Ned was getting a few rebellious ideas in that area. Cromwell was maintaining a very discrete silence in this divergent affair. By now Ned would have expected a prodding missive or two, even if it was only delivered as a ‘weighted suggestion’ by Uncle Richard. The deafening silence was curious especially for a man who revelled in the details of organisation. At this point of his musings his daemon prodded an alarming suspicion. It was possible, it hinted, that the meeting with Skelton had actually been arranged between Cromwell and Norfolk. That sort of third or fourth hand removed scheming would appeal to their devious vanity. As a reinforcement of suspicion, his daemon conveniently recalled a conversation Ned had overhead between his uncle and Cromwell’s clerk, Richard Sadleyer. They’d been discussing the merits of various methods of entry into Parliament, using bribery, influence or family connections. Sadleyer let slip that the trading of influence on the part of Norfolk had gained his master’s position. It could be that Ned’s current transfer of service was, in part, pay back to Norfolk for his patronage.
It did answer some of the inconsistencies from the last sitting of Parliament. The virulent anti-Wolsey faction led by More had collapsed too easily before Cromwell’s measured defence. Perhaps Norfolk or the King had felt that the Cardinal’s disgrace was sufficient. While that helped explain his current predicament, it did reinforce that the only way out of the current mess was to help Skelton. However, on the other hand, that piece of providential evidence didn’t stack up with reality. Cromwell represented Taunton, which was one of the few seats in the gift of the King, so did that mean his master owed direct loyalty to His Majesty? This situation was getting seriously confusing and could easily give a man a headache.
Ned shook off those convoluted musings and led his escort up King Street, past Whitehall, Wolsey’s old palace of York Place. The new appellation to the former Cardinal’s city lodgings had first been tagged by Londoners as a wry jape, that its former inhabitant had been whiter than the Lamb of God. Now it was accepted as ironically appropriate, since the morning sun reflected off the pale stone.
For Ned that distraction on the fall of the powerful didn’t help. He was tired of changing the step of the dance whenever some lordly fool decided to switch tunes. It was well past time to arrange his own galliard.
Like now!
He was heading for Wilfred the ostler at Charing Cross behind the White Cross Inn. That establishment had proved very useful since their jaunt in the country last year. After a series of personal talks with a towering Rob Black on the rewards of Christian kindness, the ostler had proved to be a most reasonable fellow as regards stabling fees and the price of oats. There was another obligation that drove Ned, his chestnut stallion. He’d named it after its former owner, Don Juan Sebastian, and it was a truly magnificent piece of God’s handiwork. Tall, proud, swift and very responsive, with a gentle mouth, unlike the usual knackers rejects he had been obliged to ride and it had been almost a week since their last gallop. That was a week too long.
Less than half an hour by the chimes and a few more coins had his party mounted and heading off. Ned hadn’t even winced as he handed over more of his dwindling stock from the Cardinals angels-six shillings and six pence for harness and horses for the day! He was determined that before this affair was concluded he’d be recompensed for his inconvenience, several times over. Nor was he going to wait the usual months for payment or be fobbed off with some meaningless office, rich in threadbare dignity but poor in gilt.
The day was warm and sunny with all the sights, sounds and scents of summer. This was the sort of excursion he had been longing for when stuck at Westminster several days ago. Now he was cantering along the roads to the north of the city, oblivious to the pleasure as they woven between the carts, mules and trudging farmers.
Ned was lost in the maze of all the problems. Thoughts flitted about his brain like demented gnats each a possibility, each annoyingly distracting in its cry for attention. What exactly was going on? Two foreigners get murdered on their ship and the killers have time to dispose of the bodies in the most lewd fashion, which must have taken at least an hour. Then they make only a cursory effort to conceal their presence and as far as he can see, steal nothing, then later they try and burn the ship. What was it that they realised they had forgotten, and then urgently needed to destroy? He’d a couple of ideas regarding contraband that could be the reason, but still nothing solid. Also he had a missing Officer of Ordinance and what must be dodgy gonne powder deals, once more nothing more substantial than the tangled skeins of greed let alone the physical remains of Master Ben Robinson. Thirdly he had witnessed a very suspicious gathering in the Queen’s chambers, not that he could stand up in any court and recount it. Foreign or not she was the Queen. In the same room were friars currently busy trying to raise mayhem, and the daughter and wife of an executed traitor who had a penchant for oranges, lots of them. If all that were not sufficient trouble, he had a few days to find a man who last time they met had tried very hard to kill him and who was present in disguise at the Queen’s festival of oranges.
And now Ned’s thoughts circled back to Skelton’s demands. That he should be pressured so blatantly and insulted was demeaning. When stripped of its little finery and superfluous compliments, the northerner’s claim for his services to hunt the Spaniard were simple. Red Ned Bedwell was a boozing friend to all the punks, cozeners, forgers and cross biters that infested the Liberties of London and Southwark. Is that all that his betters thought of him? No more than a hired pursuivant, so besmirched by his associations that he’d only to be retained for the fouler employments and treacheries. Ned felt that touched too close to his honour. Given the chance, he would show them the error of this ill usage.
However as prickling and demeaning as his past meeting had been, it hadn’t given even the slightest clue to his most current problem. Who’d tried to kill him this morning?
They reined in outside the entrance to the Bee Skep courtyard by Aldgate and Ned had dismounted before he realised that the ride he’d been hungering for all week was at an end now and could barely recall any of it. Grinding his teeth in frustrated disappointment, he pulled off his gloves and left his horse to be rubbed down by one of the stable boys and then stalked into the tavern, followed by his bemused retinue.
To their delight he left the lads once more in a tavern with curt instructions to stick to the small ale. Any man who got drunk could consider him self discharged without pay. Their leader, a well built fellow from the border country between Somerset and the wild country of Cornwall, known to all as Ouze, clipped one of his sniggering fellows over the head, and bid him to remember himself lest he wished to answer to Captaine Gryne. Ned gave Ouze a few shillings and an approving nod then left the common room for the kitchen.
Mistress Emma ran a very reputable establishment, fresh rushes every second day and the kitchen was scrubbed at least four times a week or more according to some of her grumbling servants. Large aromatic bunches of bitter wormwood hung at every window and door to discourage the entry of foul miasmas that wafted in from the refuse in the street. Like anyone associated with the Court, Ned had heard of the fastidious requirements of the King’s Majesty when it came to the cleanliness of his rooms and Privy kitchen. Well he’d have no problems here.