The Cardinal's Angels (10 page)

Thanks to this trick Ned was now free of the press. Most of the crowd had rushed past him to argue or dispute possession of the scattered treasure. Lengthening his stride he made it onto one of the many small wharfs that jutted out into the river. Finally his luck was in and one of the infamous Thames wherries was discharging a passenger, from the look, a yeoman from the country, wide eyed and amazed at the mass of buildings and multitudes of people. Ned knew how that felt. He’d been struck the same way when he arrived in London from the university a few years ago. It was said that London held within its boundaries over a hundred thousand souls. Walk through it at midday and you’d think they’d seriously underestimated that figure.

A few more of his diminishing pence saw him rowed over to Galley Key on the London shore. Normally wherry men were a garrulous lot, renowned for their use of profanity, and lack of respect. This one however was silent, with hardly a word spoken for the entire passage. Even stranger the boatman kept muttering under his breath. Ned thought they might have been prayers, but the cadence didn’t sound right for Latin. Then the fellow even helped him off the boat when they reached the London side wharf and Ned could have sworn he’d heard the old man say, “The lord wills it lad,” and briefly twitch his rag wrapped hand in the sign of a cross. In a surprised reaction, Ned slipped the wherry man another penny coin and walked off towards the Tower shaking his head. The common folk always said the city was full of wonders—now a ferryman had blessed him!

Past Petty Wales Ned considered his path. It would be quicker to skirt the midst of the city, and head for Greyfriars over Tower Hill then via Aldgate. Not even the announcement of the Second Coming could clear the main streets by now, since the midday bells had just sent their bronze peels ringing out over the city just as he’d landed. If Londoners needed any other sign that the day was half done, these dominant tones bid them hasten in their work and duty before the evening chimes brought the day’s labour to a halt. Ned always remembered his first journey to the city—the low rumble of the bells and the accumulated hubbub of the city could be heard several miles out. The wave of sound, rather than the forest of spires, had spoken to a young boy of the rolling might and flow of the city.

It was a brisk walk northwards, and a few times he had to cut into the side alleys that flanked the thoroughfare to bypass carts that blocked the road. One had sunk axle deep in a pothole that had opened up in the cobblestones. As expected, it was surrounded by a crowd, not necessarily to help, but to watch the performance as its crew stood there arguing over the best way to remedy their problem, with the occasional diversion of haranguing of the locals over the state of the city roads and curses aimed at the parish beadles. Due to these diversions the journey to Greyfriars took a few hours. He was also more wary than he’d been in Southwark, always watching for anyone tagging along after him. At one time he slipped into the maze of Beer Lane past Petty Wales, and hid after he noticed a pair of lounging swillers had left their tankards and sauntered in his wake for a hundred yards. Whether they were from the Liberties or just local rogues looking for an easy mark he didn’t care. He’d taken enough risks already without having to worry about being done over by the brawlers, foisters and nips of London.

He may have landed at midday but the toll of the hour bell told him that the walk through the city had taken over an hour, and every dozen paces had him twitching over suspected watchers. Finally after avoiding several overly inquisitive corner lurkers, he reached the area of Greyfriars. As usual it then took a further half an hour of inquiries, and another silvery penny to one of the children playing in a nearby lane before he ended up outside of the establishment that Bethany had mentioned—Williams the Apothecary. To Ned the location was a touch odd. This placement was outside the usual haunt of grocers and apothecaries over at Cheapside. Then again the City always did have strange pockets of trades and specialities.

Like many buildings in the city this one towered three to four storeys above the muddy street, with the top most levels precariously overhanging the cobbles below. Since space in the city was at a premium, each building sat cheek by jowl with its neighbour, almost begrudging the common usage of the lane. As in all quarters of the metropolis, the diversity of wealth was evident in the quality of the buildings and in their decoration. It wasn’t uncommon the see a dilapidated wattle walled house with rotting thatch abutting a fine stone mansion with lead framed, glass inset windows. But the building he was after lacked the pretentious display of the rich, though it was timbered, neatly painted and fitted with moveable shutters in the windows denoting reasonable prosperity and standing.

A mortar and pestle illustrated in bold colours on a carved board hung from the second storey, proclaiming the traditional practice of the occupant. If any were still in doubt, the beguiling scent of flowers and spices wafted from the open door, submerging the usual street stench for all of fifty paces. Ned paused and breathed deeply. It was a joyous scent that beguiled his senses. For a year now he had endured the fetid aroma of the city. These few paces took him home to the fields of Suffolk. Now, exactly what was he to do? How did one say; I’m here on the suggestion of a punk who works at a gaming house and says you witnessed a murder? If that lean and nebulous fact came up in court, his case would end very abruptly much to the delight of the prosecutor. There had to be better way. His daemon snidely muttered that all his choices were gone, what else was there but to press on? Ned tried to dismiss the annoyance but even his angel conceded that his bruised body needed a rest. As for the slow pounding of his head, well it didn’t help his reknitting memory. The simple facts of inquest and court stated he needed witnesses to aid his testimony of Smeaton’s murder. Anyone other than Smeaton’s drinking friends could pull him back from the noose at Tyburn.

Ned quietly swore in pained frustration. Why couldn’t this be a common slaying? Usually in those cases he’d watched at the Courts the senior patriarch of the family stepped in to save the family name and any erring kin. It was simple—a bond was pledged and matters were sorted out quietly elsewhere. Commonly a ‘gift’ to the judge helped ease matters along. Since this was a ‘murdered’ royal official the common procedures wouldn’t work. A man under threat had to call in all the favours he may have built up over a lifetime. Red Ned Bedwell didn’t have extensive networks of influential friends or patrons, while Uncle Richard had made it abundantly clear that he wouldn’t risk his position to save a dishonoured bastard nephew.

There in the muddy street Ned had to face up to an unpleasant fact. He was on his own. Only his native wit and cunning could save his neck now. With little choice left, Ned metaphorically girded his loins and stepped into the shop. Maybe his patron saint was watching over him.

As Ned walked through the doorway, he was wreathed in pale smoke. It had the sharp tang of wormwood and lazily rose from a small brazier by the entrance so that he was bathed in its bitter essence. It was an interesting transition that left the muck and noise of the city behind.

The interior was unlike any apothecaries he’d ever been in before. On one side from floor to ceiling was a huge wall cabinet of marked drawers while hanging from the beams were willow hurdles from which bunches of fresh and dried herbs were suspended like a hanging forest. Walking through it was like strolling upside down in a garden.

Several other customers briefly turned and regarded his presence. Unlike other shops and stalls no one rushed out to serve him or to angrily bid him hence. That was a good start. Ned lent back against one of the corner posts and just watched, breathing in the refreshing aromas. It helped clear the aches from his body and nudged back the cloying mind fog.

As for the other customers, they were a good selection of common Londoners similar to the people you’d find in any market. Two were obviously goodwives with merchants or trades masters as husbands. Their fine woollen dresses edged in satin trim proclaimed as much, as did their rounded prosperity and studied avoidance of the two men in rough labourer’s garb and the older woman who was almost bent double and propped upright by a heavy black staff. This menagerie was dealt with by a pair of young girls who from their apparent duality were possibly sisters or cousins. They moved through the various mixtures and potions with an effortless and accustomed manner, while maintaining a practiced banter of both conversation and instruction to their customers. It was quite a treat to observe. He could have watched for hours, entranced by their patterned dance,
bespelled
by their lithe, willowy grace, as if snared by the court of the Faerie Queen.

It was only after several minutes watching, that he’d realised both girls possessed other attributes, like their obvious knowledge of the medicinal arts. His angel prodded him to ignore the smooth skin, smiles and sparkling eyes and pay better attention! It was how well they treated each of their customers irrespective of their position in the hierarchy of the city that intrigued him. The common workers were listened too with as much attention and respect as the goodwives. This was most peculiar, especially since apart from an occasional disapproving look the two women from the near the top of the London social set accepted this unaccustomed fraternity. This unusual display of equality had him perplexed. While all the denizens of the city looked down on anyone from the countryside, regarding them as no better than peasants, and frequently treated nobles and gentlemen with dismissive disdain, the traditional social hierarchy of London was clearly recognised by all its citizens or else they wouldn’t spend so much effort trying to climb it. One custom of standing was that the higher tiers were fawned on and had precedence in any establishment. That this didn’t hold here and was accepted by its customers denoted an interesting puzzle. It was a pity he had more than enough difficulties today. This one teased at the edge of his mind—somehow it was important.

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.

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 was 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.”