His quill cramped fingers felt satisfied at their labour. Since his masters had accorded him little respect for his talents and no honour for his position, he’d decided to play on the ground of his choosing. An hour’s effort at Mistress Emma’s table had a dozen letters drawn up, each addressed to the parish constables scattered across London, ‘bidding them in the Lord Chancellor’s name to seize and secure forthwith any lewd and mischievous friars who were preaching without a writ from the Bishop of London’. To speed up compliance he had made a fair imitation of Sir Fredrick Belsom’s signature. Normally he wouldn’t have been so brazen about forgery. However with the threat of more severe punishment if he failed, and the chance of losing a hand paled into insignificance, compared to say a head. As for another set of notes, well ‘Red Ned Bedwell’ did have standing and honour amongst the lower denizens of the city. Thus it was an simple task to pen a promissory note for several men of darker reputation, offering four golden angels if they kept their parish, friar free till Sunday. Either one method or the other would clear the streets.
So it was a satisfied Ned that arrived at Smarts Key at the three of the clock chimes. The usual scattered crowd of paid watchers and the naturally curious greeted him as he stepped onto the wharf. No great change, except that they all kept a respectful distance from the vessel. Ned’s smile widened with mirthless pleasure. Excellent, word of the previous night’s end to the affray must have been spread along the riverfront. Maybe they’d be left alone now. It was amazing how the whiff of brimstone could quell a mob.
Ned had the whole of the city to transverse before he got here and in that time his temper had edged towards the breaking point. Tumbling friars was only a partial balm. His rage had been stoked by days of disdainful treatment. Once more he was trapped into being a pawn of the powerful. He hadn’t asked for this perilous challenge. All he had wanted was to finish his legal apprenticeship at Gray’s Inn and find honourable employment. The way things were going that was a diminishing prospect. What noble family would engage him and not suspect he was a spy set to betray them? He was already marked as a servant of Cromwell and now he had the dubious distinction of attracting the interest of the Duke of Norfolk. That combination was dangerous enough thank you, without adding the possible taint of heresy. He gave a frown as he paced up the gangplank. By all the saints, association with Meg Black came at a stiff price!
If it wasn’t for honour, duty and obligation, Ned would have stepped clear of this problem days ago. No chance of that. His daemon had conveniently reminded him of the large amount of his future payments invested in the vessel and cargo. Now if only his lords and masters understood the meaning of a sworn oath. According to usages of chivalry, it was supposed to be reciprocal, guaranteeing protection for service. That and the duty to the King, and God through his handmaiden the Church, was what bound the commonweal together. The greater part of what stoked his fury was the natural assumption that as a servant he could be used as a cats-paw without any consideration of his own honour. That was a vile corruption of the relationship.
It could have been understandable. It may even have been justified, but in no way was it sensible or prudent. Ned slammed the door of the shipmaster’s cabin hard against the wall as he entered. It sounded like the boom of a Great Gonne and startled Mistress Black and Albrecht. They both spun around in surprise dislodging the sorted pile of shipping bills, which fell onto the deck in a slow, fluttering cascade.
Meg Black took one look at the spreading carpet of words and numbers and turned to Ned. “You tottering, tickle-brained puttock! That took hours to work through. We just about had it done and you burst in without a care, like some ill bred, ham handed measle!”
Ned was not going to be put off by Meg’s ‘you’re a clumsy clot’ routine. He had his own claims on anger. He stood his ground and roared back. “Well damn you Meg Black for a meddling fool. What whispering serpent convinced you to seize those oranges risking us all!”
If he thought she was peeved at his interruption that was nothing. Mistress Black drew herself up to her full height of five foot with hands on hips and her eyes sparking fury fit to set a fire. “And damn yourself Ned Bedwell. I was there and nor do I need the say so of any of God’s creatures who need to scratch a codpiece before I act! Anyway who made you lord and master to command so?”
“It is my natural right by law and custom to be obeyed. After all I lead this company!” Well it was the truth as Ned perceived it then and there, and by the law framed in his musty tomes. He was sort of right and the Church did support the biblical fact that a woman was in second place to a man, her natural lord and master. However there was a great deal of distance between letters scribbled on crackling parchment and the daily realities of life. His proclamation, as he found, exposed the gaping flaws in this reasoning.
“Do you so?”
It was quietly said for Mistress Black had reached that calm plateau beyond mere anger. Her passion was furnace bright, fit for forging and casting the bolts of Jupiter. Ned may have had a flicker of apprehension and his better angel of caution and restraint tugged vainly at his shoulder. Alas though, it was all to no avail for the daemon of righteousness was firmly in the saddle and so ignored the first step over the precipice. Usually Ned would have noted, with a significant twitch of foreboding, her assumed stance with folded arms, but his choleric temper pushed him well past prudence.
“Well, Lord Bedwell, give a command and we’ll see if it is obeyed.” It was a simple and reasoned reply, so much so that Albrecht took one look at the two of them and shot out the open doorway as fast as he could.
Ned opened his mouth to frame a command, his second foot following the first in edging over the chasm. This was going to prove difficult. Her Hanse agent had just precipitously fled so that wasn’t an option, and although Ned apparently owned the vessel he now stood on, none knew it and the crew seemed to accept their orders from Mistress Margaret Black. Ned was finding himself suddenly short of followers. There were Gryne’s men-however half here were paid by Mistress Black and in any clash of wills could not be counted on. After all they owned fealty to Captaine Gryne and he had high regard for Dr Caerleon who in the twisted pattern of the city felt he still owed a debt of blood to the Blacks. Of course he could always call upon his friend Rob, or then once the rarefied pinnacle of command had cleared his head, perhaps not. Ned found himself plummeting down the trap of his own making. It would be prudent not to put his friend to the test of opposing his younger sister. The heights of command suddenly felt very exposed and chilly.
Ned knew defeat when he saw it and one thing he had learned at the Inns was the art of evasion. So he put on his most imperious stance and pointed to the disarray of papers. “Tell me what you’ve found!”
It was close-very, very close. He could see her eyes measuring him up for where the next blow was to land. He’d prefer if it was not the face. The last set of bruises had taken a week to fade. The hand slowly relaxed and Meg Black turned back to the table. It may have the appearance of a draw, but Ned had caught the distinct impression of a satisfied smile on her face. “Well, Lord Bedwell, Albrecht and I have gone through all the ship’s ledgers, both the official and secret ones, and we found nothing special or manifestly different from what we thought was being carried, so we’re no closer.”