As soon as his uncle had disappeared out the door, Ned pulled himself opposite Perkins. “All right, what’s going on? Uncle Richard only insulted me once and shot out of here faster than an arrow from a bow.”
Perkins grimaced, worked his hands together and muttered a few choice words under his breath, then grasped Ned’s hand and pulled him close “I served this family fo’ forty years an’ Master Richard’s father a’fore him. I owe the master my loyalty.”
Ned had that distinct sinking feeling that he had gravely miscalculated the avarice and loyalty of his uncle. He’d thought a heavy hint of the golden angel’s promise would bring him to their side, but it wasn’t so. Fear had a nasty tendency to outweigh greed.
“Don’t judge ‘im poorly fo’ what he’s done. He’s the children an all to think of. Those swaggerers threatened to ‘ave him locked up in the Fleet.”
“Perkins, who’re these lords?”
“First were the Lord Chancellor’s man, Cavendish, then hot on his steps one fro’ the Duke of Norfolk-big un with a black beard, followed by two others. One claimed to have Sir Thomas More as their master. That had your uncle fuming-never seen him so angered. The last one was some frenchie or other. a\Arrogant swine he was.”
That was just what he needed thought Ned grimly. What a combination of threats! A treacherous cardinal, ambitious nobles, a family enemy and now a damned foreigner poking his nose in. With all those retinues jostling elbows in St Lawrence Poor Jewry it must have made his uncle wish Ned Bedwell had never been born. Ned’s daemon urged him to feel a sense of rancour and outrage, but he shrugged off the temptation. Uncle Richard hadn’t asked to be involved in this level of court intrigue. All he’d done was rescue his worthless nephew and that pushed the absolute limit of familial duty.
Time to leave. Ned knew he’d been sacrificed and had been about to make a bolt for the nearest window when he realised it was too late. The tavern had gone quiet as everyone swivelled to watch a troop of hired men walk in
Their leader, a lean young man, sauntered up to the cubicle occupied by Perkins and Ned. He was closely followed by a couple of large, overbearing men who just screamed retainers, the sort that held you upside down by the ankles over the edge of a bridge while jogging your memory of the debt that their patron considered you owed him. The fact that the locals of the White Lamb assiduously turned away at their approach told Ned more than he really needed to know.
The young man stopped at Ned’s table. His spirit sunk-after everything else this was almost predictable. Bitterly Ned recalled the warning of that cursed astrologer. Which harbinger of doom was this? The gaudy lad struck a relaxed pose, his hand resting prominently on the hilt of a sword that would have had Rob Black drooling in unrestrained ecstasy. However the sword was to Ned a minor accoutrement of the rest of the attire. His daemon green with envy noted the visitor had enough satin, velvet and costly brocade to give any mercer palpations if he cared to grace such an establishment.
Master Overdressed lent forward and in the throat hawking accent of the Spanish, politely addressed him. “Master Bedwell, your peasant is leaving. Yes?”
This implied sneer had Ned instantly seething. That was all he needed, a cursed stiff necked Spaniard taking an interest in him! He’d learnt a bit in the past few days and gave Perkins a brief shake of his head. His uncle’s retainer was clearly angered at the deliberate offence. “My man sir, leaves at my pleasure, not yours.”
Ned knew it was a bluff and Sènor Spaniard probably suspected it. Still the claim was accepted. With an elegant courtly bow and a flick of his finger the Spaniard had his minions create a path for Perkins. Ned had no more excuse and bravely waved permission to depart. The old retainer took his time, staring long and hard into the face of Sènor Spaniard, and then gave a respectful nod towards Ned. Once the seat was clear the overdressed foreigner pulled out a linen cloth from his sleeve and dusted the bench before occupying Perkins’s seat. Then after removing his gloves, he gave a peremptory beckon to his retinue. One of the large looming fellows shuffled over, a rusty axe prominent in his belt. Rob Black would’ve growled at its condition.
“Tell the tavern keeper that he has the honour of serving one of the Queen’s men. I want a pitcher of his best Bordeaux, not the usual horse piss he serves to the peasants here.” It could’ve been construed as an insult given in that sneering accent. However it was delivered in so matter a fact a tone that it probably went well beyond insult. This man didn’t just despise Englishmen-he rated them as being somewhere below the level of cockroaches or weevils. “How you English can drink zis revolting fare escapes me, an’ as for what you usually call wine, back home we’d feed that to pigs.”
Ned remained silent at the provocation. Sènor Spaniard was just playing at insults to see how he responded. “You have the advantage of me sirrah.” It was delivered in an even drawl that Ned hoped showed none of the concern he was beginning to feel. He prayed that Gryne’s man had taken the hint and shot off for help, but the view to the door was obscured.
His new guest smiled displaying very fine white teeth. That and his dark eyes and light brown scented curls would have Bethany in raptures. “Forgive me. I am Don Juan Sebastian de Alva, and I serve her Majesty Queen Katherine in whatever humble capacity she requires.” He gave a short flashy bow that displayed not a shred of humility.
Humble was not a term Ned considered would have any part in Don Juan Sebastian’s normal lexicon, but the statement did answer one of his and Master Robinson’s questions. Katherine of Aragon, the spurned queen was involved in the Cardinal’s letters. That almost completed the set, along with the Dukes of Norfolk, Suffolk and the Lord Chancellor, though More’s involvement was still a puzzle. Not many of the great powers of the land were absent from this little affair that’d started with a dead man outside a gaming house in Southwark. Just about everyone seemed to know about Smeaton’s death, certainly more than he did, though what their interest was begged further questions.
The wine arrived with startling promptness, complete with a pewter ewer and goblets delivered by the Innkeeper himself. The man was sweating profusely and looked nervously at the hovering assembly of retainers, while a few of the more prudent patrons slipped out the door. The rest, Ned noted wryly, stayed to watch the entertainment.
“To what do I owe the visit of such a distinguished gentleman?” If they were going to play the game of courtly manners then Ned recalled some of the lessons of deportment from the Inns.
Don Juan Sebastian gave a brief flutter of his fingers in acknowledgement. “It is a simple matter, but one that could reward you well for your loyalty to the Queen.”
Here we go, the bargaining starts, Ned thought, taking a sip of the wine. Not bad, it would even pass his uncle’s taste. The tavern keeper must have been truly terrified. “How so…Sènor de Alva?”
The Spaniard edged just a little bit closer and grimaced in distaste at the stains on the bench. “Those loyal to the Queen have discovered a threat, some letters exposing a treasonous plot in the Royal Court. The Cardinal’s servant Smeaton was to aid us in bringing the evidence before their Majesties though he died before it could be delivered.”
Ned nodded politely and took another sample of the wine. The full flavour could grow on a man. But as for the Spaniard’s story, it was an interesting spin on the events, with the implication that Smeaton was to deliver the letters to Don Juan. Ned had a few doubts about that. He suspected that Smeaton had been ready to hand over his secrets to the highest bidder. The Spaniard and Norfolk’s retainer simply had a more direct and cheaper plan of acquisition.