Since the matter of the nullity had surfaced, Richmond Palace must be crawling with informers. Any of the servants could be working for Norfolk, Suffolk, the King himself or no doubt foreign powers, the French and Imperials to name just two. So what was going on? As he had found last year, the mighty had this obsession with labyrinthine plots, under the delusion that the more convoluted it was, the less likely that its true purpose would be divulged. However, as with the affair of the Cardinal’s Angels, plots broke down when they were placed in the hands of less capable minions, unable to appreciate the true breadth, scope and complexity of the scheme-in other words common men, who had to flounder through the more mundane realities of daily misfortune and accident.
Thinking of misfortunes led him to the next worrying question. Last year he’d the dubious pleasure of engaging the attention of one Don Juan Sebastian de Alva, a Spanish gentleman who claimed to serve the Queen. The foreign fop hadn’t been sighted since that unfortunate incident at the badgers set near Grafton Regis, where he had kindly compensated Ned’s humbling and injury, with a splendid horse and a dagger. Ned doubted that the Spaniard had fled home. He’d gained the impression that Don Juan Sebastian intended to gain fame and fortune here and only death would deflect his course. If that was so, then was he lurking here at Richmond? Was the pernicious Spaniard the target of Ned’s commission? That would be sweet justice! Cromwell knew all about the part Don Juan Sebastian had played in the Cardinal’s Angels plot, as well as Ned’s longing for revenge. How did you fathom the cryptic instruction of one’s lord and master? Ned had left a standing commission with Gryne’s men to look out for the offensive foreigner, and occasionally rumour would surface regarding the gentleman in question, but naught else.
That was another difficulty that would have to wait for resolution. The first matter was the current plotting of Queen Katherine. That she was planning something was as apparent as night follows day. Perhaps it came with the Spanish heritage? Her father, Ferdinand, also had an infamous reputation for double dealing and treachery. Whatever this mad scheme was, Ned suspected it included oranges, friars and the mood of London. Even his daemon agreed with that.
***
Chapter 13. The Powder Mill, Hounslow Heath, Afternoon, 7th June
By the time the leisurely delivery had concluded Ned was ready to scream in frustration. The receipt of the barrels of double ale had gone smoothly. He should know-he’d helped store them, every damned one! After that, the two girls held, he felt, a deliberately long consultation over the details of the next shipment, then an exchange of recipes for sauces or remedies, news of acquaintances, births, deaths marriages, elopements and the good saints knew whatever else took their fancy for TWO whole hours! During that interminable wait, each minute he was expecting the lean priest to come a hunting him again, eager, wrathful and escorted by unfriendly, hard-eyed guards. It wasn’t that Ned was actually hiding under a table or cowering in the shadows. He just used any scrap of cover that was present in the busy kitchen, and as a measure of his apprehension he even offered to take all the slops to the kitchen midden.
Eventually and to Ned’s nervous imagination that was a very tardy eventually, the two girls gave their farewells and having gathered the proffered haunches of venison, sauntered slowly back to the wharf. As extra shielding, he’d taken two of the smoked legs, one slung over each shoulder, the better to hide from view.
The last few paces were the most difficult as he choked down his instinct to bolt for the welcome cover of the boat away from the overshadowing windows in the palace. After stowing the two dozen joints of game meats in a large salt chest in the stern, Ned dropped relieved and shaking into the boat to the curious stares of Rob Black and Gruesome Roger.
The rippling wavelets splashed and surged underneath the prow, as the barge charged through the waters of the Crane River. It was an impressive effort on the part of the rowers manning the eight foot long sweeps, chanting in unison as they drove the timber blades deep into the water then throwing their bodies forward with the strain to take the craft up river stroke by stroke.
Ned lent forward with the rest, grunting the work chant. His sweep shuddered with an accustomed twang as its timber shaft rubbed the pivot pins. It’d only taken him half an hour to fall into the muscle numbing rhythm, then like the rest he kept the pace, as the sweat ran down his arms and set his palms stinging from the broken blisters.
Despite the pain of his hands and the racked muscles, Ned almost felt happy. He’d finally won an argument with Margaret Black, all be it a brief and low voiced one, but a hard won victory none the less.
Eventually all had been arranged to their satisfaction and the two girls had taken their relaxed position at the stern bench. Ned, trying to maintain his cover from the watching eyes at the dock, had approached very humbly and engaged Mistress Black in a fast description of the perils ashore and advised that if they wished to live past the day, an immediate departure was imperative. That’d been the edited version, having suppressed his more caustic and invective thoughts, regarding their leisurely carousing in the kitchen. A raging argument would help no one, no matter how satisfying or justified. As a consequence here they were ploughing up the Crane River towards Hounslow Heath, and another required task.
The days of their reprieve were slowly slipping away and as yet, Ned had nothing to shield them from the inquisitive eye of the Lord Chancellor, let alone a solution to the baffling murders or the disappearance of Ben Robinson. While regarding his efforts for his good lord and patron, he had found more than enough to see one pursuivant, Ned Bedwell by name, dead in a ditch for his silence.
So here they were, pulling up the small tributary to the Thames just a half a mile or so down stream from Richmond Palace. Ned shook the sweat off his face. He wished that a cartographer would have the foresight to come up with a map of the towns and counties of the Kingdom. Now the Wandle River on the southern bank London-wards of Putney he knew, every cursed inch and riverside tree, too damned well. This patch however wasn’t part of his city geography. To his mounting annoyance and fear, they had to stop and ask several farmers along the river for directions. Ned regarded that expedient as risky since he still had the feeling that someone was after them. The trip up the river may have given them a few hours delay, but if their opponents were persistent enough to try and burn the ship, then chasing them up the river was a very simple matter and every stop and question left a memory to be delved by those that followed. After all it had worked for him with the missing grain shipments.
They’d pulled around another angled bend to the river when the light easterly breeze washed the foul miasma over the barge. Ned coughed and almost dropped the sweep. That odour was indescribably rank, even worse than the stream by the Shambles or Fleete Ditch! Through streaming eyes Ned could see a cluster of buildings on the northern bank. The collection of stone walls with shingle roofs and open sheds was a lot more extensive than the farms and manors they’d passed. Well the Doutch artificers had suggested that a powder mill was more apparent by smell than by sight.
As the barge pulled into the mill’s wharf, Ned glimpsed another imminent problem. Just what was the reason to be here? He felt it would be foolhardy to wave his writ and claim Royal interest. That just wouldn’t hold. Hampton Court was only a few miles to the south west. Ned gritted his teeth. If that weren’t sufficient, then the state of his attire precluded any attempt at official business. The master of the mills would just dismiss him as a prating vagabond and ignore the seal and signature, that’s if he’d even spare the time to have his writ verified.