Ned could see that the lure of preferment had hooked his uncle’s interest. Though in truth, any man of rank kept a weather eye on the shifting alliances and enmities at court, preferment could come by many routes and rivals may not always strike in the open. Similar manoeuvring and strategic friendships had secured the support of Thomas Cromwell, the Cardinal’s principal secretary, an alliance that his uncle was at some pains to maintain. Ned had seen enough ploys at the law courts to understand the true workings of human nature and greed when it came to power and advantage. Erasmus of Rotterdam wrote of the complexity of man’s immortal soul and, like the philosophers of old, claimed that there had to be other facets motivating a man’s nature, like honour, love and compassion.
However in Ned’s estimation, Uncle Richard gave those only lip service, his guiding principle being advancement. When in doubt, which Ned had to admit was a rare occasion, his uncle followed some inner compass that dictated his friendships and allegiance, which, a disgruntled and resentful nephew had to agree, was often a correct reading of the political winds.
It was a silent struggle of minutes, damned long minutes. Every instant Ned witnessed the careful balancing of advantage in those cold, grey eyes. Finally Uncle Richard cleared his throat and spoke gruffly. “You have ten days to find the murderer. If not, I’ll fill out the writ myself. Any news, give it to Perkins. He’ll be at the White Lamb from sunset till the Vespers bells from tomorrow.”
Ned bowed his head in a show of apparent respect and humility for his uncle, rather than let him see the present flame of anger and resentment. Apart from clearing his name, Ned was damned keen to visit some righteous retribution upon whoever set him up.
But Uncle Richard wasn’t finished yet. He bent over and tilted up Ned’s bruised face with a strong hand. “Edward, you do this with your own means. From this night I’ll not see you again unless you are successful.” His eyes had gone past the flint hard stare. They were flat and lifeless, like those snarling demons that tormented sinners in the figures sculpted into the crowns of St Paul’s pillars.
Ned didn’t need to nod. His uncle could see he’d got the import of this warning.
Uncle Richard rang a small hand bell and the ever present Perkins came in and led him away to the small stable at the back of the house, where, after much cursing and more bruises, the painful shackles were struck off with a hammer and chisel under the pale light of a lantern. Freedom at last!
Chapter Four-PuirGhostie o’ St Paul’s
Ned sat in the straw, rubbing at the raw chaffing marks on his wrists from the manacles, and tried to whip up his flagging thoughts. The grumbling of hunger, plus the strain of his former quarters as well as the recent shock of being charged with murder, all served to make that a difficult endeavour. The best he could do was to conclude that he’d been cony-catched to wear the blame for Smeaton’s slaying. On that and the loss of some eighty five angels he was definite. The rest of the puzzle of why, where and who was shrouded in the grey fog of his aching head. He lent back against a timber post and closing his eyes, whispered a small prayer for relief and guidance. His guardian angel had interceded so far. Mayhap that compassion could be extended further?
The night’s darkness this time was warmer and not so damp, so without the limitations of the Clink, Ned cautiously concentrated on what he had to do. His mind, at present, was a rebellious subject and only truculently responded, claiming with unfair justification that it needed food, rest and a firkin of the best double ale. The first task was to find out what had happened. Simple, yes? All he had to do was seek out his two friends, Will and Geoffrey. His memory, at least, wasn’t a full traitor. It had eventually, and grudgingly, supplied the image of sharing an upper tier bench at the Paris Gardens with them. So he had the first sign in his quest. All he had to do was catch either of them by the Inns of Court and ask about the other night. That was an easy start, since at present the only other image dragged up was a rat-faced man squirming in the mud, trying to plug the seeping wound in his gut. He doubted that witness was reliable, since the courts frowned somewhat at testament given from beyond the grave. Anyway admitting to killing a man where Smeaton was said to have been murdered, was tantamount to a confession to even the most diligent justice. Ned pushed that annoying fact aside lest it dampen his rising spirits. He felt happier now he had a goal-Will and Geoff that was it! They’d help him retrace his steps from that night. Simple.
“Master Edward.” The growling voice of Perkins brought him back to the unpleasant present and he opened his eyes. The old retainer had returned, and in the dim light of the lantern, Ned could see a sizable bundle packed into one of the leather satchels that was frequently used by travellers. “I’ve packed most o’ y’ clothes, along wit some food an’ a flask of Goodwife Beasley’s ale.”
He handed across the weighty pack, and after Ned settled it over his shoulder, Perkins pulled a short sheathed poniard from under his cote and presented it. “A gentleman should nay be left unarmed. God go wit y’ Master Edward.”
With that brief gesture the old retainer abruptly turned and walked back inside the house, leaving Ned puzzled in the stable. Downing a refreshing and invigorating swig of ale, he stowed his supplies then limped out into the early morning darkness of St Lawrence Jewry, heading down first Catreaton Street and then westwards along Maiden Lane towards the distant Inns of Court, out past Newgate.
He took a very cautious path in the pre dawn glimmer. If caught by the City Watch, he’d end up back in goal with no prospect of rescue. London was said to be a city that coursed and flowed both day and night. It was in part true. Ned passed a few bakers apprentices yawningly lugging trays of loaves to the communal parish ovens and others returning from long hours spent at illicit all night taverns and brothels that thrived in the City’s liberties. One raucous band were extolling the many virtues of Pleasant Anne with an attempt at rhyming verse. Although inventive, the tune would have sounded better if yowled by cats. A whispering tease of ragged memory engaged Ned’s attention. The name, he knew something about the name. Curious now, he slipped along behind them, keeping to the deep shadows.
Lady Fortuna or a kindly saint must have finally have taken pity on his plight, because he caught a closer glimpse of the weary carousers as they staggered along the southern wall of St Paul’s and past an early morning procession of monks on their way to Matins prayers. The light from the wavering lanterns were enough to show him a drunken Will Coverdale arm in arm with two other inhabitants of Gray’s Inn. Ned would have smiled but it hurt. Still he took a chance and joined in the chorus and, moving fast, nudged Will’s swaying prop aside. “Greetings Will, how be you?”
A very bleary pair of eyes tried to focus on its new crutch. “Gods wounds, tis Ned’s ghost. Mornin’ ghostie.Whats y’ doin’ w’out y’ shroud?”
What! Dead? His friend’s response sent shivers down Ned’s spine and the shock froze the welcoming smile into a rictus grin. Faster than he would have thought possible, Ned re edited his opening words from a frightened mewl. “Why?…Why, ahh, to check on my good friend Will of course! Anyways, how do I come to be dead?”
Master Cloverdale tried to tap his nose in a conspiratorial manner. He missed and clouted his other walking crutch in the ear. The fellow spun off and stumbled into another of his boon companions, leaving him with the uncertain and now frightened support of Ned. His new passenger leant closer and the fumes of ale and sack washed over Ned, setting him coughing and gagging as a teary Will tried to console him “Puir Ned, p’rr Ned…Ned? C’n y’ nay recall it? Twas the brawl in S’thwark did y’ in, wit’ th’t whores ’n Smeaton.”
“What!!” Damn, was he going to have to escape to France anyway? Ned’s shivering increased with the mounting fear. Will reacted to the display of shock with more teary sentiment. “Oh y’ puir, puirghostie. Nay tremble so. I could nay help. The Watch were a carrin’ y’ off a’time we gots out the door.”