The hand steadily drummed its fingers on the elm sidetable beside the beverage. It was an annoying sound, never quite finding the beat, and used to drive Ned mad with exasperation. That was probably why his uncle did it, especially as a prelude to a dressing down. Richard Rich lent forward slightly and made a throat clearing harrumph. As with the drumming, this was another off-putting habit used for its effect before he started to speak. “By the love of all the saints and the blessed Mary, have you not the least amount of sense of duty, honour or obligation to me or your family?”
It was a wearingly familiar refrain and every admonishment always began along this well-worn road. That he was beholden to his uncle for his bread and education had been beaten into him at every chance. It was a dull resentment that Ned tried to mask, with varying success. He could see no reason why he should continually be punished for some indiscretion of his mother or why the taint of bastardry should be embroidered on his sleeve. As far as Ned could tell, a man’s quality and standing depended more on his skills and abilities, than on any assumed superiority, inherited by the chance of birth. Once foolishly Ned had made the mistake of angrily declaring this belief during one of the many lectures on position and duty from his uncle. It had been a painful error, after which he had been more careful to guard his tongue.
“I expect a certain amount of ribaldry and rashness from the youth of today, wastrels and drunkard that they are, but this?” His Uncle Richard paused for his indignation to supply the necessary words. “This act of red handed barbarity! Where you were so taken with drink that common sense totally fled? Fool, I can see no way to hide this disgrace! Jenkins’ll put you a ship bound to Calais afore the turn of the tide. If you’ve any sense left in your diseased and feeble wits, leave the Pale afore the writ arrives!” It was a voice heavy with suppressed anger and doom.
Ned blinked like an owl in shock. From the quivering undertones, his uncle was truly enraged. He had expected the usual anger, threats and punishment for his misdemeanours, and there was no escaping the gravity of his most recent situation. A charge of ‘manslaughter’ sharpened the mind, but this reaction was way past his prior experience, so sense of righteous anger fuelled his reply. “What, am I being exiled for slaying a cutpurse? How low has justice fallen in England?”
Uncle Richard pursed his lips. It made a tight red line across his face, as he struggled for a moment or two to regain sufficient composure to reply. For once words failed and launching himself to his feet, he struck Ned across the face with a weighty arm. Ned almost dropped to the floor. He’d tried swaying with the blow. His ears still rang and blurred the following bellow.
“CUTPURSE! CUTPURSE YOU SAY! What have I raised? A drooling, swaggering wretch who, while taken with drink, slays a royal official!”
The shouting didn’t help Ned’s new found headache and while Uncle Richard usually ranted nonsense when angry, this was more confusing than usual. Ned gave his head a tentative, open jawed shake for clarity though to Uncle Richard he probably resembled the Bedlam idiot of the tirade.
“How…How could even you, mistake John Smeaton, personal servant of his eminence, the Lord Chancellor for a brawling cutpurse?” His uncle dismally shook his head and dropped back into his chair, exhausted by his choler and continued to growl out his disgust. “You’ve ruined us. I am supposed to take up the post as a Commissioner of Peace for Essex and Hertfordshire. It took years of petitioning the Cardinal, and calling in favours we couldn’t afford from the Earl of Oxford and Secretary Cromwell. Now I will be lucky if I retain anything. Damn you and your whoring mother, Edward Bedwell!”
Ah yes, as expected-the bitter fruit of a bastard nephew! The admonishments always ended up there. Despite the strain, Ned pushed his flagging brain past the common degradation and allowed the tirade to wash over him. Something his uncle said jarred, apart from the banishment! A clear image came through from the brawl the night before-it was part of the dissonance. He had to think fast or before dawn he would be on the Thames, shipped off to foreign lands. While it may be a better fate than the noose, it didn’t preclude a quick slash with a knife and a tumble into the river. He’d still get to France in a manner of speaking, if the crabs didn’t strip him first. Blood and kinship were supposed to count in family but Ned often had the feeling that his Uncle Richard gave him as much regard as did another more infamous uncle of the same name to his royal nephews in his care. Uncle Richard possesedan abhorrence for inconveniences. They tended to be removed quickly and quietly.
Instinct and his shoulder daemon prodded him into action. He had to make himself useful to his uncle or else suffer the consequences! Kindly was not an adjective that readily sprang to his mind in reference to Master Richard Rich, lawyer of the Middle Temple. Still manacled, Ned held up his hands halting the still flowing anger in mid stream. “Uncle, I think I recall the fight.”
That was a stupid move. His uncle’s eye’s blazed and rekindled anger launched him out of his chair fist clenched. Ned put up his shackled hands and intercepted the blow staggering backwards in the effort. “It… it wasn’t Smeaton I slew!”
“You claim? You’re probably so much the tosspot that you could barely recall the name of your blessed mother.” His Uncle Richard had given up on the imminent assault, stepped back half a pace and glaringly, cracked one set of knuckles. Perkins, his retainer, had gossiped that as a younger man, Richard Rich had been a known brawler and breaker of the parish peace. Right now Ned could believe every tall tale.
Another part of Ned noted, with brindled ranker, the goad of his dead mother. This time he ignored it and concentrated on the here and now. “No, I…I remember Smeaton. Isn’t he a tall, lanky man, with a shock of grey hair like a badger, with all the strutting arrogance of a bishop? He always served the Courts with the commands of the Cardinal. Smeaton liked to make a show strutting around, preceded by a dozen of Lord Chancellor’s men, pushing through the crowd. The man is, ah was, vainer than a peacock.”
His uncle gave a brief sneer and his eyes turned colder than flint. “What of it? Yes, that’s him, and you put a blade in the fellow, and we’re all ruined!”
With little to lose Ned took a chance. Stepping forward, away from his friend the wall, he knelt before his uncle in an unaccustomed show of humility. It wasn’t easy. The pain from his ribs made him grimace with the effort. As for his damaged pride, well he’d see. “I swear, Uncle, on my mother’s soul I didn’t kill him. I may be wayward and disobedient in your eyes, and that night I did slay a man, and will stand at any inquest to answer for it. Though that was more likely one of Canting Michael’s roisters from Southwark. Not Smeaton!” Ned deliberately made an exaggerated sign of the cross with his shackled hands. This had to work. Red Ned Bedwell wasn’t going to end his days eating French swill!
His uncle paused, his face a picture of disdain at his nephew and his habits. However now it held the slightest shadow of doubt.
Ned saw it was close, and knew that if he wished to remain in London for any length of time then he had to appear useful, even necessary and so he spoke another quicksilver thought. “Since we are beholden to the Cardinal, shouldn’t we try to find out who did kill his servant? Or maybe this is a plot against him? Another segment of memory flashed into being, the conversation at the bear baiting with Will and Geoffrey. “Since the failure of the Annulment Commission, His Eminence would be very keen to reward those who prove their loyalty.”