From experience gained during his fumbling practice sessions, a source of much merriment to the idle watchers, Ned had noted that a shot a minute was the best that could be expected from a veteran. After dropping the ramrod, spilling the priming powder and having to spark up the slow match, groping for the lead ball in his pouch, speed was a distant dream. So if that was to be expected, how could you explain this conundrum? If fear wasn’t making him misjudge the time, these weapons were firing at a much faster rate, possibly three or four shots a minute each and that was impossible!
It was now that both Ned’s shoulder daemon and angel joined forces to give him an imaginary boot to the buttocks-this was so obviously an ambush! Just like in a hunt where beaters drove the quarry forward towards the waiting hunters, so they had driven him with coincidentally stalled carts and blockades. Ned didn’t need to risk a sprint down the alley to know that it was already blocked. That was the instinctive reaction his ambushers were waiting for. The timber door beside him split from the impact of another shot, sending a spray of splinters to further puncture his doublet. A warm trickle of blood reminded him of his limited time and vanishing options, and he squeezed further into the shrinking cover. One option was to batter on the doors in the no doubt vain hope of help. His daemon gave a hollow laugh at that one, reminding him what ‘ambush’ meant. Whoever had set this up had ensured that none in this lane would interfere.
Ned rubbed his face nervously while his heart beat a steady tattoo of fear inside his chest. His sword and dagger were of little use here. According to Rob, a set of half armour was said to be mostly shot proof. However, unlike that idiot Sir Roderick Belsom, one didn’t usually walk down London streets a clanking. Anyway it was good as wishing for the moon. At close range it would only give him a false sense of security while slowing him for a veritable cascade of shots. As for sprinting for the cart, his daemon reckoned that was a shortcut to Judgement Day.
It was at this point that, as a cornered rat, desperation led to inspiration. In all likelihood it would prove fatal, but he was no less dead if he stayed put in the doorway. At the echoing bark of the next shot, Ned jumped up as it splattered into the ground by his foot, and in a leaping stride, made the other side of the alley and upwards, his fingers scraping a window lintel. Shedding fingernails he knew were going to hurt later, he began to clamber up the wall, gripping projected beams and mullions. One ball ripped through his loose doublet and the flash of it passing scorched his ribs, spurring him to further frantic efforts. His sword endeavoured to slow his progress by entangling his legs or catching on the old timbers. He correctly ignored the temptation to pause and unbuckle it-a still target was an easy target. As well, he was loath the loose the only weapons in his possession. There was too much risk in that. So despite encumbrances he clawed up the wall.
One level done-two more and he would be on the thatching of the roof! Luckily his ambushers had picked a street with few overhanging levels. The walls here were almost vertical with that slightly drunken lean so typical of city buildings.
Ned had figured that the hunters were each side of the alley, probably in the upper storeys. So if he couldn’t go down the lane, then he would go over it. At the very least, that’d cut down the numbers firing at him. As Ned struggled to hold on to the rotten timbers of a third level sill, he heard the commotion below in the street. His unexpected solution seemed to have upset his ambushers. After a loud crash, two men burst onto the alley. Ned risked a perilous glimpse over his shoulder at the sound and what he saw sent chills up his spine, and despite the pain, his fingers gripped their purchase that much harder.
Below him one of the assailants had the expected weapon. However it was unlike any common harquebus he had seen. Firstly it was shorter in length, and what was really concerning and damned unfair, was that the owner didn’t need to go through the laborious process of loading that Ned had so embarrassingly tried. No, instead he just flipped out a chamber in the breech and inserted a new one, handed across by his companion, a tall fellow with a flashy peacock feathered cap.
And here was Ned, invitingly exposed less than an arm’s length from the shelter of the roof, while the fellow below could leisurely line up his shot. No use waiting around. With a very brief prayer to his guardian saint, he took a chance and pushing straining, aching muscles, swung up. In mid flight Ned heard the whoosh of the priming pan ignite and every instant expected the savage tearing of the ball. No! Somehow he made it un-slain and pulled himself up the steep pitched slope away from the view of the pair in the street. Catching a quick lungful of air, he heard the echo of cursed invective from the below and gave a grim smile. Rob Black would be very amused. The limits of modern technology had saved him-the touch hole from the priming pan was fouled.
Making the most of his opportunity, he climbed to the ridge and followed the irregular roofline. He had several minutes at least before any real pursuit. At this moment Ned was very glad that Londoners universally ignored the building statutes. It made his passage much easier, jumping from one roof to another until he emerged four lanes and several irate inhabitants away, before dropping back to the street level.
Leaning against a stone wall south of Crooked Lane, he suppressed the trembling that shook his limbs. His best gamble was to cut down to the river and grab a wherry. Considering what had just happened, he needed to get to Smarts Key wharf as fast as possible. Though the question was, were they trying to kill him for what he had done, or because of Meg Black’s not so hidden affairs?
***
Chapter 16. A Dangerous Discovery, The Ruyter, Mid morning, 8th June
In Ned’s life the natural pattern of events never quite matched his attempt to establish the order or precedence he desired. For instance on reaching Smarts Key Wharf, the first person he saw wasn’t the sought for Rob Black. Instead fate decreed that it was to be his sister in her guise of the apothecary and amateur surgeon. After the briefest flicker of a frown from the Mistress of the vessel at his disreputable appearance, Ned found himself dragged into the ship master’s cabin and held down firmly by one of Gryne’s men. His minor wounds were then poked, prodded, pinched, plucked and finally salved with the most eye wateringly painful ointment he had ever had the misfortune to come across. Though it was passingly tender when compared with her removal of the splinters! It was an experience he hoped never to repeat. Damn, why couldn’t she apply to be a barber surgeon? Then at least she’d have a few more victims to practice on.
With a muttered thanks Ned escaped before Mistress Black decided to continue her ministrations. Luckily though, by this time, she had eyed the grubby bandage on the wrist of one of Gryne’s men, and was suitably distracted. Back on the deck he came upon a member of the crew involved in an intricate operation on one of the ropes coming off the middle mast, and gained directions to Rob’s present location, down in the hold, a level or so under the shipmaster’s cabin at the rear.
His friend was occupied pulling off panels of timber with an iron bar from what Ned thought was the inner side of the vessels stern. He didn’t know much about ships but he had this worrying suspicion that if Rob Black continued, the brown waters of the Thames may flood in putting an end to all their worries.