The Cardinal's Angels (9 page)

Excellent now he knew for sure he was with his friends.
“Which ones?”

“The small lad in the too big lawyer’s robe, an’ the swanky one with dark ‘air and pocked nose, an’ your other friend.”
Bethany stopped, a dreamy look crossing her face and she sighed. “He was so scrumptious, such broad shoulders, strong sturdy thighs, an’ cornflower blue eyes. I wished ‘e were my friend!”

Ned frowned peevishly. The first two were, of course, Geoffrey and Will, but the third description only brought up one flashed glimpse, a large lad with a shock of rumpled brown hair and an open honest smile. Understandably his perception didn’t dwell on firm thighs or other physical attributes that had Bethany so in raptures. What’s more it was off putting to have this punk launching into languorous regretful sighs over another. He was paying for her time after all! Ned coughed loudly and, frowning, tapped the table. Bethany reluctantly returned to the story, but the dreamy look remained as a lingering shadow. That answered one question—they’d had company when he’d entered the Cardinal’s Cap. Ned gave a small gesture to resume the tale.

The punk smiled broadly with a mischievous twinkle. Obviously she liked being the centre of attention. “As soon as y’ came in, y’ ordered a few firkins o’ the double, an’ took a bench by the dicing tables. I did nay notice y’ doing anything till, oh it mayhap ‘
ave
been
a
‘
alf
hour later, when y’ rescued those others fro’ the gentleman aside
yer
.”

Ned abruptly put up his hand to halt her story as his brain attempted to catch up. An intriguing image surfaced from his mind’s mire, a face proud and angry, with a half drawn blade. Then it disappeared back into the murk of his greyed past.

“I did what? What gentleman?” This sounded like the key incident, though why he’d interfere was a mystery. Ned lent forward over the narrow table, to catch every inflection of the tale, his angel archly emerged to question whether the enhanced view of Bethany’s breasts was the reason.

“There were a bevy o’ finely dressed gentlemen, velvet an’ gold braid an’ all. A few o’ em are regulars.”

That was typical, thought Ned sourly. A punk always noted how expensively a fellow dressed, not that he could claim that distinction. If he looked in a glass right now he’d more resemble a carpenter’s arse. But regular punters meant he could know them. That was both good and bad, the bad part being that they could be lads of Canting’s.

“Then the apothecary’s girl came in wit’ a large scar–faced fellow, a carrying a chest.”

Ned rubbed his aching head. He could recall a scowling sneer and a harsh laugh but that was all.

“As they passed one o’ the gentlemen—he was the one in red velvet with hands just covered in rings—
well’n
he grabbed the girl, and pulled her onto his lap. He called to Pleasant Anne that this
un
’ would do fine.”

Ned began to see where this was going and he really didn’t like the signs.

“The scar faced fellow reached for ‘is cudgel and tried t’ pull her away, but the gentleman swore a’ ‘
im
an’ a couple o’ the others stood up an’ drew their blades. Anne’s lads were busy at the dicing tables, so y’ walked over and settled ‘em, an’ eased the girl out o’ their grip, an’ called for a firkin of
brandywine
.”

Oh God and all the saints! He must have had a few tankards and been feeling uncommonly valorous. He had tried to be gallant and face off a pack of belligerent gentlemen—you could get killed for that! Ned slumped on the bench. Despair and the unwanted prospect of French cooking
came
a step closer. It was becoming horribly familiar—by St Mary, how did he manage to get himself into these scrapes?

“
They’s
pledged ye a few cups
fo
’ a little, an’ drank to the King’s health.”

Ned tried to fathom his amazing act of generosity. It still didn’t make the event any clearer. What on earth had possessed him to do that? He couldn’t recall the girl, though if he stood up to a pair of gentleman for her honour, she must have impressed him. Was she a ravishing beauty like in the old ballads? Or perhaps, had he another forgotten claim? His memory twitched and jerked, bringing forth the names of several young ‘ladies’ who’s fathers or swains may want to talk to him in the manner of Master ‘Red Velvet’. He wasn’t sure that was a useful recollection at this moment. Still confused, Ned shook his head. Bethany’s story so far hadn’t helped, though now she’d moved on to the crisis peak of the tale.

“As y’ all made t’ leave
y’r
table wit all y’ friends,” Bethany gave another of those deep sighs, “
includin
’ him o’ the cornflower blue eyes.”

Ned suppressed his instinctive petulance and lent even closer this had to be the vital part, the mystery revealed.

“Red velvet grabbed a’ the girl, then he would nay leave it. An’ Ned, you smashed a whole pitcher o’ ale in ‘is face, an’ there were a furious brawl around the door, then the fight pushed out to the street. Anne had ‘
er
lads slam the door shut an’ wedged in the lock beam.”

This got worse with every breathless word Bethany uttered. Now he was brawling with gentlemen! Why didn’t he just get really impulsive and shoot the race at London Bridge, at the ebbing of the tide—it was said to be an easier way to die than the hemp jig! There was still some hope, however faint. He needed to know who else was brawling by his side.

“What of your young Adonis?” Ned asked in bitter tones.

“Who?”
Bethany looked at him, clearly puzzled.

That was a stupid thing to say. He shouldn’t have let allusions of classical education and ranker ruin his chance. Ned ratcheted down his sarcasm. “Him of the cornflower blues eyes. Know who he is?”

That resulted in the biggest sigh yet and a dreamy smile of rapture. Suddenly Ned felt the heavy tug of envy pull at his temper. This was insufferable!

“Nay,
I’s
wish I did.
Y’d
tell me Ned, sweetkins, wouldn’t yea? It’d be worth a few shillings.”

Well there went that particular avenue of inquiry. Bethany wanted to pay
him
to find her elusive blue eyed hero. Right now, giant or not, he wanted to punch him in the nose. Ned had a sneaking suspicion that ‘Blue eyed Adonis’ was the source of all this mischief, and if his mind’s mire would just release a smidge more, the whole solution would be visible.

Ned was beginning to feel more than desperate. The day was flitting by, he’d handed over the coin and, as of right now, he wasn’t a single step closer to a solution. Maybe, if he focused on the brawl? “Anything you can tell me about the gentlemen I was fighting?”

That had her tapping her teeth with a finger in deep thought. As he watched the punk, an ungracious thought surfaced. It must have been a difficult exercise to look past a patron’s clothes or purse and see the person beneath, except of course for young Adonis. He knew that was a surly and wicked thought and Father John back at Gray’s Inn would have set a penance for it. However it was galling that the only clue to save his life was held within the plodding thoughts of a punk.

“Ye–
es
,
I’s
think so.” That came out slowly and with a certain amount of reluctance.

Ned strained to hold his friendly smile in place. Though to Bethany it couldn’t compare to her blue eyed Adonis, it would ruin any chance he had if his temper broke free.

“Yes, he was a tall, lanky man, older, an’ had a band o’ grey through his hair fro’ crown to nape an’ enough gold rings to be a lord.”

That did it, thought Ned gloomily. He was doomed. French cooking here he came! At her word his mind’s fog shook loose another image, the sight of an enraged Smeaton staggering back, his clothes soaked in ale, shaking pottery shards out of his beard. There were four men behind him and one had drawn a blade. Ned recalled the sight, but in that instant he’d thought it strange, for the one with the blade was focused on Smeaton’s back, instead of on the marginal threat of Ned. Damn, maybe the ship to Calais wasn’t so bad an option. He could get used to French food and habits, eventually. Ned slumped on the narrow bench, dejected.

Bethany lent over, giving his shoulder an affectionate hug and him a good eye full of her plump, white breasts peeping over the corset. Maybe she wasn’t as heartless as he’d thought. Perhaps his anger had
lead
him astray—again. “There, there Ned. It can’t be so bad. Anyways, for two groats I can give you something that may save y’ troubles.”

He considered the diminishing condition of his purse. Well he needed some sort of pick me up, but could he afford a room and bed? Damn it all, he was only young once and probably soon not even that! He fished in the purse and pulled out three coins. As soon as they landed on the table Bethany’s hand shot out and grabbed them.

“Go to Greyfriars an’ ask for Williams the Apothecary. I knows one o’ the gentlemen a’ the table. ‘
e
comes in all the time, he does the rent from Mistress Anne.
Y’ll
know him
fo
’ he wears a dark blue brocade doublet an’ speaks like a northerner.”

This triggered the image of an angry bearded face and a blade, but it wasn’t worth the burst dreams of a pleasurable hour and the odds had just lengthened. If Pleasant Anne was bound to one of the gentlemen he’d brawled with, then it was likely that at any inquest she would be called against him. Great, his only saving grace was that, as a proprietor of a known disreputable house, her word could be discounted.

Bethany grabbed hold and pulled him into her bosom. Well that was a surprise and quite invigorating, just what any young lad needed after such a shock. Her warm breath tickled his cheek and normally it would have raised his spirits until her next words. “That man o’ by the well, he’s one of Canting’s Ned,
an
‘he asked about you yesterday.”

An icy chill ran down his spine and the warm prospect of a few hours with Bethany evaporated. Not to be daunted, he had a quick nuzzle. Hmm, she knew how to kiss, and the odour of onions wasn’t so bad, after all. He bid her a good day as if he were her gallant, and walked back towards the river. As he left Bethany called out in an eager voice, “When y’ find blue eyes, gets ‘
im
to call on me!”

Ned waved his assent and walked off. So Greyfriars in the City was his next target. There may be hope yet!

However, ill news was piling up just as fast. Ned had to cross the river before the hue and cry. The urge to run was almost overpowering though regard for his ribs along with his other myriad aches as well as caution dictated a slower pace. Now he had to ask, had Canting Michael put out the word because of the slaying, or was it something else? The eighty angels weighted large in his memory. If he was in Southwark and at the baiting the other day, then the gold had to be from Canting? His mind and thoughts weren’t a complete mush. He did easily recall that for six months or more he’d risked all and won and fairly at that, against one of Canting’s savage plays in the pit. Despite his clear victory, the Pit master was known to hold a grudge where the loss of money was concerned.

Oh well, mayhap that’d be solved once he reached Greyfriars. First he had to escape from Southwark. If he cut across to High Street and along to the pillory square at Bermondsey, he might be able to lose this watcher, then slip down to the river and hail a wherry.

At a hundred paces to the square, he was still being trailed, not on his heels, but
close
enough. Ned didn’t think they’d let him leave the Liberties and so he considered possible distractions. It would have to be near St Thomas’s Hospital. This was a popular place, always crowded with an interesting cross section of the Southwark populace—beggars, the afflicted and a collection of mountebanks selling miraculous cures or sacred relics guaranteed to preserve one from any illness. Combine this with the usual traffic of carters, water sellers and the common throng and the congestion was almost impossible.

Another twenty paces and he was in the midst of the maelstrom, pushing off the clawing beggars and battling for a way through. A quick glance back showed that his companion was gaining. Ned dug into the purse and flung several coins back over his shoulder. The silver ones arced in the wan morning sunlight, a glittering rain that caught everyone’s eye as well as their rapt attention. A few of the coins might actually have reached the muck of the street, where they would have lain with the ordure, mud and offal, but he didn’t think so. Fortuna was with him. A glance over his shoulder gave a last glimpse of his pursuer as he was knocked down in the stampede.