So with these revelations sounding their dread knell within his brain, Ned made his preparations. The coffins of the two slain Hanse were taken off the ship, escorted by a wailing troupe of punks. They made very convincing mourners when given the right incentive. Ned had heard of Joachim’s rigid beliefs and just hoped that the fellow’s soul had a sense of humour at such a passage. His nephew may have appreciated it. Even more poetic was the heavily painted and skirted Albrecht accompanying the procession. Tam had been every graphic, describing to the Hanse the methods of leaving the ship either disguised as a punk or as Tam preferred, in a number of weighted sacks dropped over the side. With his loss of the beard Albrecht was indeed a new man, or rather a new woman, though it would have to be a pretty drunken sailor on a moonless night who’d fumble under those skirts.
Ned had made arrangements for the deceased to lie at the small parish church of St Mary Magdalene on Milk Street by Cheapside, where his family had a few useful connections. Their poor bodies were unlikely to be disturbed, and Ned had left a couple more precautions. From there it was only a few paces to his uncle’s house, and Rob had a letter detailing in the fullest extent his discoveries so far. True, it was risky, but Rob Black had his wood wright’s gang and a couple of Gryne’s men for protection so there should be no trouble.
Then it came to his other mission, the discovery and capture of the dammed Spaniard, Don Juan Sebastian. Ned had tried last night and came so close, it was maddening. However last evening’s disaster had established his reputation with Skelton and so tonight he planned to play on that. A simple message sent by one of Emma’s brats should do the trick and Skelton would find himself with Rob and Meg at the powder sorter’s stash. Whether the Spaniard was there or not mattered little to Ned. Skelton’s band of northern savages would prove useful to his friends in frustrating the evil scheme.
So all had been prepared. His pieces had been primed and set into play. Now all that was required was his part. At the agreed time he had the crew cast off the vessel, and with the aid of the tide and a couple of wherry boats, they floated down river to the Tower wharves.
Belsom’s party were not hard to spot. The short, stout figure was standing between two warehouses at the wharf, flanked by twenty of his minions complete with lanterns. It was a bit of a give away. Sir Roderick had once more gone for the full martial splendour of half armour. His resemblance to a gilt pot was even more pronounced in the flickering light, so if the hand over was to be as innocent as it had been presented, then the pursuivant was definitely over-dressed.
Ned had sauntered down the gang plank, followed by two of Gryne’s men and while still a dozen feet away, had given what he considered his most courtly bow to the Lord Chancellor’s servant. It should have worked! It was supposed to work, and damn him, if he could have foreseen the trap!
The rest of Gryne’s men poured over the bulwark of the docked vessel in a screaming, howling flood at the agreed signal. It was just that Sir Belsom didn’t seem at all flustered by the sudden arrival of Ned’s retainers, and just stood there with that smug smile on his face. A shadow of doubt bloomed into dreadful certainty as the doors of the flanking buildings swung open to reveal the threatening snouts of two of the King’s Great Gonnes.
Ned threw up his hands, and his previously unstoppable charge skidded to an abrupt halt. It wasn’t going to work. Gryne’s men would cheerfully commit mayhem and violence to whosoever their paymaster of the time indicated, and risk the same bloody fate they dealt out. But asking them to face the annihilation promised by the black maws either side of them was past the bounds of paid loyalty. There was a grumbling clatter of dropped weapons as Ned’s band complied with the menaced request of More’s grinning pursuivant. Every man there had a fair idea of the consequences of non compliance. However when it came to the next logical stage of the ambush, Ned was surprised and humbled by the actions of Tam Bourke. His fearsome bodyguard refused to budge from his post by Ned’s side. It took the further persuasion of several aimed matchlock harquebus to convince the glowering retainer to join the rest of Gryne’s men, now secured in one of the warehouses.
Then began the questioning. That may not have been so hard to endure, but then the ‘friars’ turned up, and it got so much worse, so, so much worse!
Ned rocked with another punch to the stomach, breathing interrupted recriminations.
A querulous trembling voice, the First Inquisitor, sounded in his ear. “Come along Master Bedwell. We don’t have all night. Where’s my gold?”
Another louder voice interrupted, oh yes the Second Inquisitor. It was a lot less timorous with an overtone of impatient panic to its falsetto squeak. “Damn the gold man. Forget it. Where the hell are the weapons? Fifty sets can’t just disappear!”
The first trembling voice of the First Inquisitor rounded on the interrupter. “Well, have your useless men search the ship again. God’s teeth! I wouldn’t trust such a bunch of broken tipsters and drunkards to find their own buttocks!”
Somewhere within Ned was a part of him, probably somewhat removed from such mundane considerations as the urgent need to breath or perhaps to vomit, that was secretly pleased. That part of him rubbed its metaphorical hands together and thought, good, the plan works.
“G’n-n p’der.” It came out more as a wheeze than anything coherent, but it drew his inquisitors closer.
“Shut up, you maggoty weasel! It doesn’t matter about the gold, you old fool,” hissed the Second Inquisitor. His tone was high pitched and urgent, brimming with anger and incipient panic. “What, what was that about the weapons, Ned? I didn’t hear it.”
At this dismissive rebuke from his companion, the First Inquisitor quivered with outrage. It seemed he was deeply unimpressed with the present line of questioning and spluttered his retort. “What…what the damnation do you meant-it doesn’t matter and forget it! Six hundred pounds of my gold is missing, you lard arsed measle!”
And now the Second Inquisitor left off his pursuit of secrets and turned to his quivering partner. “You addlepated buffoon. We need the weapons now. We’ll find the gold later!”
Before the First Inquisitor could muster a suitably vindictive reply, Ned took a much needed breath and quickly slipped in another gem of truth, interrupting the exchange of insults. “Gonne powder, twenty four barrels!”
The First Inquisitor didn’t take this revelation well. “What! What did he say about Gonne powder?”
“Arghh, he’s said naught o’ use. Slit ‘is throat now I’s reckon.”
Ned felt a trickle of ice run down his spine. Oh for the love of Jesus, no. It was the Third Inquisitor. That evil voice had luckily stayed in the background, only occasionally giving out useful hints for the removal of fingers or eyeballs to assay the truth of the question.
“Theez is all wasting time,” chimed in the final Fourth Inquisitor. He’d mostly held himself aloof from the proceedings, primarily barking out the odd order or sneering hiss of frustration. “The night pazzes on, and you stand here arguing over triflez! When theez is done you’ll each be richer than you can imagine!”
That was a very familiar Castilian lisp, and now quivering on the edge of anger too.
“Oi! Listen t’ the frog. He speaks sense he does. Leave the brat. We’ll work him over later!” Of course the Third Inquisitor would say that. He sounded desperately eager to get on with his plans for the night-spending ‘quality time’ with Ned.