He may have landed at midday but the toll of the hour bell told him that the walk through the city had taken over an hour, and every dozen paces had him twitching over suspected watchers. Finally after avoiding several overly inquisitive corner lurkers, he reached the area of Greyfriars. As usual it then took a further half an hour of inquiries, and another silvery penny to one of the children playing in a nearby lane before he ended up outside of the establishment that Bethany had mentioned-Williams the Apothecary. To Ned the location was a touch odd. This placement was outside the usual haunt of grocers and apothecaries over at Cheapside. Then again the City always did have strange pockets of trades and specialities.
Like many buildings in the city this one towered three to four storeys above the muddy street, with the top most levels precariously overhanging the cobbles below. Since space in the city was at a premium, each building sat cheek by jowl with its neighbour, almost begrudging the common usage of the lane. As in all quarters of the metropolis, the diversity of wealth was evident in the quality of the buildings and in their decoration. It wasn’t uncommon the see a dilapidated wattle walled house with rotting thatch abutting a fine stone mansion with lead framed, glass inset windows. But the building he was after lacked the pretentious display of the rich, though it was timbered, neatly painted and fitted with moveable shutters in the windows denoting reasonable prosperity and standing.
A mortar and pestle illustrated in bold colours on a carved board hung from the second storey, proclaiming the traditional practice of the occupant. If any were still in doubt, the beguiling scent of flowers and spices wafted from the open door, submerging the usual street stench for all of fifty paces. Ned paused and breathed deeply. It was a joyous scent that beguiled his senses. For a year now he had endured the fetid aroma of the city. These few paces took him home to the fields of Suffolk. Now, exactly what was he to do? How did one say; I’m here on the suggestion of a punk who works at a gaming house and says you witnessed a murder? If that lean and nebulous fact came up in court, his case would end very abruptly much to the delight of the prosecutor. There had to be better way. His daemon snidely muttered that all his choices were gone, what else was there but to press on? Ned tried to dismiss the annoyance but even his angel conceded that his bruised body needed a rest. As for the slow pounding of his head, well it didn’t help his reknitting memory. The simple facts of inquest and court stated he needed witnesses to aid his testimony of Smeaton’s murder. Anyone other than Smeaton’s drinking friends could pull him back from the noose at Tyburn.
Ned quietly swore in pained frustration. Why couldn’t this be a common slaying? Usually in those cases he’d watched at the Courts the senior patriarch of the family stepped in to save the family name and any erring kin. It was simple-a bond was pledged and matters were sorted out quietly elsewhere. Commonly a ‘gift’ to the judge helped ease matters along. Since this was a ‘murdered’ royal official the common procedures wouldn’t work. A man under threat had to call in all the favours he may have built up over a lifetime. Red Ned Bedwell didn’t have extensive networks of influential friends or patrons, while Uncle Richard had made it abundantly clear that he wouldn’t risk his position to save a dishonoured bastard nephew.
There in the muddy street Ned had to face up to an unpleasant fact. He was on his own. Only his native wit and cunning could save his neck now. With little choice left, Ned metaphorically girded his loins and stepped into the shop. Maybe his patron saint was watching over him.
As Ned walked through the doorway, he was wreathed in pale smoke. It had the sharp tang of wormwood and lazily rose from a small brazier by the entrance so that he was bathed in its bitter essence. It was an interesting transition that left the muck and noise of the city behind.
The interior was unlike any apothecaries he’d ever been in before. On one side from floor to ceiling was a huge wall cabinet of marked drawers while hanging from the beams were willow hurdles from which bunches of fresh and dried herbs were suspended like a hanging forest. Walking through it was like strolling upside down in a garden.
Several other customers briefly turned and regarded his presence. Unlike other shops and stalls no one rushed out to serve him or to angrily bid him hence. That was a good start. Ned lent back against one of the corner posts and just watched, breathing in the refreshing aromas. It helped clear the aches from his body and nudged back the cloying mind fog.
As for the other customers, they were a good selection of common Londoners similar to the people you’d find in any market. Two were obviously goodwives with merchants or trades masters as husbands. Their fine woollen dresses edged in satin trim proclaimed as much, as did their rounded prosperity and studied avoidance of the two men in rough labourer’s garb and the older woman who was almost bent double and propped upright by a heavy black staff. This menagerie was dealt with by a pair of young girls who from their apparent duality were possibly sisters or cousins. They moved through the various mixtures and potions with an effortless and accustomed manner, while maintaining a practiced banter of both conversation and instruction to their customers. It was quite a treat to observe. He could have watched for hours, entranced by their patterned dance, bespelled by their lithe, willowy grace, as if snared by the court of the Faerie Queen.
It was only after several minutes watching, that he’d realised both girls possessed other attributes, like their obvious knowledge of the medicinal arts. His angel prodded him to ignore the smooth skin, smiles and sparkling eyes and pay better attention! It was how well they treated each of their customers irrespective of their position in the hierarchy of the city that intrigued him. The common workers were listened too with as much attention and respect as the goodwives. This was most peculiar, especially since apart from an occasional disapproving look the two women from the near the top of the London social set accepted this unaccustomed fraternity. This unusual display of equality had him perplexed. While all the denizens of the city looked down on anyone from the countryside, regarding them as no better than peasants, and frequently treated nobles and gentlemen with dismissive disdain, the traditional social hierarchy of London was clearly recognised by all its citizens or else they wouldn’t spend so much effort trying to climb it. One custom of standing was that the higher tiers were fawned on and had precedence in any establishment. That this didn’t hold here and was accepted by its customers denoted an interesting puzzle. It was a pity he had more than enough difficulties today. This one teased at the edge of his mind-somehow it was important.
The shop was finally cleared with the old dame hobbling out clutching a pot of ointment. Now he had the full attention of the two girls. Once they stood still it was clear they were twins. Light brown hair hung over their shoulders in loosely beribboned plaits with wisps of escaping hair curling around their faces. Both girls waited with a patient, interested repose that he found quite calming. Ned took the few paces to the counter nervously, suddenly awkward and painfully aware of his bruised and scruffy appearance.
“Good day to you mistresses. I…I…I arrh …well I…” Ned stuttered to a halt as both sets of sea blue eyes took in his state. Then gulping down a steadying breath he blurted out. “I need to see Master Williams!”
The girls looked at each other, a mirror image except for the fact that one had a blue ribbon woven through her plait and the other a red one. He thought he saw the twitch of a smile before the one with a blue ribbon quietly replied. “Why, good sir?”
This was the difficult part and with a suddenly blank mind he stammered out an answer. “It…It is a private matter-I need to speak to him.”