“The letters are in a simple cipher. Most of the local fishermen and villagers on the coast support the smuggling trade and keep a watch out for informers or customs men. Occasionally a shipment is seized, but since most of the coastal customs men are paid off, we can usually get the cargo back.”
So according to that recounting, the Lord Chancellor must be getting frustrated at the lack of success. To Ned it was no surprise that More was now searching for scapegoats in the city. “The list of unofficial calls and the true bill of lading, ahh who’d have it?”
Now Meg Black was once more looking uncomfortable and pensively pursed her lips. “Albrecht has one copy and Joachim the other.”
Now that was grimly interesting and somehow very predicable. “I take it that you have not found Joachim’s copy yet?”
Meg regretfully shook her head. That copies absence could be another clue to the murderers. Ned really didn’t like the way this was beginning to look. More’s threatening presence again edged back into view.
“Was Joachim or anyone else given a share in the smuggling?”
Meg gave a short nod. “Well, yes. Since the shipmaster’s co operation is vital, he’s given a share of the texts value, as well as permission to ship his own goods, up to a twentieth of the cargo space. The crew are also permitted up to a fortieth for their own trade goods.”
Now that was an interesting possibility. It may have sounded callous but at present he fervently hoped that it might have been Joachim’s own affairs that led to his death rather than the heretical contraband. But then that thought led him to the next dangerous question. “Meg, just how many books are there on this ship?”
It seemed that she hadn’t expected that one since her eyebrows arched in surprise. He hadn’t meant to ask quite so bluntly, but it seemed that once he thought of the question it leapt straight from his mind to his lips, almost unbidden.
“Five hundred bound books purchased at nine pence each and eight hundred bundles of loose pages at four pence a bundle. They’re sold on at a landed price of three shillings for the books and two shillings per bundle.”
“Uhhh?”
“Ned?”
“Uhh?!”
“You can close your mouth now, a fly may get in.”
He snapped his mouth shut. At a rapid calculation the books alone meant a taking of seventy five pounds and for the loose sheets eighty pounds.
Meg just smiled at the look of amazed crogglement on his face and calmly continued. “Yes, when you actually work out the figures it is very impressive. There’s more profit in a few barrels of books than a hold full of grain, and to think, on the streets they eagerly pay four shillings a book and we still can’t bring enough in.”
That was one facet of the smuggling of heretical books that Ned hadn’t considered-the incredible profits! How could the Lord Chancellor claim such damnable books were being left on people’s doorstep to entrap the unwary? At four shilling each he had no doubt that any left lying around would have been quickly snapped up for resale.
Any further reflection on the benefits of book smuggling was shoved aside as the sound of shouting and the violent clatter of metal penetrated the cabin. Ned jumped up and made for the door only to collide painfully with Mistress Black who’d vaulted the stools, scattering the pile of documents in her haste. After a moment or two debating who should proceed first, Ned took the matter into his own hands and shoved Meg behind as he pushed his way through the door. He’d suffer for this presumption later, but right this moment if there was going to be a brawl then he would prefer that Meg Black was elsewhere.
It had to happen! The crowd outside had the sort of mood that sweated a hunger for mayhem and violence. A quick glance at the dock showed a heaving mass, at least fifty strong, struggling to get on board the ship. Some were waving swords and cudgels. A couple had kindled torches that spluttered red tongues of flame into the night sky. After all he’d seen in the last couple of days, it didn’t need any mendicant friar’s predictions to know how this could go.
Gryne’s men had retreated to the side of the vessel and one of them had pulled in the plank that spanned the few foot between the vessel and the dock. At least the tide was in and the top of the deck was above the level of the wharf. Low tide would have seen the mob pour straight into the ship.
The usual cries against foreigners had started. If they were smart the Germans in the crowd would have scarpered at the first snarl. Ned could feel the throb in the warm evening air. Menace and mayhem it whispered-these calls of anger sent a shiver up his spine. If the affray wasn’t suppressed soon, he suspected it could turn into a repeat of the Evil May Day riots. This wasn’t the common crowd out for roistering and mischief like a Sunday parish stoush. If this lot came on board…well, Ned really didn’t want to think about that. He grabbed the sleeve of one of Gryne’s men. The broken nose and grinning face of Tam Bourke swung towards him. “Hold them off! Don’t kill any of them if you can!”
The large mercenary looked at him dubiously. He had a small mace dangling from his left wrist by a sturdy leather thong while in his right hand was one of the infamous Gryne’s Prickers, a massive cleaver-like blade three feet long. The merest caress from that and they’d need two coffins and a sack for your bits. “Aye lad.Won’t be easy. They’re in a mood f’r blood!”
He was probably right. The cries of anger and frustration intensified. One bold fellow tried a leap from the wharf, only to be met at his arrival with a solid clout from a cudgel that sent him screaming into the narrow chasm betwixt the two platforms. Ned briefly wondered if the wharf rat could swim, then recalled how close to shore they where. Oh yes, definitely a soft landing-that’s where the effluent of the city tended to congeal.
He pulled himself up some strange lattice of ropes and looked beyond the surging mob. So far only a few more were joining the rear ranks. The inflamed passions of the mob hadn’t yet begun to flash through the alleys and lanes that emptied onto the riverfront. No doubt the customs officers had fled, though across the way at the corner tavern, a growing number of watchers could be seen cheering on the show. One other with a jaunty peacock feathered cap was running off towards Petty Wales. Ned hoped he was playing the good citizen and summoning the Common Watch. His daemon dismissed that as a fool’s wish. More likely the fellow was off to rouse the riverside gangs like Old Toveys’ Lads or Break Leg John. Just what they needed-eager fellows ready for affray and hungry for spoil. Damn! Once this started they’d have to ring the bells and call out the Ward Muster Companie, like they did at the Evil May Day! That’s when he recalled a tale from his uncle about the last great riot. It would be an act of desperation, but if now wasn’t the time for it, well…
He jumped back down to the deck and ran over to Meg Black. She’d acquired a hooked staff and was standing by the mast, the very image of a determined Amazon. “The steersman, where is he?”
She pointed to a short, grey haired man, currently engaged in belabouring one of the attempted boarders with another stave-like weapon. In fact all the crew had joined Gryne’s men along the side, each one well armed. That was surprisingly fast. He would have expected more panic and confusion without the shipmaster to lead and encourage them. Ned gave a nod of thanks, then pulled the fellow out of the defensive line and shouted into his ear. It took a few attempts but finally the man gave a reluctant nod and headed determinedly for the hold.
Next he grabbed Rob. For a lad who professed an abhorrence of violence, he was certainly enjoying himself. Unwanted boarders didn’t get dropped into the questionable safety of the water. No, instead he threw them back into the mob, knocking over two of three at a time. Ned shouted his instructions and waved his hand toward the aft hold. Rob grinned broadly then left Ned to fill his gap in the wall of men.