Ned just nodded sympathetically. Well at least he knew who had his sword and purse, the damned thieving Southwark Watch!
Will gave a big smile and lolled his head in a northerly direction. “Said a prayer an’ lit a doz’n candles fo’ y’ soul o’ St Bot’oophs. Sure Geoff did a’well, though he’s a gone t’ Glo’stshire, or Ch’shire or Sumwh’reshire.”
Hmm, smart Geoffrey. He obliviously knew enough to get out of the city with a dead Smeaton literally lying at his feet. Ned had a moment’s suspicion of his other friend, but in any slaying the last suspect would be Geoffrey. The lad was terrified of blood for one and, unlike Ned, always shied away from a fight, relying on his skill with words. But enough speculation, back to his drunken friend. “Thanks Will. That was kind. Where was this? I’ll go and light some candles there as well.”
Perhaps that was the wrong question since Will once more began sobbing almost uncontrollably. “Ahh puir, puirghostie. He don’t kn’wwh’re he died. S’thwark, ghostie, S’thwark.Oot side the C’dinal’sC’p, wh’ren we was all singin’ wit your friend an’ the purrty girl.” At this point, Will began to weep noisily.
“Puirghostie o’ Ned. No shroud fo’ your rest, an her’ S’Paul’s!” His sorrow then shifted with a snuffling snort on his sleeve and once more returned to the song about Pleasant Anne. Ned eased him onto another pair of shoulders and headed south towards the river.
Thoughtfully Ned trudged through the slowly stirring city. So Southwark was his destination. That news wasn’t unexpected. Will’s reaction, however, was. Now one apprentice lawyer, Ned Bedwell by name, was by some considered a dead man! Ranks of chill marched up and down his spine as he mulled that over. Did they think him slain in the brawl or slain by the consequences? Either could explain why no one bailed him, though it didn’t give light to the reason for Geoffrey’s rapid departure, especially to the countryside. If any lad could have been said to be city born and bred, that was Geoffrey. His existence was strictly bound by the spires of Westminster in the west and the Tower in the east, while the river and wall circumscribed his other boundaries. It was hard enough getting him to the practice butts in Moorfield and they lay only a few hundred yards past Moorgate in the north. Now poor Geoffrey was out there, in the depths of the surrounding shires. Only fear and desperation could have prompted that.
Ned would have shaken his head in perplexity, though at the moment that hurt and didn’t aid his slowly clearing mind-fog. His memory was as whole as a beggar’s doublet, while his guardian daemon sarcastically pointed out that if a carrack had such gaping holes in its belly, it’d be sitting on the bottom of the Thames, a worm eaten wreck. Ned considered that unhelpful, as far too woeful an assessment, and banished the thought. However, as he walked along, it kept on popping up in the distance like an annoying fly pestering him.
So off to Southwark, his, ahh, natural stamping ground. Usually he’d catch a wherry across the river to the southern bank. Lack of coin now meant risking the bridge. His head may be as full of wool as a mercers’ bale while his ribs ached with every breath, but in the past he’d survived worse poundings. So that didn’t mean traipsing into the Liberties like a wide eyed gawping yokel. One warning still rang clear from the mush of his memory-Canting Michael was keen to have him as a ‘guest’. So he’d use the morning flood of produce from across the river over the bridge as cover for his crossing, although that meant he’d have to wait till the bridge was opened by the clerk of the Bridge Wardens. Until then, he found a dry perch under the sheltering eave of a riverside tavern and rummaged forlornly through his satchel. That search quickly brightened up the morning. Perkins had packed much more generously than Ned had been expecting. Wrapped in a shirt was a small purse containing, along with his mother’s ring, eight groats and twenty pence in smaller coins. He knew it couldn’t have been his-it would have been spent before now and it was unlikely to have been his uncle’s-the man was chronically lacking in charitable impulses towards his nephew. Hefting the small purse in his hand Ned frowned over the unexpected assistance.
His had not been a happy existence, mostly due to his uncle’s harping on about the debt and duty that Ned owed his family. In amongst that sullen anguish, there had been some good times he recalled, mainly due to the kindly intervention of the family servants. Now he thought about it, Perkins had been prominent in a couple of those, saving him from a few undeserved beatings, as well as a few more deserved ones. The old man never said why, just scowled and walked off, muttering about years of service and what did a man get in return.
Perkins had also thoughtfully raided the larder, supplying a small manchet loaf from yesterday’s baking, and a slab of smoked fish. He fell upon these offerings with a ravenous hunger. After two days in gaol this went a long way to filling the yawning chasm in his belly.
He looked over at the growing crowd by the bridge, and then peered up the muddy street towards the east. It was difficult to see how far the sun had risen due to the soft drizzle and low cloud, but it could be lightening. Anyway the guards wouldn’t open the gates until the first ring of the Matins bells, and he judged that this was still a half hour or so off. So Ned settled back into his shelter, downing another deep draft of the ale and attempted to sort through his conundrums, whether his aching head or daemon willed it or not.
It all revolved around the death of Smeaton. Ned knew he hadn’t killed him, and to be honest, no justice, not even a Surrey justice, would waste their time indicting him for the slaying of one of Canting Michael’s men. The thieves, murderers and villains that infested Southwark were the scourge of the people of London. He had heard many times, the railing and complaints of the Lord Mayor and his Council over the lawlessness that was rampant across the river. While the death of any man or woman was, in law, subject to an inquest, the loss of such scum was only given cursory attention. He hoped that Canting Michael’s pervasive influence across the river didn’t include too many of the County officials. With luck that was too expensive a selection of purses to fill, especially that of the notorious Justice Overton.
A murdered Smeaton, now that was something else, darker, more dangerous. His prominent connection to the Lord Chancellor, Cardinal Wolsey, was too important to be ignored. Some even quietly said that the Cardinal eclipsed the position of the King, though a prudent man would only whisper that to very close and trusted family and friends.
For as long as Ned had been alive, Cardinal Wolsey had been the man who ruled the kingdom, granting petitions, approving appointments and, of course, levying taxes, like his infamous ‘Amicable Grant’ of 1525. Everyone in England remembered that arrogant imposition and the riots and rebellions that it had caused. No gentleman or yeoman willingly paid either tithes or taxes at anytime. However that natural disposition had been ignored by the Cardinal, who had decided to charge four shillings for each pound of value for property and goods. Outrageous! Then to add to this insult, he blackmailed Parliament into increasing the tax by two shillings, and this was the part that really stung, backdating the increase to the previous year.
Did he think that they were wretched, humbled slaves to the Musselman Turk? This had been a serious miscalculation. Even his uncle had growled over the indignity of three different sets of tax collectors pouring over his property within the space of one year. At the time, Ned was uncertain whether Uncle Richard was angered over the gross abuse of law and rights, or that he had failed to get preferment as one of the assessors. After all a man could make a fortune by granting exemptions, or more usefully be encouraged to rigorously examine a rival’s estate.