache of the past few days. That had been replaced by a cool
tingling across his forehead. It felt quite soothing. Slowly he opened his eyes, saw nothing and panicked. “What!!?”
A firm hand held him down. It may have been the calming voice of a ministering angel except for the following instruction. “Hold still you stupid puttock. I haven’t finished!”
Ned tried struggling but strong hands gripped his shoulders and held him down.
“There, done!”
Suddenly his world was bathed in light, and before him a blurry visage was surrounded by a halo. As his vision cleared, he found himself looking up into the upside down face of a heavily built man, complete with a savage scar that half closed his right eye. Not an angel instead the familiar visage of a leering devil. “By Christ, a daemon!
“You can let him up, Roger.”
The gruesome, threatening face retreated and Ned quickly pushed himself up off the pallet. It was while in transit between horizontal and vertical that he realised his head felt better and his ribs didn’t ache quite so much. At almost upright, he also noticed a few other irregularities, such as the lack of his doublet, shirt and satchel. He would have gone for his blade, but that was missing as well.
Damn him for trusting Meg Black. He had fallen in with cony–catchers who’d stripped him. Next they’d sell him to Wolsey! Ned grabbed the only weapon to hand, a battered stool, and backed into a corner. While strategically it was a good move, ensuring that his newfound assailants couldn’t outflank him, in a more practical sense the corner was a disaster. First he had to crouch to fit and second he’d boxed himself in—no retreat. In the meantime Mistress Black and her fierce faced companion just stood there and watched him. The one she call Roger grinned wickedly and pulled out a metal shod cudgel and, with a questioning look at the apothecary’s apprentice, stepped closer.
The Cardinal's Angels (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries) Page 9
