Regretfully Ned put down the wine and adopted a deeply concerned expression. “That is terrible news. I commend your loyalty Sènor de Alva. Such treachery should be presented to the Lord Chancellor or the King. But what has it to do with me?”
Don Juan Sebastian wasn’t quite as polished as he projected, for at the mention of Wolsey and the King the corners of his mouth twitched in anxiety. “We have word Master Bedwell that you rescued poor Smeaton and were with him when he died.”
That last was accompanied by the brief flick of finger in the form of a cross, as if at the loss of a dear friend. The Spaniard’s eyes however betrayed him. Resentment and frustration were hard to mask. Well there was no use denying it-the assault in the lane was the Spaniard’s men, and his ire had been raised by being cheated of his prize by Norfolk’s man and Ned’s interference. An overview of the scheme came to Ned in a flash of inspiration. Since both rivals had moved so openly they had full knowledge of the true extent of the letters. The precipitous assault also gave him a clue that this plot was limited in timing, all the players had been too eager and too open, and so he gave the Spaniard a simple nod of assent. This was the first play for his own cony-catch.
His new host smiled in satisfaction as if he was a cat contemplating a bowl of cream. “Well Master Bedwell, if Smeaton had any letters or other items their Majesties would reward the finder of such items were they to be given into their custody.”
And what would happen to Ned if it were handed over? Dead in a ditch just like Smeaton was most likely. However he was continuing his own game, for one Ned wanted to push it along and see where else the discussion would lead. “Why Sènor…”
The Spaniard raised a hand to interrupt then lent forward with a pleasant smile. “A loyal friend of the Queen’s may address me as Don Juan Sebastian, Master Bedwell.”
Ned found it difficult to credit that this foreigner actually believed his play at smooth courtesy was working. How easy did he think the English were to gull? Ned returned a simpering smile he’d learnt off Will and spread his hand in an open display of respect. “Don Sebastian, it’d be only loyal duty to render any treasonous articles to my Sovereign Majesty. Tis a pity matters are not that simple. All manner of difficulties and obstacles could arise. How could you assist a smooth passage?”
Ned wasn’t a fool-if you didn’t ask for a gift or bribe the objects under negotiation weren’t valued, and thus you were regarded as a man of little consideration. Perhaps Smeaton had made that error.
Don Juan Sebastian lovingly stroked his short pointed beard. It was extremely well barbered, crisp of line and from the aroma, scented with lavender. The man must spend the best part of an hour getting dressed each morning, not the quick splash and scrape with a dull knife that Ned had to endure every morn. It was also pretty obvious that Don Juan Sebastian was trying to decided just how little to offer so that he would still have a hefty cut left over for his own efforts. Within his dark eyes lurked a hint of another darker motive, maybe shielded contempt overlaid by haughty honour. So Ned’s estimation was proving correct. The Spaniard thought all English were beneath honourable dealing. He suddenly gained one more flash of inspiration. Smeaton had bargained with the Spaniard first, then later tried to use that as leverage with Norfolk’s man. It was so obvious! The fool had tried two faced treachery-it was only circumstance that had him fall to an English blade first.
Don Juan Sebastian gave a delicate cough and fluttered his linen cloth in a lazy wave before resuming his smiling bargaining. “Their Majesties would consider the reward of say, a hundred pounds, and the benefice of St Lawrence Letchlade, worth twenty English pounds a year.”
The Spaniard’s accent mangled the names considerably. However it was a very impressive offer and confirmed to Ned a degree of desperation on which he’d previously only speculated. That was a hefty sum, especially when one considered the Spaniard’s prior cut of say two thirds of the total value. It proved that despite this foreigner’s loathing of the English, he’d dealt in the murky waters of English patronage before. Don Sebastian was quite aware of the value of his offer to a penniless aspirant such as apprentice lawyer Ned Bedwell. It may have been a sore temptation to Ned, if he didn’t already suspect a similarly upgraded offer had been made to Smeaton. Trust may be on the bargaining table in the White Lamb. However it was also lying in the Southwark mortuary.
Ned adopted a more relaxed seat on the bench and took another appreciative sip of wine then gave his first counter offer. “What of the charge of murder?”
Don Juan waved his fingers dismissively. “English justices are so easy to persuade.”
He hated to admit it, but the foreigner was right. The offer came down to the influence of the Queen’s faction. According to Will it had stalled the annulment commission-all year. Could it reach further?
Ned was considering how far he could stretch this, when a disturbance at the tavern entrance drew his attention. Suddenly Ned felt a shiver of apprehension. In fact, terror could be a better description, for strutting through the doorway was the nemesis of Smeaton, Master Blue Brocade, followed by several men, all conspicuously large and prominently armed. The Spaniard frowned at Ned’s loss of interest and turned around to see what had drawn it away. Ned found out two things in that instant-his two pursuers knew each other and it was not an amicable relationship. Beneath a suddenly stiff smile Don Sebastian muttered what could only have been curses from the sheer vindictive cadence.
A loud bellow cut through the tavern hubbub. “Ned Bedwell, I’ve been looking for yea!” The voice was heavy with the burr of a northerner. The last time Ned had heard it was just before Smeaton’s death, raised in friendly banter. The murderer of Smeaton was a large gentleman with a big thick black beard that dominated his features and seemed to crawl up the sides of his face and seek refuge under a gaudy red velvet trimmed cap. A fool would have laughed and called it incongruous, but Blue Brocade’s beefy hand rested on a weighty looking backsword. Rob Black would have described it as useful for decapitating large animals like boar or bear, and Ned already knew Blue Brocade could use a dagger.
The overshadowing eyebrows finally seemed to notice Ned’s guest and pulled down in visible disapproval before grunting out a greeting. “Yea here too y’ scented Spanish Popinjay. Shove o’er an let a man sit down!”
Ned saw the mutual twitching of hands and for an instant it was in the balance whether each would draw blade on the other. You could see that their retainers were of the same thought, since there was none too subtle shifting and pronounced fingering of weapons. But the moment passed, and Don Juan Sebastian sneeringly gave ground. They made a very ill-matched pair and kept just enough distance for edged opportunities.
Blue Brocade thumped down on the bench with none of the Spaniards affectations, and without being invited grabbed the pewter ewer and poured himself a generous goblet of wine which he promptly tossed off with appreciative smack of the lips. Having quenched his thirst the northerner leant a brawny arm on the table and fixed Ned in his sights growling out a rough welcome. “Ahh Bedwell yea lead a man on a damned good chase, but here yea are! I’s glad to see yea alive after I saved yea from Smeaton’s blade. Hope yea have nah listened to the blandishments of yon pricked louse here?”
Blue Brocade was trying the bluff, hearty approach and surprisingly was claiming to be Ned’s saviour in the brawl. After days of paucity of knowledge now he was overwhelmed with witnesses, each claiming to have rescued him. Now Ned was already certain that Smeaton wanted him dead as too risky a witness of his nefarious bargains. According to Rob though, the northerner was about to finish him off along with Smeaton, so his trustworthiness was nil. Treachery it seemed had its own rewards.