The Cardinal's Angels (15 page)

While he was mired in indecision and returning memories, a pair of strong arms lifted him clear off the ground, and wrapped him in a chest squeezing bear hug. Arrgh…Oh, no, an ambush! His first instinct was to fight back, the second to curse Mistress Black, while the third was the urgent need to breath.

“Put him down you brainless puttock! I’ve only just bandaged his ribs!”

That sharp admonishment came from an unlikely source of rescue, but Ned took it gratefully as he collapsed onto one of the stools, dragging in a revivifying lungful of air. By the Saints, how had he managed to offend Mistress Black’s brother? Did he try for a quick fumble at the Cardinals Cap? Not likely. Considering her prior slaps he would have remembered that! After the black spots had cleared from his eyes, he looked at his assailant. It may be that Ned had misread his reception, for the young man was grinning broadly, fair to split his face. Those fine teeth were more prominent now, not one missing, lucky fellow!

Oh no…thud. He only had a moment to brace before a welcoming buffet stuck his shoulder. What did Master Black do for strength, wrestle bulls or tow barges up the Thames using only his teeth?

“Red Ned Bedwell!
Tis good to see you praise the Lord! You had us worried.”

“I did?” It was all the answer he could make and unfortunately came out more as a cathartic wheeze, but that crushing welcome had been enough to trigger a few more memories of that same loud friendly voice raised in song and laughter.

And suddenly he was back at the brawl outside the Cardinal’s Cap as a cudgel descended towards his unprotected side only to be deflected at the last moment by the Mistress Black’s brother. “Ahh, I seem to owe you for saving my head from being caved in but I confess that I can’t seem to remember your name.”

The smile slipped from Adonis’s face and he glanced towards his sister. She shrugged and answered. “There’s a lump the size of a goose egg on his head. Such a blow has been known to stall a man’s memory. He claims he remembers little of that night.”

The sound of doubt just dripped from her statement, transforming her words into a condemnation of his wits. Ned was becoming more than a little annoyed with Mistress Black. She’d whacked him across the face a few times, hit his shoulder, bandaged his injuries, dragged him through the city and now as good as declared he could be as afflicted as one of the poor inmates of St Mary of Bethlehem, fit only to howl at the moon and caper behind bars.

“I am not befuddled in my senses! No thanks to you mistress. It’s just that memories of the night ooze fitfully back like a blocked stream.” Ned spoke with some heat. He was tired of being treated like an idiot by this infernal apothecary’s apprentice. Apart from affecting their escape she’d done little towards solving their mutual problem. “I still recall very clearly that if we don’t find out who murdered Smeaton, we’ll be in Fleet gaol afore the week is out!”

This impassioned statement didn’t get him the regard he felt it deserved. Mistress Black just glared in his general direction and with a dismissive harrumph turned her back on him.

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 of 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!”