The sound of a blow and a snarled curse punctuated the discussion. “I ez not French, you sozzle brained, English dog futterer!” Apparently the Fourth Inquisitor had a much shorter fuse to his temper than the others.
Ned would have smiled except it hurt. Instead he managed to utter a few more phrases for the cause. “Signed a bill, fo’ two hundred sovsfo’ the ship.”
“What? Did you say two hundred? Why Belsom, you pot bellied cozener, where’s the rest? I gave you six hundred!”
At the latest confession the First Inquisitor lost his last restraints of temper and trust, bleating like an enraged sheep. “He’s lying, you fool! Where are the Hanse and the girl?”
Belsom, forgoing his role of Second Inquisitor, gripped Ned tightly by the doublet and shook him like a doll. They say a good rage lends strength to the body, and Belsom tried lifting the apprentice lawyer up. Unfortunately for the pursuivant, his short stature and Ned’s height foiled the attempt.
“They’s gone. S’true. Got a Gl’smits bill wit’ the powder!” This was a bit slurred but so far they’d only stopped hitting him while the competing interests worked out which part they wanted to hear.
Another face pushed into view, equipped with a very large, red, wrinkled nose. Ahh, Blackford was now keen to shed his dispassionate role as First Inquisitor and attempted his own grab for Ned. The Tower officer looked distinctly nervous and upset, dabbing furiously at his throat with a grimy kerchief. “You say there’s a bill with the powder. Where is it Bedwell?”
If it weren’t for the beefy ‘monks’ holding him back, Sir Welkin would have clutched Ned’s throat in desperation. His eyes looked like they were popping out with the strain. Perhaps he should have considered the problems of cutting deals with traitors.
“Wit’ the two dozen barrels of powder at the stern, behind the planks.” Ned got that out very fast, before the distraught figure of Sir Welkin was once more pushed out of the way by his shorter and rounder companion.
Sir Welkin, now clearly distraught, waved a hand towards the group of monks. “You three, search the ship again!”
The monks in the line of his commanding finger shrugged and looked towards their leader. The Fourth Inquisitor stepped out from the veil of the shadows and gave an exasperated curse in Spanish as he glanced between the vessel and the dark bulk of the Tower. But apart from frowning in exasperation, Don Juan Sebastian made no move.
Belsom, however, was keener to find his promised victims than the missing gold or Gonne powder, and once more had his hands clenched on Ned’s doublet. “Gone? What do you mean, gone? Where have they got to, Bedwell?”
A further attempted shake rattled his brain. Ned tried to stay focused but the punches and slaps had blurred his thinking, not to mention what demands the pain was making on his ringing head.
With about as much success as a gnat at a bull, Sir Welkin tried to pull Belsom around to answer his shrill demands. “What’s all this about powder and a bill? Belsom, what swindle are you trying? You told me he accepted six hundred for the ship and everything. So where are they?”
“Shut up, you pizzle brained idiot! We’ve got to find out where the girl and the merchant are for tomorrow! Those are the orders. He was very emphatic. It’s us or them! The powder and the bill is moonshine. Isn’t it Bedwell?”
Belsom was shaking with red faced anger. Apparently he really needed those weapons. Or was it something else? Ned tried to connect the reasoning and it came back to him in a rush. More’s pursuivant was the strong arm behind the powder trade. How else could Edwards and Watkins strut along the riverside so carelessly? That would make the next part all the easier.
“To Hell and all with the girl and your master! What deal did you make with Bedwell and the Hanse?” Sir Welkin was beginning to sound desperate. His money had vanished and his partner was only concerned with the hidden ironware.
Ned managed a bleary eyed glance around. The minions were starting to look edgy, nervously fiddling with their sword hilts, while the large band of ‘monks’ that had arrived with the Spaniard clearly looked disgruntled, muttering amongst themselves.
“They’s at Petty Wales fo’ the p’wder clerk and the rest o’ the barrels!” That came out mostly right, except for the gobbet of blood he spat out. That last blow must have cut the inside of his cheek open. It was well worth it though. That last little snippet of information had set off more discord and discontent, more fracturing of purpose. It always helped the story along to add in a touch of truth.
“I ses kill ‘im now!” The evil voice of the Third Inquisitor returned and resolved into the snarling features of Clemmie Watkins. He still looked keen, though this time his eyes sparked more with angry panic than anticipation.
Ned could see the shocked expression on the face of Belsom as he stepped back and rounded on his partners in an angry squeal. “What’s the powder clerk to do with this? What’s going on Welkin? You assured me it was all fine. You said none knew of the plot!”
However the Master of the King’s Ordinance was more concerned with other matters. He swung around and pointed a trembling hand at his pair of powder sorters. “Edwards! You told me he was dead and dumped in the river!”
Then a further realisation lent a harder, shriller quality to Blackford’s trembling cry. “You treacherous dock rats! It was you selling the powder along the river. I’ll teach you to play the cross biters with me!” Sir Welkin made a fumbled grab at his sword.
Edwards and Watkins drew their own short bladed swords and moved to the side of the wall, away from Blackford, who now stood on the end of the wharf, blade in hand, quivering in rage. The taller one with the peacock’s feather in his cap sneered at his former master. That would be Edwards thought Ned. Mary reckoned he was the brains of the pair, while Watkins was the ready knife. “If yer were fool enough naught t’ see the gilt in this, then damn yerfo’ a mouldy sack maggot!”
The rest of Welkin’s men slowly drew their blades. They looked uncertainly towards their shaken lord, who was backing away from his former powder sorters. Ned could have laughed. Dr Caerleon had said greed would be their weakness.
Edwards didn’t seem fussed by the numbers and called to Belsom. “If’n yer want’s yer cut o’ the gold, you’ll see us safe!”
Sir Roderick seemed torn between his orders and the sudden beckoning of hundreds of golden advantages. The thought of six hundred sovereigns that could remain his seemed too much a temptation for the friendship of traitors. A brisk wave and a dozen of his men cautiously advanced on their former allies. So now there where two or more factions squaring off in the tight space on the dock, lit by the flare of several lanterns. So much for the trusting nature of treachery. Ned wished Gryne’s men hadn’t been bundled into the next door warehouse. Even disarmed they would have created a useful distraction.
The Spaniard, however, was not impressed with the falling out of his English companions. He made some sort of sneering remark to one of the ‘monks’ holding Ned, then turning his back on the scene, shook his head and strode off toward the Tower gate, issuing a chilling command over his shoulder. “Bring Bedwell and Welkin! Kill the rest!”
Before the Spaniard’s monks could oblige, a tall cadaverous figure with long, lanky hair sauntered into the flickering spill of light on the now edgily crowded wharf. “Why bless the saints! It’s me old friend, Red Ned. Why is thou troublin’ an’ threatin’ poor Ned, when all knows I ‘as a prior claim on ‘is hide?”
It was chillingly familiar with the same dangerously lilting cadence from across the river at Southwark. A rush of fear spiralled up Ned’s spine, clearing his head of the pain. What in the name of everything holy was Canting Michael doing here? Asking for him?