Luckily young Samson was more forthcoming. He pulled up a stool opposite Ned and plunked his bulk upon it. Grasping one of Ned’s hands firmly in his own he lay his other one reassuringly upon Ned’s shoulder. “May the Lord heal your wits Ned. I’m Robert Black, and I’ve been searching everywhere for you these past two days, as has my sister Meg.”
So here was confirmation of his earlier flashes of this face and the Cardinal’s Cap. That evening he’d fallen into the hands of the Black clan. He should have twigged earlier since they were both so alike, except for size, and of course temperament. Now all he had to do was figure out if this was all an elaborate cony–catch and if he was the cony. Apart from that nagging suspicion, it was beginning to look like a scene from one of those plays, the ones with the labyrinthine plot that featured confusion over brothers and sisters, unlikely friends and mistaken identities. But this wasn’t a play in a tavern courtyard. No fortunate circumstance with a long lost heir and parted lovers was going to save them if they were caught.
Once more Ned didn’t need the shaking, but he did need answers. “I, I thank you for your concern Master Black, but I still have no idea why.”
Robert Black frowned and looked questioningly at his sister who just gave another dismissive snort before turning away in feigned disinterest. “Why, for your gallant act inside the gaming house, and the fight later. Didn’t my sister thank you for saving her life and honour?”
Now that was a surprise. He’d suspected as much from earlier at the apothecaries and Bethany’s report. However those images had a dream–like quality that, like a chivalric romance, he found hard to credit. It was chilling to realise now that it actually had happened. He, the canny Red Ned Bedwell, had been so warped in the wits to challenge armed gentlemen, though from the dark mutters from Mistress Black, she hardly considered the intervention necessary or worthy of mention.
Ned ignored these distractions. He was getting used to them and pushed on to the meat of the matter. “What happened?”
Robert Black wiped a large hand across his face and crooked an eyebrow at his sister. Once more she refused the invitation to participate and he gave a brief shrug before launching into the tale of the brawl. “After you had rescued my dear Meg from that gentleman, I stood you a few drinks and you pledged similar.”
The mutter of ‘tosspots and drunkards’ came from an emphatically turned back. Both Ned and Rob ignored it.
“Then, as we made to leave, the gentleman lunged once more for Meg, and you fended him off handsomely though he didn’t look happy. The jug of ale you know. As we stood outside the door, you offered yourself as an escort. When the gentlemen and his friends burst into the street, you tried to calm him and some hot words were flung about.”
Oh no, no. No! By all the Saints, this tale was worse than his imaginings. Practicing his French stretched ominously ahead. Now he was in a heated argument with the servant of the Lord Chancellor, after drenching him in a jug of ale. “What of my two friends?”
Robert Black blushed and his sister answered with a dismissive sneer. “They were in no state to leave, all snuggled up with a pair of gaming punks.”
Ah yes, that explained a few things, like the division of the winnings. Ned felt a sudden bitter regret that he hadn’t joined them. Though Roberts’s tale was still going the situation could not look darker, could it?
“Your words Ned made him pause, and then another group of several men came from round the corner, gave cry and charged us all. After this the brawl began and everything became confused. You called out for the Watch.” Robert paused and gave an embarrassed shrug. “But no one stopped fighting.”
That would be typical. Ned wondered why he’d bothered. Surely he couldn’t have been so taken with drink that he’d believed that the Watch would help? The members of the Southwark Watch had as poor a reputation as any man in the Newgate gaol or the Compter. If you could get a job shovelling the turds off the street, then the Watch may be just within your capacity.
More images began to trickle into his conscious mind—the attack of the rat–faced man, a spray of dark blood across the timber door, and an image of another assailant, sprinting off down the street. “Alright. Some of that is coming back, but how did Smeaton die?”
Robert Black looked confused at the question. Ned recalled that he hadn’t actually told him what had happened. “Ahh Master Black, a man was killed in that brawl.”
At that simple statement Robert gave his sister a puzzled glance and made a minor shaking motion with a hand next to his head. Ned didn’t need an interpretation. He gripped the larger lad’s arm tightly and carried on speaking in a more reasoned tone despite the clamour of his daemon. “Master Black, Robert… it was the one who pulled Meg into the cubby, and he was servant to the Lord Chancellor!”
That got a reaction. Robert Black swapped his attention between the previously silent Gruesome Roger and his sister. She reluctantly proceeded to fill him in on the events for the day.
The retelling didn’t make it any better for Ned. He winced at a few key moments, but overall it was reasonably honest, maybe even more honest than he would have been—in his opinion, a touch of embellishing never went astray.
Master Robert Black’s reaction was very interesting to watch. He didn’t get flustered or confused but followed it all, slowly nodding his head and occasionally interrupting with a question. At the conclusion, he gazed enquiringly at his sister, who responded with a small negative shake of her head.
From the slight frown that briefly darkened his brow, this was perhaps not what Master Black wanted. Nevertheless he returned his attention to Ned. “Well, we do have a few problems. Our cup does indeed runneth over.”
That was true though Ned hadn’t expected such a biblical turn of phrase. A small seed of suspicion germinated adding another sprout to his enlarging thicket.
Robert Black rubbed his chin in a thoughtful manner awhile, and then slapped a large paw upon Ned’s shoulder. He was glad he was already sitting down and braced. That would have felled him to the floor. By the saint’s why was this family so physical? “Well Ned, I’ve good news for you. I can tell you categorically that you didn’t kill this Smeaton.”
For onc, this was something good to hear, and for a moment Ned perked up. Then as if they’d removed a pit prop, the rest of the difficulties collapsed in upon him, wiping out his brief good spirits. “I’m sure the Surrey inquest and the Cardinal’s men will be pleased to hear your ringing endorsement.”
His sour reply bounced off the pleasant smile of Robert Black who continued with his tale of the brawl. “You see the brawl continued everyone fighting everyone else then this Smeaton fellow.”
Rob paused and looked towards Ned for confirmation. Reluctantly he indicated that Robert should continue—this story was acquiring a terrible familiarity.
“So Smeaton called upon you to aid him—something about your family’s duty to his lord.”
Ned paled. Damn Smeaton! The swine had recognised him and claimed his aid. That was rich considering the Cardinal’s servant’s prior actions.
Mistress Black took a determined step towards him, hands clenched. Her suspicion was no longer smouldering. That report had puffed it up to a full blaze. She’d obviously heard part of Smeaton’s demand during the brawl and had suspected he was a pursuivant of the Lord Chancellor. Now she leapt to the conclusion that the whole ‘rescue’ had been a charade. Gruesome Roger obviously shared the same thought. He now purposefully gripped the handle of that menacing cudgel with the eager gleam of intent.
Hands held before him placatingly, Ned tried to forestall the coming avalanche. “No, it’s not what you think! I can explain! My uncle owes his positions to the secretary of the Cardinal. That’s all! I’m not a pursuivant—I swore oath to that!”
Short of raising his large hand to delay his sister’s imminent assault, Robert Black hadn’t moved. Now he asked a single question. “What position is that?”
“Ahh, Commissioner o
f Sewers.” It was not exactly a proud title, but since his uncle was London born and bred, he’d accepted it with a stubborn pride, as one more step on the path to greater honours.
His reply was greeted with an ominous silence, and so it trembled there for a few moments until all three of them burst out in laughter. The humour of the Londoner was well known, that wry sarcasm that had bruised many a lord or prelate’s over–inflated pride. Rob Black had subsided a bit and was rubbing tears of mirth from his eyes. “By all that’s holy, your uncle is Lord Turd!”
Ned nodded ruefully. It was, at least, an honest nickname, and his uncle preferred it to Chancellor of the Cesspits. He’d earned a certain amount of ire by trying to force the people of the city to dispose of their waste and offal with more care than by dumping it in the streets. It was a thankless task and he had constantly fumed over their stubborn reluctance to clean it up or to recognise that according to the most learned doctors, the stench was a probable source of contagion.
Once more Ned received a bone shaking buffet. “Well, we’ll have to look after Sheriff Cesspool here!”
It took time for the mirth to subside but Ned didn’t mind the merriment at his expense. It had banished the ominous threat of a severe pounding, at least for now. Gruesome Roger relaxed and finally his hand dropped away from his cudgel. Mistress Black looked distinctly disappointed at the turn of events and whispered in her retainer’s ear. With a muttered comment about getting some food and drink for the gathering he left, trailed by an obviously bored Mistress Black. Ned noticed she didn’t look back as she walked through the door.
Idly two thoughts vied for his attention. The first was that she still filled a bodice well and moved with an eye catching grace. The second though was concerned with more mundane matters, and expressed relief that the Ned–flattening advocate had left. Concentrating on the here and now he focused all his attention on Robert Black’s continuing tale of the brawl. Ned had a reprieve and its length or revoking depended on solving the problems of the murder. “Master Black, Robert, how do you know I wasn’t the one to put the knife in Smeaton?
“No Master Black or Robert! Call me Rob. That is what all my friends call me. Ned, you couldn’t have slain Smeaton because you’d already fallen, taking a blow that was meant for him. I’d just beaten off another of the rogues and chased a few off down the alley when I heard Meg’s cry. Most of the attackers had fled. You were crumpled by the wall and the fellow Smeaton, was toppling over you with a blade in his back.”
Well this was good—proof and a witness that Master Smeaton had not fallen to his blade. Still Ned knew how ‘inquests’ worked. They wanted a cony to pin the blame on and, in the interests of staying out of gaol, he needed to find someone not so usefully blameable as a reprobate law apprentice and his possibly questionable companions. “So who did kill him?”
“His drinking companion, the one in a blue brocade doublet. I saw him stooping over the both of you with a blade in his hand, tugging at something.”
By all the Saints, he was saved! More locked secrets surfaced from his clearing mind–fog, trickling up to join the rest of the memories of that evening at the Cardinal’s Cap. Yes, he recalled when Mistress Black came in. It had been enough of an entrance to stop a few conversations, but just before that, both Smeaton and his ‘murderer’ had been deep in huddled conversation. At the time it had seemed as if they were on the edge of an argument. Bethany’s warning surfaced. Damn, it was Blue Brocade! He was the one who called for the rent at the Cardinal’s Cap!
As Rob Black continued with his tale Ned endeavoured to sort out the sequence of events, so he just caught the edge of something important. “What, what was that you just said?”
“I said I charged at him and he bolted like a rabbit. We lost the murderer in the alleys.” Black Rob then hung his head in embarrassment. “I am sorry Ned, but in my anger I forgot about you. It’s a sin for which I constantly pray forgiveness.”
Ned appraised the bulk and size of his companion. Yes if someone like that, bellowing in anger ran at him, he’d have been hard pressed not to turn tail and run.
“But I did find your purse. The thieving cutpurse must have dropped it.” Rising from the stool, Robert Black rummaged through a satchel on the small bed.
Ned was slightly relieved. There were some witnesses who could testify to his innocence on the charge of murder and he was, once more, a man of some wealth. However Blue Brocade must have some powerful friends to believe that he could casually slay the Lord Chancellor’s man and get away with it. On the bright side at least he could count on those fifty angels. This thought died almost before it was fully formed. Instead of his small and well–worn purse, Rob Black now handed him a modest satchel.
As a satchel it was nothing special. In fact you could see them at any cordwainer’s stall, well stitched and waterproofed by coats of oil and wax, with heavy brass chains to attach to your belt. It was the sort frequently used by couriers to keep its contents dry and safe. From the deep scored cut and dark splatter of dried blood, he could tell who’d owned it, and Ned could swear that, if he looked at the man’s corpse, there would be a two or three inch wide gash on the back right–hand side just above the hip. From what he had heard from a few of the veterans of the old King’s wars, it was just the place to slip in a blade for a quick, quiet killing. Any remaining colour drained from Ned’s face. In his hands he held the satchel of John Smeaton and instinctively he knew that this little parcel of worked leather was worth quite a few lives—theirs for a start.
Ned was lost in complex speculation. How did he phrase this without first sounding ungrateful, and secondly, supremely suspicious? “Ahh Rob, you said that you got this from the man who killed Smeaton.”
Rob nodded his head. “Picked up it from the muddy street.”
“Are you sure?”
“Aye Ned.” Rob again nodded his head like an eager horse. Black Rob looked very happy as well he should. In the city of London very few people would even consider returning ‘found’ property, especially a weighty purse like this one. Perhaps Lady Fortuna had played her hand, helping Ned stumble upon the only honest man in London. “Like I said, I was running after him when he tripped over a dead dog and dropped it. The fellow swore worse than any wherry man when he realised what had happened. We could hear him for the length of the street, but he still kept running. Meg picked it up and we then walked back to the Cardinal’s Cap, and ahh…well you know the rest.”
Actually he didn’t, unless he counted Will Coverdale’s drunken confession, but he could make a pretty good guess that belatedly the Watch had arrived and, seeing a few men dead on the ground and him slumped with a blade in his hand, had decided to make their life easier. It didn’t take much effort to see how the Southwark Watch thought. Why waste effort and search properly when a solution lay ready to hand. How damned typical!
Chapter Ten–The Byways of London
So Ned was sitting there on the stool staring at possibly the most dangerous satchel in London, when to his great annoyance the door was flung back and their two companions burst in. Couldn’t these people ever walk through a door without a performance?
“Robert we need to leave,” shouted Mistress Black clearly agitated as she cast a worried glance out the doorway.
This was getting too much. It seemed nowhere in London could offer him safety, or more importantly time to collect his thoughts. Without thinking Ned spoke. “Why, is the Inn pack full of enemies?”
Rather than answer Margaret Black ducked back inside and slammed the door shut, dropping the bar, while Gruesome Roger strode over to the window and pushed open the shutters.
Ned took the ignored question as a confirmation, and with a resigned sigh, shoved the satchel into his doublet. It felt quite weighty and to a lad of his means and instincts that was encouraging, but since his new ‘companions in peril’ were rushing about there was no time to investigate its contents. Perhaps that would come later in a quiet secluded spot, and withou
t an audience.
Now if he was in a similar situation, needing to leave out a window hurriedly, not implying that he did this a lot, he’d have been knotting the woefully, worn sheet on the bed into something resembling an improvised rope. Then once that was secure, he’d throw down the lumpy straw mattress to aid a softer landing. He was actually about to suggest as much to the Black clan. However as he was beginning to discover, he was in the company of masters of the trade of rapid exits. Gruesome Roger was standing on the small bench and had most of his body outside the window. Even though he was both smaller and leaner than Rob Black, it was still a narrow fit. The rest of the band were busying themselves with what Ned thought were rather strange actions. Mistress Margaret was tucking her skirts up into her belt. He wasn’t complaining– she had very shapely legs that instantly drew his attention. Her brother, on the other hand, was rummaging under the small bed and to Ned’s surprise, pulled out a coiled rope. This gave his seed of suspicion all it required to blossom into a full–blown conviction. The thicket of suspicion was fast turning into a forest.
A rattle and thump from the window reluctantly drew his attention back to Gruesome Roger, who he noticed was now climbing out through the opening and to Ned’s astonishment, disappearing upwards! What was going on? He was jolted out of his amazed reverie by a sharp prod to his back.
“What you waiting for, an invitation from the King?” It was Mistress Black, and she was pushing him towards the yawning space of the window. All he could see was the boots of Roger ascending skywards.
“What?” This exclamation produced a harder shove and he stumbled against the low bench by the wall. All of Gruesome Roger had now disappeared.
“You go up first. I’m not having the likes of you peering up my skirts.”
Ned poked his head out the open window and looked up. This was amazingly clever. A small wooden ladder terminated just at the top of the beam above the window. He stretched and began to clamber up, grasping the proffered hand of Gruesome Roger to pull him up onto the slate tile roof. He was soon followed by the Blacks, Margaret first then her brother who bent over and pulled the ladder back up into a recess in the eaves. Then with Gruesome Roger in the lead, they carefully traversed the pitched slope of the roof, keeping well away from the crest and any possible sighting from the courtyard, and headed towards the walled orchard he had seen earlier. With dusk almost upon them and the settling haze from the city’s chimneys and fires, the chance of being seen from the street was unlikely, while the taller structure next door had only a few small windows overlooking their escape route.
The Cardinal's Angels Page 13
