The old doctor gave the proffered coins a deep frown and made a ‘tsktsk’ sound before nudging the coins away with his quill. “Master Bedwell, scrying is not my skill.”
Ned spirits sank. Well it had been worth a try. He started to pick them up but abruptly Caerleon’s lean hand shot out and, grabbed his arm, halting the move.
“However there may be one who does.”
Ned tried to pull his arm away, but the old astrologers’ grip was as strong as iron. “You have sworn me three tasks, Edward Bedwell and before Twelfth Night has come you will redeem one. Swear it now!”
Caerleon’s eyes sparkled under his grey bushy brows as if kindling fire from the very air. Ned felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand stiff and straight like a boar’s bristles. His angel screamed for him to escape while his whispering daemon hid. Ned wrenched his arm free and glowered at the physician. “I swore once Caerleon. I’ve not broken my pledge! If I live your three tasks are still my bond.”
The astrologer lent back and stoked his beard, a wintery smile on his face, and called out in a commanding tone. “Nerys!”
For the second time the astrologer’s assistant stepped forward. During these consultations Ned frequently forgot her presence. For such an attractive girl she had an uncanny ability to fade into the background. That was the reverse of her father. When Captaine Gryne strode into a room everybody knew it, though frequently those inside tried to leave by any available exit. Debt collection could be a socially challenging occupation.
Nerys picked up the pair of coins and thoughtfully rubbed them with the tips of her fingers. “These were hidden in an orange.”
Though Ned’s hairs still quivered with a tingling apprehension, he forced himself not to succumb to Caerleon’s player’s tricks. So with the coins still covered in the sticky juice, Ned considered that a pretty safe guess. However he gave a brief nod and maintained his polite, distant interest.
“They was several more.”
Another safe guess.
“They was in a wicker basket.”
Oranges were usually carried that way.
“They was travelling in a boat.”
Well, of course. They did have to come from Spain.
“They wasgoin’ down the river.”
The common form of transport in London.
“They wasgoin’ into a castle.”
There were a few castles on the river. Ned could name a dozen, Bayard castle for one.
“They wasgoin’ into a room.”
This trick was getting threadbare. Of course it would be in a room.
“They was going into a iron shod box.”
Yes, that’s where most sensible people keep gold and silver. Ned felt the cold prickling at the nape of his neck and a shot of sparks as her green eyes looked deep into his. Suddenly his mouth tasted of flat iron as Nerys’ words echo in his skull.
“Ye wassittin’ on the box.”
He shivered and restrained the impulse to cross himself. It was an uncanny gift and according to the church, tainted by association with the Devil.
“Ye knows where that box is.”
It was not a question, and he could hear the certainty in her voice. Somehow according to Nerys, Ned had already seen where all the gold was going. He shivered as both his angel and daemon promptly scurried into a deep, deep hidey hole.
It was a very distracted Ned who made his farewells, and he was still in a shocked daze as he sat down in the common area of the tavern. He couldn’t even recall if he’d paid Dr Caerleon, though he supposed he must have. The last words of Nerys continued to buzz around his head like an annoying insects. No matter, he had other business to transact.
A request to the pot boy brought Captaine Gryne sauntering over to his table. He sat down, and from the way the bench bent under the impost, it might have been a green sapling rather than iron-hard, aged oak. The leader of Gryne’s Men had earned his position by his strength and size. He kept it by the cunning mind that the fearsome scarred visage hid.
“Aye Ned, wot ye be wantin’?” Gryne growled.
Most sensible men would tremble at that tone. Ned however had learnt to listen for the inflection of tolerant amusement. He’d gained the impression that Captaine Gryne looked upon the antics of Red Ned Bedwell in the same manner as a courser of hounds would a stumbling puppy; eager, amusing and showing possible promise.
“Tonight I need all your men at the Ruyter before sunset.”
The master of mercenaries tugged on his long, forked beard and frowned deeply. “Nay Ned. Canna do it.”
“What! Why not?” That wasn’t even close to the answer he’d been expecting. He’d always got on well with the fearsome Captaine, and made a point of paying cash and a bonus for the services of his men. It didn’t do to have him as a creditor.
“I can double the pay!” Thanks to recent circumstances he could draw on adequate funds.
“It’s nay the gilt Ned. All the lads are bought and paid fo’-none left.”
That was grim news indeed. He’d hoped for a sizable reinforcement. At the long face Gryne patted Ned on the shoulder in rough sympathy. “Seein’ it’sye’self, Red Ned, I’ll let ye have four men t’ keep ye well. But just t’ be sure, can ye pay now, all ye owe?”
Ned gave a wry smile at the request. News of his chances after dark had spread pretty quickly, not that he could accuse Gryne of avarice. The mercenary contractor was careful with his reputation and gave good value for the gold. The four extra men could be depended upon to give their blood in his defence-until circumstances terminated the contract. A dead man’s gold bound no one
With good grace he emptied his purse onto the table. If he fell tonight he wasn’t going to need it and debts were debts. One collection of coins refused to spill out like the rest, rather landing in a soggy splodge. Damn those children and the oranges at the Boars Head. It’d be just like Emma’s foundlings to pull such a trick-slipping a squashed orange into his purse! Damn the little scurriers. He’d tried to be friendly, even generous, and now his coin was covered in this sticky residue.
Ned pulled out his eating blade and tried to pry the coins apart. It was not a success. The juices had set into a dark, sticky goo, refusing to yield to persuasion, and to add to the frustration, his hands were now covered in the dark excretion. Gryne watched the performance with mounting amusement, and made the odd comment about a how he’d known a few gentleman who’s hands could stick to gold but usually someone else’s.
Resolutely Ned held on to his temper. It wouldn’t do to let a child’s cozening enrage him so, and continued with the messy task. That was until he freed several coins. Then he slammed his hands down and cried out in shock and surprise.
Damn him for a measle brained dullard. He wasn’t fit to be an apprentice village idiot. How could he have been so blind! The golden coins stuck together by the black orange excrescence weren’t his! Well they were, sort of, but not really. They were part of Belsom’s bribe!
Yesterday, before he hid the gold he was so providentially given, Ned had grabbed a handful. Just to defray expenses of course. The mass of glued coins proved to be gold sovereigns still stuck to a compressed remnant of orange.
So that was one connection. Don Juan Sebastian was paying Belsom.
…But actually it wasn’t.
Why was the Spaniard handing over masses of coin to the pursuivant of the Lord Chancellor? The action defied logic. Why pay the horse’s arse when you could more easily pay the rider? Sure, Belsom commanded a hefty troop of men, but so did a dozen or more other lords, each more reliable than that fat buffoon. If you were organising some sort of affray, Belsom couldn’t, by any stretch, be classed as a natural leader who commanded compliance or respect. So why did he have the gold and so much to ready hand?
Ned, to Gryne’s continued amusement, pried further at the orange conglomeration. This still didn’t make any sense. The pulp shouldn’t be so black. His time spent in Meg’s company at the apothecaries hadn’t been wasted. When oranges were as dark as this one, the rot was so far advanced that you could smell them for yards. So why were these smelling sickly sweet, but only slightly pungent?