The Cardinal's Angels (11 page)

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.”

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 That had been replaced by a cool tingling across his forehead.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.

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 selfless 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.