After watching the scene for minute or so with her foot impatiently tapping out a tattoo, Meg Black finally spoke. “What are you doing?”
Her words were dripping with contempt, every syllable loaded with the sneering disdain one usually reserved for one who had faile– the exam for village idiot. In a belated effort at reasoning, the thinking part of Ned kicked in, replacing the blind instinct that had driven him to the corner. He switched between the impatient frowning of Mistress Black and the eager anticipation of her companion. Then he looked down at the flimsy weapon in his right hand. With the other hand he touched the bandages circling his chest. Ahh damn! Oh no, it seemed he’d been a bit hasty–again.
Guiltily, Ned dropped the improvised weapon and stood with hands open. However the menacing companion who Ned now thought of as Gruesome Roger so far had made no effort to replace his mean–looking cudgel. Mistress Black, watching the scene, gave a curt signal and, with a great deal of visible reluctance, Gruesome Roger tucked the weapon in his belt. Ned let out a relieved sigh and swiftly improvised a suitably humble, grovelling apology which Mistress Black forestalled with an abrupt chop of her hand. “Master Bedwell you appear to be very popular. Could you please tell us why there are three separate bands after you?”
“Errr...? What three? That doesn’t sound right? How’d you know?” Ned was quite perplexed. One he expected, but who else could be so interested in him? He cautiously stepped forward out of the corner and, with a cautious shrug, straightened up. The tapering ceiling gave him just enough head room if he stood in the centre.
“Well Master Bedwell, an hour ago a troop of men with the Cardinal’s badge beat on the door claiming to have a warrant, but the gossips in the street told them we’d closed up that morning. They made a half–hearted attempt to break in but soon gave up and tramped off not looking very happy.” Having given her report Mistress Black waited with ill concealed impatience.
Ned shrugged again and spread his open hands. What could he say? Present facts spoke louder than honeyed words. “Ahh, I would venture a guess Mistress Black that the Cardinal and others know of your involvement with the brawl.”
Well obviously they did. Ned’s response was more in the way of an affirmation. One of the Cardinal’s retainers would have questioned Pleasant Anne by now. As the known owner of a gaming house and stew, she’d be pretty keen to offload dangerously inquisitive officers as soon as possible. She’d known enough of the affray to send the chase here. Now Ned by nature was as honest as necessary. In his field of endeavour honesty gained its own reward, usually a slit throat and a pauper’s grave. That didn’t mean he was in the habit of casual treachery, as were a significant number of his fellow apprentice lawyers. No, he had his own personal rigorous rules of honour, obligation and responsibility. However since the pain and pounding headache had dulled, his thinking had sped up. Thus Ned began to furiously calculate his chances of survival. His evil shoulder daemon had whispered of opportunity. What if Mistress Black could be ensnared in this affair? It hinted of assistance, advantages and possible scapegoats. Gloatingly it cheered the presence of searchers and hinted of the needs of a ‘weak woman’ to rely upon the proven abilities of a skilled gentleman.
Further mental speculation halted as his saviour’s foot–tapping stopped, and Margaret Black launched forth in a very waspish tone. “Yes Master Bedwell, it appears they do.” The menace in that was unmistakable. Gruesome Roger noticed it as well and his face opened up in a broken toothed grin, as if contemplating the exercise of his cudgel.
Ned took the hint, and held up both hands as if he could deflect the flood of suspicion. “I don’t know anything about them. I certainly didn’t lead them here. Before this morning I didn’t know where here was and right now I still don’t know why. My memory is fuller of holes than a beggar’s cloak. All I can remember is your face and a few flashes of the brawl and a man at my feet!”
Mistress Black regarded him with a cool stare and then gestured at her retainer. He growled out something and the grin slipped from his face only to be replaced by a deep scowl.
Ned heaved a sigh of relief. This was the second time since he’d woken that he’d been on the precipice of a fight.
Mistress Black turned back to him. “Well…I suppose you may be telling the truth. You did have a lump on your head the size of a goose’s egg. It’s said such blows have been known to scramble the brain. No matter. I reduced the swelling and we will see what happens.”
At this, Ned tentatively reached up and searched out the prior mentioned lump. He could feel a bandage under his cap. Well that explained his lack of headache. Mistress Black had called in a barber surgeon. His estimation of the level of her care shot up and he tried a bow of gratitude.
This only succeeded in producing another snort of disdain. “Enough of that foolishness! After the Cardinal’s men left, two more gangs of toughs turned up. I think they belonged to rival masters since when they met outside it almost caused a brawl until someone called for the Watch. When the constables arrived both groups exchanged insults and slinked off.”
Gruesome Roger loudly cleared his throat and flicked his thumb over his shoulder. Mistress Black nodded at the reminder and expanded her list of searchers. “Oh yes. We also have five men hanging around the alley at the back of the shop. They’ve been very careful to keep out of sight of all the others. Do you know them, Master Bedwell?”
Once more he was back in the bull’s–eye. By all the saints, four not including the Surrey inquest! Or the writ his uncle would fill out as soon as he sniffed an advantage. Maybe he should consider Calais after all? Right now it was looking safer, although with so many pursuing him he’d have a difficult time getting to the riverside docks. Damn this, he needed more information. What did happen that night? Why were so many interested in the slaying of Smeaton? His sneakingly suspicious shoulder daemon muttered of the rivalry of court factions. That was a dangerous mix—murder, power and ambition. It was time to try and find some more answers. Ned gave his third regretful shrug in as many minutes before answering. “I don’t know any of them. I was only expecting the Lord Chancellor’s men. Smeaton was his favoured servant after Cromwell. The Cardinal is going to be beside himself with anger over the slaying.”
Mistress Black gave a slow thoughtful nod at his reply. “So that’s why the groping measle looked familiar. I’d thought him some ignorant upcountry squire when I slapped him.”
Those words dragged another reluctant image out of his slowly clearing mind fog. “Yes! I remember that. And you had a large well–built lad, taller than me, with you that night! We need to see him. Maybe he knows what really happened.”
That elicited a most strange response from the apothecary’s apprentice. Mistress Black, keeper of secrets, gave a very knowing and cryptic smile. “Well Master ‘Red’ Ned Bedwell, that’s the first bit of sense I’ve heard from you today, and you’re going to think this really amusing, since that lad’s been looking for you.”
Alright, so that meant there were now five people after him, not counting Canting Michael over in Southwark. Nothing to worry about really. He didn’t mind the sudden popularity. If only he knew whom he could trust!
This could have been another heated discussion, with much shouting, waving of hands, more threats, and equally possible, another slap to his face. It wasn’t. It was just calm, brief and above all, final. Mistress Black claimed to know where this mysterious fellow was and how to get to him. Ned tried offering to help search, but that was firmly refused by his newly acquired ally. Instead she suggested that he dress and wait, while she made some arrangements. There followed a whispered conversation with Gruesome Roger, involving frequent hostile glares in his direction and much hissed argument, but in the end, her menacing retainer reluctantly consented.
Ned, while grateful for the care and ministration of his injuries, wasn’t completely dim–witted. Trust was a very fragile plant. It required watering with kindness and encouragement to grow with selfles
s action. However in these decadent times the flowering of trust was frequently severed by the scythe of greed, ambition and treachery. Ned had survived a multitude of threats so far in his young life and he was planning on continuing that habit. While Mistress Black and her henchman had swapped fierce whispers, Ned made a closer inspection of the space they were in as well as his companions. From the tapering triangle of the walls to the apex above, they were in the top most garret of the apothecary’s shop, some four storeys off the ground. So he didn’t walk up and Mistress Black wasn’t interested in leaving him lying around in the apothecary’s workroom. That left her menacing minion, Gruesome Roger, as his porter. The fellow certainly looked strong enough. Ned was a large lad compared to most, almost six foot tall with what he considered a good set of shoulders. Mistress Black’s retainer however had that extra height and rangy physical presence that fitted his menacing status perfectly. It did look ever so slightly incongruous that such a grim faced fellow deferred to the foot or so shorter Margaret Black, though from what Ned had seen so far, what she lacked in size, the apothecary’s apprentice seemed to make up for in spirit and determination.
As to their sanctuary, why drag him up here? Usually attic spaces were the rooms of servants accessed by a small stair or ladder. They were cheap, dim and small, often full of smoke from poorly sealed chimneys. This garret couldn’t have been more different. The roof thatch was sealed off by simple white washed timber–slatted panelling nailed to the beams, and the space in between was snug and dry with a well kept air, free of the usual musty odour he had grown used to at his lodgings. The simple pallet he had been lying on was of fresh straw with a heavy fine wool woven coverlet. He would almost expect it to be Mistress Margaret’s room, but it seemed to lack any signs of ownership, and from how she had acted, the pallet he had briefly occupied was not hers. Considering the state of his shared room back at Gray’s Inn, this was paradise—clean floors, lack of snoring companions and room to stand and stretch your arms. It was luxurious.
The discussion had finished. Gruesome Roger then pulled off a section of the timber panelling, and with a parting glower towards Ned, disappeared into a hidden recess. Now if anything here was going to spark curiosity a secret panel was it. Ned perked up. It was possible he could use this if the situation fell apart. “What’s going on?”
Once more Mistress Black gave him her frowning attention. What, didn’t she ever smile? In his prior experience, not many girls had been able to resist his charms for long. Was she practicing for a nunnery or something? That would be a shame—if a lad looked past her creased brow, Mistress Black had the shape and sway in her long dress and tightly filled bodice that could cramp a man’s cods, and dare he admit it, there was something else behind that darkened gaze that intrigued him. Maybe that’s what prompted his stupid gallantry the other night.
“I sent Roger out to see who’s around and to deliver a message.”
Now he was really curious. Messages could be good or bad. Subconsciously he noted his two escape routes, the narrow stairway and the secret passage. “How is he going to do that? Surely they’re watching the building?”
That perfectly reasonable question was answered by a pensive tightening of her lips and, if such a thing were possible, an even more suspicious frown. Ned waved it off with a pretense of knowledgeable nonchalance. “I would think that it’s not normal practice for an apothecary to have a hidden passage.”
That hit home. Mistress Black’s pert nose sniffed warningly and her glare increased to the imminent strike level. It was obvious he had trespassed onto forbidden ground. Excellent, now to show that he had cards to play as well, and forestall potential treachery.
“Mistress Black, considering that you ministered to my injuries, I am not ungrateful enough to expose your secrets to the Cardinal, especially since you’ve already had a chance to hand me over. It’s in our common interest to start trusting one another. I’ll swear on any saint’s relic or even on my mother’s soul, that I’ll not bring harm to you or your family, if that’ll help.” Ned tried to put as much sincerity into his plea. So far he was just stating the truth. The Cardinal’s men would be undiscriminating in their ‘questioning’. As for the other interested parties, court rivalry was bloody and merciless. If he read the present situation correctly, Mistress Black, apprentice apothecary had her own secrets to keep away from the view of Wolsey’s men, so for now their needs ran together, shackled by a shared peril.
“Why should I believe your words Master Bedwell? You could be a cross biter at the gaming table, lining us up as an easy mark. We know nothing about you or who you serve.”
Ned studiously tried for his most innocent expression, as if he had been most sorely insulted by the accusation. However his better angel pointed out that Mistress Black’s suspicion was valid—so far reason for trust was scant. Reluctantly Ned realised that in order to gain her trust then he must firstly show some of his own. “Alright, I live and work on Chancery Lane.”
Unfortunately this didn’t help. This confession gained him the biggest wallop yet and sent his shoulder thudding into the wall. The instant’s warning before the blow had him shield his head, saving the onset of further addling of his wits. For a girl shorter than him by almost a foot, she really did pack quite a wallop. What had he done wrong? Now those blue grey eyes sparked with fury and Mistress Black scanned the room for a handy weapon. Lucky for him the stool was out of reach. “Damn! I knew we couldn’t trust you! Damned Royal Courts. Why are you pursuing us?”
Ned held out one hand as a shield while with the other he attempted to ease some of the newly reblossomed pain out of his shoulder. “No, no! I’m at Gray’s Inn, training for law! I don’t serve the King’s Courts. I am there through the influence of my uncle, Richard Rich, Commissioner of the Peace for Essex County.”
He did however edit the details of his uncle’s connections and aspirations. Those would earn a lot more than a clip across the ear. Mistress Black slowly subsided, though it was a close thing as to whether she’d hit him once more for this declaration. His daemon pointed out her flushed appearance, red lips and heaving bodice. For once he ignored its suggestion, opting instead for survival. It appeared he’d chosen the wrong time to be honest. That’d teach him to be more circumspect with his answers. If her reaction was any guide, then in this establishment lawyers and pursuivants of the Court rated only slightly higher in their estimation than ‘Judas’.
Commonsense suggested that it was time to move onto safer grounds of conversation. Ned sat down on the pallet and offered her the stool he had so lately wielded as a peace offering. “My apologies if my position offends you, but I can do little about it, since my uncle bonded me as apprentice.”
The glower lessened a smidgen as he mentioned a shared status.
Ned thought he saw a chink and pushed on. “What about you? A girl as an apprentice?” Oh no, thought Ned. A quick rephrasing was in order. That wasn’t the right question to someone with her obviously fiery temperament and sensibilities. “I mean to ask, why an apothecary?”
His companion visibly subsided. That first clumsy attempt had almost earned him another clout, but she actually considered his question, and answered in the mildest voice he had yet heard. “My family have always been apothecaries, going back to my great–grandfather. I learnt from my mother and she said I had the skill.” Mistress Black gave him an appraising once over. “After all I sorted out your injuries.”
Ned did have the good manners to look abashed. Oh, so she had tended to his injuries. He’d missed that. Originally he thought it was a barber surgeon who’d performed the bleeding and bandaging. By the saints that meant…well, it meant a large number of things. Firstly his headache had subsided and breathing was no longer such a trial. All things considered, it was an excellent treatment, almost better than the salves used by Goodwife Johnson when he had come off a horse a few years back. More thoughts regarding the removal of his shirt tickled his slowly knitting mind, but his angel p
rimly reminded him that now was not the time to explore them.
“Why not apprentice to a doctor?” Ahh, he must learn to curb his tongue. That comment received such a venomous look and, in all truth, it was a stupid question. No doctor would consider such a radical and foolish action as to apprentice a woman, though one of the books Ned had read recently mentioned that it happened in the Italian lands. But then they were foreigners, so any bizarre custom could be true.
If he thought that she had been angry before, it was nothing to her reaction now. The anger in her words was visible as they trembled with white–hot emotion. “Doctors are the greatest affliction to God’s creatures! Worse than bishops! They’re dissembling, fly bitten, clay brained, motley–minded hedge wizards, without the skill or nouce to treat a broken fingernail. The greedy scum are more concerned with the condition of a patient’s purse than with treating the affliction.”
This critique of the exponents of modern medicine didn’t really surprise Ned. He had observed that, unlike lawyers, doctors could always bury their failures, claiming a lack of God’s mercy as a convenient excuse. Still at the end, success or no, they made sure they were paid. “So from that, I gather you have a set against our esteemed doctors of physick.”
Ned’s cynical remark on her impassioned outburst had a strange effect on Mistress Black. Rather than a frown or her accustomed glower, small trails of tears slowly leaked from her eyes. Oh no he’d done it again! An unthinking question. His daemon immediately whispered of opportunities to offer comfort, but his angel sternly counselled respectful sympathy. For Ned, her reaction was so unexpected he was caught off guard and instinctively handed her a clean piece of bandage as he rapidly sorted through the clues. Ahh yes, doctors, that was it! “Who did you lose?” He didn’t need to cultivate artifice for that. It was a genuinely sympathetic question.
Mistress Black dabbed her eyes and gave a small snort, bending her head in the slightest of nods before answering. “My father and mother, this last season. It was the Sweating Sickness.”
The Cardinal's Angels (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries) Page 10
