The Cardinal's Angels (33 page)

Ned dropped and rolled suddenly to the left. He was blindly following instinct now and it saved him from the hissing blade. The damned Spaniard really shouldn’t have been able to cover the ground so fast to be on Ned so soon, slashing and probing with that bloody awful sword. Ned felt cheated as if the countryside was serving this highhanded foreigner, not one of its native sons. He’d had a good fifty paces on the man when he’d started but now it was a barely a few yards. Sobbing with effort, Ned swung around another old chestnut tree, trying not to trip on its writhing roots. It was only a matter of time. The Spaniard was really too good. He moved with an economy of effort that was perfection itself and bounded over the rough terrain with barely half the strain that it cost Ned. His ribs were really complaining now—breathing was getting more painful with every laboured gasp.

Ned saw a chance and took it, diving between a tangled mass of roots into the welcoming shelter of a badger’s set, under the twisted limbs of a sprawling yew tree. He pulled his legs in and tucked himself up, crawling through the strongly scented burrow. Ned hoped the owner was out but anyway he couldn’t be worse off here than outside with the irate Spaniard.

The foreigner in question had stopped outside the set’s narrow entrance and from Ned’s rapid
glimpse,
a muddy leg could be seen leaning against a gnarled limb. “Englishman, come on out and I will make it quick.”

Somehow Ned didn’t believe that, nor did he care for the offer. He hadn’t thought of a way out yet but he’d be damned if he was going to give up trying now, so he wiggled down narrow tunnels that led deeper into the beast’s lair. None appeared able to accommodate his broad shoulders. Damn!

It was another minute. Don Sebastian must have been getting impatient. “Come English, I’ll even give you my poniard so you can fight like a man and not skulk like a rat.”

“No!” Ned preferred to live like a rat at present thank you very much.

He heard a deep sigh before Don Sebastian began a different sort of conversation. The Spaniard must have seen the futility of honour and now tried his hand at guile. For Ned it was a disturbing insight dripping with the hidden menace of court intrigue. “Well Master Bedwell you have put me to quite a task.
All that effort to secure those letters.
I spent twenty angels gaining a lever into the Boleyn whore’s retinue, another ten to see one letter.”

So long as he kept talking Ned remained alive. He threw a question over his shoulder while searching around in the den for any sort of weapon. “What about Smeaton—how did he fit in?”

“Yes the Cardinal’s man devious, cunning and lacking in honour. He could have been very useful. Smeaton bribed my letters away from my agent and made it known both they and more dramatic writs were available at a price.” After that confession Don Sebastian made a disappointed
tch
tch
sound.

“You English, you think you’re so clever sometimes. Smeaton was bought by me, one hundred of your golden angels and a post in Bruges. But he was so foolish and greedy he sought out that meddler Howard and his barbarous minion. It brought his death. Though I am disappointed it wasn’t my hand that ripped his soul to Hell.”

So Ned had his answer. One way or another Smeaton was dead that night. Dr Caerleon had been correct. In between gasping for breath he wracked his brain to sort out any other cryptic clues the old astrologer had dropped. His daemon helpfully pushed one into view but he was damned if he knew how to employ it. “Don Juan Sebastian, you know Skelton slew Smeaton?”

“Yeas, Master Bedwell. This is not news to me.” The Spaniard sounded a touch bored.

Ned had to keep the conversation going and reached back to the speculation of that night. “That maybe so, but Skelton got to Smeaton’s satchel first. My friends only recovered it after a long chase. Are you so sure I have what you want?”

Doubt hovered. The Spaniard stopped tapping the root he was against and went very quiet. Ned pushed further. “How many letters
were
there Don Sebastian?”

Ned could almost feel the mental calculation going on outside as the Spaniard worked through the various permutations of events and circumstances. It wasn’t much of a delay, but Ned thought that even a minute was worth the effort. He’d found a knobbly section of root, not quite the Excalibur of the tales but in desperate need it might help. At a time such as this the priests always said one should examine one’s soul and prepare for the end. Considering how he felt about the church at present, this bland assurance no longer gave him any certainty or comfort.

“Master Bedwell, you are
a more
sensible English. I have considered your news. It has some merit, so I ask you chose life and wealth, not the path of Smeaton. I Don Juan Sebastian de Alva pledge my word on the bond. I may even forgive the insult to my doublet and cloak. What do you think Englishman?”

Ned was spared time for consideration. A loud yell terminated the discussion. “Yea bloody Spanish louse, shove me in a jakes will yea!”

Ned hiding in the badger’s hole turned pale at the familiar voice shouting in anger. Damn, Skelton was here!

The hollow reverberated to the clash of hard steel meeting in violence. What was going on? The sound of blades squealing in stress penetrated the burrow, as did the continued stream of profanities from the northerner now facing the Spaniard in battle. Say what you will about Howard’s rent collector and hired sword, the northerner had quite a grasp of wonderfully graphic allusions. Ned was quite impressed with the range and breath of the curses, such as ‘yea mother’s mother was nay good enough
ta
be a
poxed
whore ta a goat!’ Though the best one was ‘yea Spanish cock has fondness
fo
’ the arses o’ rent boys, since yea pizzle’s so withered an’
manky
fra
humping a donkey!’

The Spaniard seemed to take it in good part since he kept up his end of the repartee. Since Ned wasn’t skilled in Spanish he could only make a guess at what he was saying from the sheer sneering quality of his accented replies. Though his Latin gave him an idea that it may involve copulation with…a bear? This titanic exchange lasted for a few minutes then suddenly terminated with matched gasps and then the mutual cursing continued but now it had a more strained, gasping quality.

After the frantic song of the swords, Ned found this change curious and he cautiously worked his way to the entrance to see what was going on. He recalled another titbit that Rob Black had told him about these new fashion swords. Sometimes the action could be so fast that both combatants struck at the same time. Well it was deeply satisfying to see that his friend had been correct.

Don Juan Sebastian had rammed his long tapering sword into his opponent’s
shoulder,
while Smeaton’s erstwhile friend and murderer, Skelton, had skewered him in turn in the outer part of the thigh with a poniard. And so they stood leaning against each other, the weapons rammed home and each blade streaked with its victim’s blood that slowly trickled from the wounds—though the Duke of Norfolk’s man looked a lot less sartorially splendid than he had at the gaming house, and stank worse than a pile of ordure. Ned did his best to hide the snigger. The taunting back at the Inn had worked far better than he’d a right to expect.

Neither man looked very pleased with their coup and gasps of pain and struggle leaked from their clenched teeth. It was an interesting and painful stand–off since Skelton’s heavy backsword was locked at the hilts with the white eyed Spaniard’s dagger as each man strained to overpower the other. Skelton was larger and broader than his adversary, weighing a good thirty pounds of extra muscle, while the Spaniard had a lighter more agile build, but his lunge was held with all the strength and commitment of a professional swordsman. Every time Skelton tried to employ his superiority with another jerk or spasm, Don Sebastian’s wrist would twist ever so slightly flexing his blade in the wound and stall the attempt. The first to drop their hilt might be able to gain an edge, but to lose their grip on the blade might also surrender a deadly advantage to their rival.

For Ned it was a convenient opportunity and he crawled out from the set and circled the entangled opponents. This was an interesting conundrum and one he certainly took pleasure in. Both men occasionally spared him a glance from their mutual efforts of murder and neither was very happy.

Skelton, the man in the ordure smeared blue brocade doublet, vainly tried to throw Don Juan Sebastian to one side as he snarled at Ned. “Damn yea, Bedwell. Aid me!”

The Spaniard gave another twist of the buried blade and Skelton bellowed with pain. “God rot yea Spaniard. I’ll ‘
ave
yea stones for that!”

Don Sebastian spared Ned a smidgen of attention, to put in his own claim. “You do English and it’s treason.”

It was an interesting viewpoint because from where he was standing they were the ones committing treason. No matter! He wasn’t going to stick around and argue the finer points of law. “I bid you gentlemen good day and farewell.” He gave a nod to both and turned to leave.

Ned had some rudimentary skill and training at battle. He could, when pressed, use a sword, and like many was modestly proficient with the bow, but as for experience in combat, that was limited to brawls and similar affrays. The man he had slain last week was possibly his first and so it was no surprise that the next instant caught him out.

It was Don Juan Sebastian.

Skelton, having served in the King’s French and Scottish wars, knew a few of the tricks of battle that could keep a man alive, so when the Spaniard shifted his grip, he was ready to seize the initiative. Though it did save his life, it was however the wrong action. The Spaniard deflected his threatening sword into his already wounded thigh and then slashed Skelton across the chest with his freed blade. Skelton could feel the blade skipping from rib to rib as it gouged its way across his doublet. With a muffled scream he released his grip on his dagger and threw himself backwards, wrenching the Spaniard’s sword from its lodging.

Ned stopped at the cry. Swinging round he saw the northerner drop to the ground as well as a now unencumbered Don Juan Sebastian limping towards him. It was Ned’s inexperience that told against him, for rather than sprint off, he froze. The thrown dagger thudding into the muscle under his shoulder was the penalty.

Ned looked down in horror at the hilt protruding from his doublet. It was but a fraction of time before the paralysing wave of pain struck, but in that moment he managed to see in fine detail the silver wire twisted around the ivory hilt and the fine chiselled figure inscribed on the pommel. He idly considered if he could get something like that from Rob Black. And then he screamed as his arm twitched uncontrollably and his bright blood began to seep through the rent in his doublet.

Once more instinct drove Ned.
It’d been the only factor that kept him alive so far and now demanded that he head for the road. With a savagely grimacing Don Juan Sebastian limping closer he needed no further spur.

The journey back through the woods was even worse. At every step the wedged blade sent sparks of blinding agony lancing through his left shoulder. He dared not halt to pull the blade out or stop to check on his pursuers. Occasionally he heard someone blundering through the low brush behind him but whether it was the Spaniard or Skelton he cared not so long as he was in front.

Finally groaning with the effort and pain, he burst past the last restraining branches onto the muddy ground that bordered the slightly raised road. There was a group of figures standing by some horses and he automatically veered in their direction. His vision was hazy from the pain and he hoped rather than expected it to be his companions. Instinct reasoned anything was better than being hunted in the wood by Don Sebastian and Skelton.

Ned waded across the last shallow verdant pool and, one handed, clambered up the ditch, whimpering with the effort. At the last foot his arm gave out and he began to slip backwards clutching at the slippery bank. A large hand appeared and grabbed his doublet, jarring the blade and for a few delightful moments he lapsed into unconsciousness.

Ned quite happily drifting along in a boat on the river.
The day was warm and the sun had that sparkling refined quality you only get on warm June days. The kind that made you
savour
the passing beauty as if you were in paradise. All he needed now was an attractive
lass
, with a pleasingly exposed cleavage, to pole them along under the dappled shade of the arching willows. After that well, Ned was quite prepared to let nature and his natural charm take its course. This was so much better than pounding his arse into raw meat on a saddle floundering over muddy roads. They should have thought to go by river sooner. It was always more pleasant to be rowed along the Thames. It was his favourite form of transport where a gentleman could take his ease supping on sweet dark plums, a goblet of cooled Rhenish wine and have his brow bathed by a sky eyed lass who looked just like that paragon of beauty, Mistress Meg Black. Oh his daemon chuckled. What a session that’d be to bed her, a steaming session of ardent rumpy–pumpy! She was just the right height and those swelling curves, generous smile and open nature. A lad could do much worse. A minor distraction from further up the river bank had him creasing his brow. He could have sworn it sounded like someone shouting.

“You clumsy oaf hold him down!”

“Why ask me? Of course he’s going to buck. Wouldn’t you?” Since they clearly didn’t concern him Ned dismissed it as a gadfly of annoyance and continued to drift on the waters of Father Thames being rocked in blissful rest, right up to…

“AAAAWWWHHHH!”

A dreadful scream punctured his boating and then came the overwhelming aroma of charred flesh and cloth. Ned’s eyes snapped open to see a pair of hefty arms holding him down and above the apparition of a wild ice blue eyed demon holding a hot bar of iron. His vision locked onto the dull red point still steaming from its painful plunge into his flesh. All the saints save him. He was being put to the question!

“NOOOO!”

“Damn it! Hold the tickle–brained idiot still. I have to seal the other side!”

The return of the burnt flesh smell and the avalanche of pain that rolled over him shredded the last remnants of his happy dream. That was a damnedably familiar voice! Oh no, he wasn’t on the Thames. He didn’t have any wine nor anything
like a compliant lass
poling him along. Damn him, but once more he was suffering the punishments of acquaintance with Mistress Black! With an enormous effort he shoved the restraining arms off him and pushed himself upright. Oh God and all the saints that hurt!

“By all that’s damned holy, Meg Black! Why are you torturing me?” He growled out at a slightly higher pitch than he had hoped, after a few reviving breaths to push the agony back.

Mistress Black returned the bar to the forge fire, dismissing his accusation with a shrug. Ned’s rancour was stoked, as he could see she was doing little to hide a satisfied smile. That sight pushed him into a realm of anger surpassing anything before. With a bellow of rage he pushed himself up to deliver the long promised thrashing she deserved, her status as a girl be damned! His heart wasn’t full of black treachery like some he could name.

However Ned soon discovered the difference between desire and reality as several large bodies piled on top of him.

“Careful there!
I didn’t spend so much time stitching him up to have you
cause
more injury!”

Ned’s anger slowly drained away. Or more correctly was squashed out of him as now he had to strain to breathe without causing spasming pain in his chest from his ribs and his shoulder that now glowed with a special brand of agony
all its own
.

As he struggled for one more gasp of air, a familiar voice spoke into his ear.
“Now Ned take it easy.
Meg had to do a bit of barber surgeoning on you or you’d still be leaking blood.
Now easy there.
We’re going to let you up nice and slow. Don’t pull on the stitches. She’s still got to put a poultice an’ bandages on you.”

Ned struggled a little until he could tilt his head and looked into Rob Black’s concerned face. If appearance was any measure he spoke God’s own truth. Reluctantly Ned wheezed unwilling compliance and the weight on his chest eased as two of Gryne’s Men slowly removed their bulk. Eventually they propped him up against a post and Ned had a chance to look around. Meg Black had dropped the instrument of torture and was rummaging in her herbage satchel. That’s when the import of Rob’s words sunk in. Oh no, Mistress Black given free rein with knife and probe—it chilled him to the bone!

“By the blood of Christ, Rob!
Why’d you let her play at surgeon? I’d be safer with a doctor!”

Mistress Black obviously heard the complaint against her skill and took it to heart. She spun
around,
hands on hips, eyebrows arched with ominous intent, and her eyes shooting out cold blue fire, then addressed him as you would an idiot or young child.
“Master Bedwell, so much for your reputation as a man of parts, ‘Red Ned’.
Ha, I’ve had children complain less, you whining worm! Think yourself lucky I bothered with yea or else you’d be dead in the ditch by now.”

Ned blinked a few times and tried to clear his head. A few distractions were getting in the way of his attempt, pain from a myriad of places and a strange fuzziness that reminded him of the later stages of a really good night on brandy wine. His slightly blurry vision slid across the open space to Rob. He could see that his friend had been weeping. It was the puffiness around the eyes that gave it away, but now his face was plastered with a huge grin. A sneaking suspicion pushed forward by his better angel waved for attention. Maybe he’d misjudged Mistress Black. Ned gave it a brief nod of recognition and groaned, then did what he had to do.

“Mistress Black, forgive my harsh words. It was the pain speaking. I thank you for tending to my wounds as I suspect you did for the rest of our company.” He tried a prone attempt at a half bow, but a meaningful glare and a shaken finger from the recipient of his grudging apology stopped the action. Oh well, good, he’d live with that limited acceptance. It hurt enough as it was. As it was, his mouth felt like a weasel had used it as a privy.

“God’s blood, can someone get me a firkin of double and where the hell are we?”

“Certainly Ned.
I get one from the Inn!” Rob strode across the improvised surgery which usually served as a smithy, towards the door when his sister’s outstretched hand abruptly stopped him.

“No! No doubles just a small beer. Any potent drink after the laudanum will set him dreaming again.”

Ned would have cursed, but his common sense stopped him, though he was pleased to see Rob look towards him for approval afore he moved off. Perhaps his previous push for leadership had made some mileage. In the meantime he needed to find out how they came here, wherever here was. “So Mistress Black, you got to finally use your laudanum physick on the wounded. Did you find it efficacious?”

So not the best question, but at least he was trying to be gracious in suffering. Mistress Black paused for a moment and arched one of her eyebrows again. “I think it worked well enough Master Bedwell. It kept you in the land of dreams all night while we got here and as I worked on you.”

Ned clamped his lips shut so as not to scream. All night! What about their mission? What about Skelton and Don Sebastian? Were where their pursuers? Instead of those panicked questions he let out a steady breath and tried his level best to keep it friendly. “What‘s been going on since yesterday?” He hoped that question didn’t quaver with the anxiety that he felt speeding up his heart.

Mistress Black returned a steady stare for a moment or two before replying. “Well, we had to salvage all the injured before we headed off. A few poor souls were beyond help. One of Gryne’s Men dealt with them and I had to clean and bandage that fellow you pushed into the privy and we...”

Ned was listening and he was being polite but as his brain matched the words to images, he lost control. “You did what? Are you diseased in your wits or just lost them? What foolishness possessed you to save our pursuers?”

Mistress Black’s eyes narrowed in a very familiar way and her hand explored the option of walloping, and then to his surprise patted him on the head. Somehow that was worse than her anger. “There, there Ned. Paracelsus says that laudanum can sometimes dull the wits, not that yours needs much. As for Skelton, of course I cleaned and stitched up his injuries. Most appreciative he was too unlike some I could name. We also found that very handsome Spaniard, Don Juan Sebastian, staggering around in the thicket, then sorted out his injuries as well.”

Ned could have claimed it was the new physick she’d given him that distorted his hearing so badly. But as he reviewed their last conversation no matter which way he rearranged the words and matched them to her blandly assured tone, it couldn’t be construed any other way. Ned cautiously shook his head. He
had
to know. “Ahh Mistress Black, you know these two men were out to seize us and to commit murder if necessary?”

She snorted and gave him a look usually bestowed on a pile of gutter refuse.
“Of course Master Bedwell.”

“And you saved their lives?”

“Well whether they live or die is up to the grace of God. All I did was
ensure
their wounds have a chance to heal.” Ned had to admit he was still confused even more so than usual when talking with Mistress Black.

“Why?”

“Because, Master Bedwell, I know enough about Court politics to realise that opponents today may turn out to be the allies of tomorrow. Despite that, even sinners such as they should have the benefit of God’s mercy. If you still fear pursuit I wouldn’t worry. Both men were so dosed with Paracelsus’ drug that they’ll be unable to resume the chase for days.” Ned opened his mouth to
speak,
thought for a moment then closed it and shook his head. While it was easier to believe that she bandaged his injuries, her ease at the cony–catcher’s trade was less easy to take in. Having to admit that a mere girl consistently out manoeuvred him was hurtful to any man’s pride. Now once more Mistress Black had proved to be a very cunning exploiter of modern politics. Ned inclined his head in a nod of acceptance. Despite her frequent rancour he would grudgingly admit he was glad Rob’s sister had occasionally slipped into the lead.
But…just not publicly.

Rob eventually returned with a lidded firkin and Ned cautiously took it in his right hand. His friend helped support him as he swallowed at least a quarter. Damn that was good—no more weasel privy taste.

Rob eased the firkin down as Ned took a breath. “Your sister has told me of the aftermath of the ambush but what happened? I can recall very little.”

Actually he remembered quite a bit, mostly pain and trees, though his thinking was feeling less muzzy. Occasionally he still had to shake off strange memories of grasping branches clutching at his doublet or tripping up his feet. However despite those shadows Ned still felt the need to plan their next stage afore Mistress Black returned to her wilful habits. So catching up on the recent past was a good start.

“What happened after I drew the Spaniard off?” He thought it best to get his excuse in first. Being thought a coward didn’t sit well.

Rob scratched an ear since he was still kneeling and looked up at his sister. He must have obtained assent as he gave a guilty nod before launching into the tale of the Grafton Ambush.
“Bravely done Ned!”
The clap on the shoulder was only a light tap but Ned still grimaced with the pain and spots danced in his vision for a moment or two.

Rob looked ashamed at his lapse and paused with a questioning glance upwards before resumed the tale. “Ahh after you’d entered the woods with the Spaniard in hot pursuit, that other lot we left back at the Inn slammed into the Spaniard’s gang led by some large bearded maniac yelling for the Spanish louse. Meg called that he had the satchel and was in the woods and the fellow pounded off ignoring all the rest.” Rob waved his hand in front of his nose meaningfully. “By God he reeked as he rushed past. Smelt worse than the Fleete ditch.”

Ned let out a suppressed whimper and a glare. During the tale Mistress Black, having discarded smithing, returned to her pretension of barber surgeoning, and was now packing the area of his wound with some sort of astringent herb poultice. By the saints, it stung! Then she roughly pushed his arm up and began to bind a cloth bandage tightly around his chest and shoulder.