As he walked along Ned stewed over the interview. His dearest uncle had patiently listened to his report on the Hanse murders, which was, admittedly, still brief and inconclusive, as well as his initial suspicions on the Queen’s plot. In between he’d considerably edited out Meg Black’s more illicit business problems. It was certainly neither necessary or desirable for Uncle Richard to have any of that knowledge! He had a healthy respect for his uncle’s ability to scent out advantage from any rumour or gossip as per the grain scandal. Not that it mattered. For all that careful effort, his uncle just huffed a little, and with a facetiously smiling face, the one he kept for particularly unfortunate clients, remarked that he had heard this all before, then dismissed it as completely irrelevant.
And what was it that was the most galling to Ned? It would have to be that he knew, he just knew that Uncle Richard, even now, was making an almost word perfect transcript of the interview. After this he’d make one or two modifications and with the addition of a few of his ‘suggestions’, it would be in the hands of Councillor Cromwell before this day was out. And those suggestions would be so skilfully worded that any resultant success would be shared with his uncle, while any ensuing disasters would be his alone. As for assistance, well Judgement Day would come sooner. This was just the kind of occasion that had Ned fuming over the wilful blindness and bland superiority of his elders.
The only consolation lay in the memory of the previous night’s feast. The food had been… Ahh, words were not sufficient to describe the explosion of tastes of venison, braised with wine and juniper berries, and served with baked honeyed parsnip tarts. That superb repast had helped wash away the sour tang of his trouncing at the hands of the arch deceiver, Meg Black. If really pushed and put to the question, he may grudgingly concede that her plan was adequate, but no more than that. He was, it must be admitted, still angry that he hadn’t been hitherto informed of the existence of such a useful set of spies. Considering some of the things Cromwell had him delving into over the past six months, eyes and ears like those could have been very useful.
Well he could play that game too. He’d collared Rob towards the end of the feast while the arch trickster was elsewhere, and convinced him that it was of the utmost necessity to go over the vessel from one end to the other and top to bottom, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Ned also suggested that it’d be useful to have his sister along, just to help point out those useful hidey holes she seemed to know so thoroughly. He’d had a few wicked thoughts about that-when it came to the foul and noisome space that the sailor’s called the bilge, he’d see how superior she felt then.
For the final member of their company Ned had a task that he felt really fit the talents of Gruesome Roger. At the powder mill he’d been given the name of a gentleman of dubious business practices, who when paid a sufficient amount, could find them the fifty promised barrels of powder. It was no surprise to discover that the fellow resided at a disreputable portion of the Liberties of Southwark. So Roger was tasked with some reconnaissance and was then to see Captaine Gryne regarding any whisperings of kidnapping or ransom.
Since the visit up Crane River yesterday, Ned was even more certain that Master Robinson’s disappearance was linked in some way to the illicit powder trade. Too much of what Sir Welkin claimed and Master Lyttlefield said didn’t add up. For one thing the concept that so many barrels of powder had been ordered and already paid for was just not in the realms of reality. Royal payments took weeks at the speediest, months usually, and occasionally years, so to pay for them up front with ready coin of the realm? Not even a village fool would do that before each barrel was checked and inspected and weighed. Unless of course there was an urgent need. There were no foreign wars with anyone at present, not even with the hairy legged Scots.
As a consequence of his introspection he was almost entangled in the growing fracas near Eastcheap. Damn! Ned backed up a few strides and tried to look over the growing scrimmage. Two carters were engaged in some sort of dispute and had blocked the road. As a consequence all the other traffic had piled up behind them and of course, not to miss out on a free show, the local citizens had joined in swelling the congestion. As a route to the wharf this wasn’t going to work. A number of the more enterprising purveyors of food and drink had even set up to take advantage of the sudden opportunity. Things were in a poor state in the city-the bells of St Paul’s had not yet rung out the full ten of the clock chimes and the roads were already blocked. Shaking his head in bemusement at the antics of Londoners, Ned cut south down the closest side alley toward St Michael’s Lane.
As a bypass it should have worked, but at the end of the alley he was brought short by another problem. This time a wagon had dropped its wheel. No doubt the retaining pin was shaken loose by the potholed road. Not wanting to be caught up in yet another delay, Ned turned down the first side entrance that dove towards Crooked Lane. The Mayor and his council really needed to sort out the traffic in the city. At any give time during the daylight hours, you could guarantee being trapped in at least one blockage.
It was even worse now that the city was packed for the Trinity law term and the King’s summons. Just last week it had taken him almost three hours to cross from Westminster to Aldgate, and most of that was back tracking to avoid the chaos of collisions and arguments. At the time he’d even seriously considered revisiting his expedient of last year, hiring a horse at Charing Cross and riding around the city. If these jams continued, it would almost be worth completing a separate road that cut around the northern walls.
In the first instant it was luck that saved his life. Between one step down the narrow alley and the next a sudden roar of thunder filled the space. Startled, Ned stopped abruptly. Instinct didn’t worry about the lack of dark clouds or flash of lightening and saved him from the second shot, dropping his body onto the mucky cobbles just in time to avoid the splintering crash that shattered the timber wall were his head had formerly been. A suppressed part of his mind worried about the state of his doublet, waspishly reminding him that he only had a single dress one left, but the sheer act of survival choked it to silence. Someone was trying to kill him! His daemon sniped waspishly that after escaping the fire aboard the ship and the machinations of Richmond Palace, he should be getting used to this.
Ned had dropped down next to the very full gutter and peering up, he looked about for the tell tale cloud of smoke. He didn’t need the technical skills of Rob Black to tell him that he was being shot at by a couple of harquebus. The smashed wall and the roar had been enough. Then far too soon he caught the flash and bellow of another shot. This one pulverised the cobblestone a finger’s breadth from his shoulder. That was sufficient incentive! Leaping to his feet, he sprinted down the alley, and dove beneath what he hopped was a sheltering doorway. The loud bark and snap of another shot cracking through the timber post soon convinced him of his error.
This wasn’t right! Ned had undergone a little training with such weapons. The ordinances of the King still trumpeted the traditional use of the longbow, but despite the power and authority of Royal proclamation, it didn’t stop gentlemen from trying the new methods of war. Novelty alone guaranteed that. He heard a few portly so called veterans claim it was a dishonourable form of combat, lacking in the manly virtues and only used by skulking cowards and trembling varlets. Ned really didn’t see the difference between slaying a man with an arrow or a lead missile-either way they were dead. The scepticism of professionals had soon evaporated when the landsknechts of Emperor Charles used the disgraceful weapon at Pavia to kill French knights by the hundred. After such a significant success it naturally acquired the keen interest of any sensible Englishman.