Rob Black had been so caught up in solving the cause of the fire that he had actually lost track of the wider situation. Ned could see that the full implications of the event had percolated through to everyone there. He had to act. For him it was another shocking insight. The only other possibility if it wasn’t the ship they were after, then it was someone onboard. The only one he could think of who was tangled in the bloody events of the past few days was Margaret Black. Had she seen something someone didn’t want remembered? Or found? It was a chilling consideration and one that Ned didn’t want loose amongst the crew. It was time for extra precautions. Ned gave a quick glance into the shadows of the hold. The crew and Gryne’s men were all back on deck, washing off the soot and grime of the evening.
“I think,” Ned dropped his voice lower, “I think we need to discuss this in private.”
Rob and Albrecht gave a short nod of agreement and shepherded a dazed Meg Black between them, out of the hold and into the former shipmaster’s quarters. What surprised Ned was that for once there wasn’t any complaint from the usually stroppy Mistress Margaret. Considering the shocks of these past two days, that lack of spirit had Ned quite worried. All through the chaos last year she had been unflinchingly combative and dismissive of his actions and suggestions. In a perverse sort of way, he missed those thumps and buffets that punctuated their usual discussions.
Ned quickly poured a healthy serve of liquor from a flask of brandy wine into the small horn cups on the trestle table. They needed a bracing after the panic of the evening. Albrecht peered at him over the rim of his cup with a slight frown and shot out a question “So Master Bedwell, is it possible someone is trying to destroy the ship, or perhaps kill us?”
No doubt about it, the Hanse merchant was sharp. That was the same question that had occurred to Ned in the damaged hold. ‘Why’ was the next logical part of the question, and he didn’t have any answers to that. They were missing whole sets of clues, for murder, for riot, for arson and the damned Lord Chancellor’s interest. Albrecht looked worried and well he should. A fair part of the cargo was his.
“Ahh, it…it is likely to be both.” Ned made the admission reluctantly.
“Why? Why all this for one ship?” Albrecht had parried his answer with another more difficult question.
“I have no idea.” As much as it galled him to show ignorance, Ned had to speak honestly. “All I can say is that I suspect that somehow the murders of Joachim and Pieter and the riot are tied.”
Margaret Black shook her head and waded in to the discussion. “No! The affray on the wharf is connected with More’s clumsy pursuivant! It was a perfect chance for him to seize the ship without any complaint from the merchants or the city!”
Ned suppressed a grin with a covering hand. The brandy wine had worked. Meg Black was regaining her accustomed sharpness, even if she was wrong. Ned shook his head and gave his view on the preceding events. “I doubt it Meg. I thought that at first, but the timing was too close. If the ship is blown up and all of us killed, then how is the Lord Chancellor to have his heretics to question, and the satisfaction he would gain from that? Anyway, as Rob will tell you, gonne powder is unpredictable. If Belsom had organised it, there’s a good chance he’d have been killed as well.”
Reinforcing this position, Albrecht spoke up in support of Ned’s interpretation. “He iz right Margaret. Sir Thomas More wants a spectacle of public penance. That’s why he took Humphrey Monmouth from the Steelyard. He wants us with faggots in our hands at the burnings.”
The Hanse merchant shook his head and spat a derisive black gob out of the porthole. “As for Sir Roderick Belzom, he iz a peacock, every day strutting along the docks, parading his master’s power.”
From the limited time he’d had with Belsom, Ned had to agree. The fellow loved his plumes and sparkling armour.
“A bishop’s ass is smarter. Belzom could not have planned this.” Albrecht finished his summation and crossed his arms.
As far as Ned could see, it was a reasonable assessment of both More and his minion. As for the attempted assault on the ship, that would have been easy enough to organise. A scattering of coins spread along the dockside taverns. A few whispered suggestions. It would have been the perfect excuse. Foreigners always made good scapegoats. However the problem with that was it still came back to the central question-why destroy the vessel now? Why not at the time of the murder? After all there had been no one alive on the ship to stop whomever from doing whatever they wanted. But most concerning of all, what was so important that a ship was left undisturbed for several hours a few days ago but now was too dangerous to be left floating. It certainly was a conundrum!
Any solution though would have to wait though. Ned had a more pressing matter to deal with first. “Mistress Black, I was wondering what are your plans for tomorrow?” That was a very awkward way of placing an offer to escort her away from the now dangerous vessel. He hoped it sounded better than it did to his ears.
Apparently not, for he received such a speculative frown that he suspected his reddening face was clearly visible in the lantern light. Albrecht must have received a lungful of ash in the hold, for suddenly he covered his mouth and muffled a series of coughs.
Meg Black however drew out the long moments before giving a condescending answer. “Why Master Bedwell, I was going up river with a friend on a boating jaunt. If you’re feeling lonely, I am sure they won’t mind if you tag along.” All delivered in sweet mocking tones.
Ned knew he’d coloured as red as beetroot now. Damn! His shoulder daemon instantly suggested Meg was off on a boating trip with some swain. No, that couldn’t be. Surely he would have noticed? Wouldn’t he? The daemon’s feeling, now on firmer ground, reminded him of several young gentlemen who frequented the apothecaries shop. Actually a great deal more than several. With three attractive young girls with possibly substantial dowries, it was surprising that it was not constantly besieged by eager suitors twelve deep, all no doubt complaining of lovesick maladies in rhyming verse. If Master Williams only knew of the possibilities, he’d make a fortune selling love remedies.
Now this was a nasty bind. His natural instinct was to find the offender and challenge the swine to a duel, then stomp all over the unworthy miscreant. But his daemon prompted second thoughts. Perhaps that would engender unacceptable sympathy for the defeated and put him at a greater disadvantage. Women could be a bit odd like that. One more option presented itself. Maybe if he got walloped, not badly, just enough to prompt general sighing. Ahh, perhaps not. Reality and his better angel struck hard at that dream. The last time Meg had bandaged his wounds it had been a particularly painful experience, involving hot irons and the aroma of searing flesh-his! Ned didn’t want to go down that path again any time soon.
So it appeared that Ned Bedwell had no choice. He would have to swallow his pride if he wanted to ensure the protection of Mistress Black. With the suppressed sound of gritted teeth, he bowed and gave the only answer possible. “Why thank you for your kind offer, Mistress Margaret. I believe I will.”
Albrecht’s coughing fit continued. Damn that ash!
***
Chapter 12. A Boating on the River, To Richmond Palace, Morning 7th June
It was another beautiful summer morning with the water sparkling from the warm yellow sunlight as the boat glided past the leafy banks, rich with the enchanting sound of bird song, while the pattern ripples of the river surface betrayed the lurking presence of trout or pike. What could have been more perfect for pleasure or poetry?
For Ned, lost in a black mood and with shoulder muscles straining, the sky could have been stricken with heavy pendulous clouds, wreathed in lightening and thunder for all he cared for the scenery. Damn Meg Black! She had done it again and he’d walked into it, wide eyed and well intentioned! Here he damned well was, hands blistering on the oar, muscles unaccustomed to the work screaming with the effort of propelling the heavy craft upstream. His annoying shoulder daemon hissed in satisfaction at his disenchantment. Maybe next time he would ask a few more questions, hmm? Anyway if someone wanted to use Mistress Meg high and mighty Black for target practice, damn him if he wouldn’t hand the fellow a bow and quiver of arrows and paint the roundels on her himself!