Ned kept up his blandly interested smile and watched the interplay between the two. If Caerleon was to be believed somewhere in this he could gain an advantage.
Don Juan Sebastian may have been forced by circumstance to accept the presence of Blue Brocade but his feeling towards the black bearded Englishman were not so neutral. If his demeanour was any indication, the Spaniard held his temper by a thread. His colour was high and eyes were glazed by anger. If his nostrils flared any more you could use him as a chimney. Even a blind man could sense he was longing to thrust his blade through the northerner. Perhaps with a bit of inventiveness Ned’s daemon hinted this could be useful.
“Well ‘ere we are lad. Hae this peacock been promising yea the moon an’ stars cos I’d nay believe him. My puir friend Smeaton did an yea see where he ended up.”
Was that a threat or a promise? Ned just shrugged.
“Good sir, Don Juan Sebastian and I have just been having a philosophical debate about the future.”
Blue Brocade’s eyebrows shot up and down like a set of signalling flags. “Nah doubt the velvet trimmed cutpurse forgot ta tell yea o’ the treason he’s engaged in?”
That set the Spaniard spluttering like a kettle. “I serve her Majesty, not like you Skelton, a worthless minion of that petty marsh lord Howard.”
Captaine Gryne had warned him about the rent collector at the Cardinal’s cap. So this was him. Those clues snapped into place and jolted Ned’s memory. Dr Caerleon’s predictions now made more sense. Ned was caught between Queen Katherine’s adherent and the servant of Norfolk. One wanted to hold on to power, the other to resume a rightful place by the king. Ned and his friends didn’t count for much in that struggle. The webs of murder and treason drew closer.
Skelton gulped down another goblet of wine, loudly smacking his lips and then belched prodigiously. He then lent closer, fixing Ned with the dark brown eyes of a menacing bear. “Lad, my lord‘ll see yea right. Swear ta serve him. He’s the one with the king’s trust. Hand o’ puir Smeaton’s pouch an I’ll see yea get enough land and coin to last out yea life.”
It was an interesting offer and Ned nodded as if considering. He reckoned Skelton was being mostly honest. The light of it burned bright in his overshadowed eyes. However Ned also reckoned Norfolk’s man was a canny bargainer. He’d fooled Smeaton right up until the blade was driven home. As for the land awarded, it wouldn’t measure much more than six foot in length and coin enough for a shroud.
The northerner must have thought he’d won out for he stretched an open hand towards Ned and in a loud staged whisper made his next pitch. “Yea can nay believe yon Spaniard. He’s more bent than a weasel and he’d hump his aunt if’n yea paid him. He does nay have the honour of us English.”
Ned was amazed at Don Juan Sebastian’s forbearance. He had heard that the Spanish were a proud, hot tempered people. Why hadn’t the foreigner challenged Skelton by now? Not that he would have minded. He wasn’t sure that he felt so honoured by being called a fellow Englishman by some murdering brute who was probably a kissing cousin to the hairy kneed Scots.
The Spaniard apparently didn’t have that much patience for he started growling at the intruding Skelton in what could have passed for French. Ned didn’t have a clue what he was saying, but some of it must have had an impact on the northerner for he began to turn red with anger and tried to draw his sword, roaring for his men. Norfolk’s man had obliviously forgotten where he was, for in trying to pull his blade free, Skelton slammed his elbow into the cubby panelling. Don Juan Sebastian, not one to let a chance go by, had his poniard out and was lunging forward, forcing the northerner to jump back before tripping over one of his men, and falling sprawled across another table.
The sudden brawl could have been contained as the tavern regulars edged away, but just then ten more men burst in, armed with swords and staves. A loud voice called over the incipient brawl. “Yield your arms. I am here for a Spaniard and a northerner, suspected heretics by order and writ of the Chancellor of Lancaster, Sir Thomas More.”
Ned swore as he was slammed into the table by a retainer’s backswing. If he thought trouble was a brewing before, that was nothing to the sheer chaos that followed the proclamation. All three rival groups now fell to brawling with the locals who either enthusiastically joined in, hid under the tables or tried to bolt for the door and windows, already surrounded by a panicked throng clambering over each other to get out.
Since those ready exits were blocked Ned opted for escape ‘plan III’ and dropping to the floor, scurried back toward the beckoning safety of the kitchen. He had a few moments before all parties realised their mistakes and planned to make the most of this opportunity. It had worked-well almost. He made it through the doorway and was dodging past the cook, who to get into the feel of things, was yelling and brandishing a hefty meat axe. Ned had actually made it out the back door into a small stinking alley when a large paw seized the neck of his doublet bringing him up short, half-choking.
“Got yer faggot food!”
Damn, it was one of More’s pursuivants. He should have looked first, though how such a broad shouldered, helmeted knave could have hidden so well escaped him. Without changing his grip, Master Ape dragged him towards the end of the alley, all the while chuckling at the ease of his capture and describing in loving detail the ‘questioning’ that was to follow. Ned felt the unfairness of the situation deeply. He had managed to evade the other two with relative ease, and was now seized in some botched raid that was about something he had nothing to do with.
Then just as Master Ape was regaling him with the many and varied uses of the ‘Boot’, Ned heard a sudden clang as is if someone was beating a pot. He heard a grunting cough and large amounts of Master Ape dropped on him, crashing them both into a wattle wall. What in the name of the saints was going on? Suddenly, instead of being helpless in the grasp of More’s pursuivant, he now found himself sprawled on the ground with Master Ape making strange grunting sounds, collapsed over the top of him. An alarming thought barged into his consciousness-what if this fellow thought he was a rent boy and was after a bit of rough and tumble bitchery! Determined to fight it out, Ned smashed his elbow backwards and felt a jarring but satisfying thud, and then shooting pains right up his arm making his fingers spasm. Painful or not, this gained him some room and without pausing to see what might happen next, he scrambled out and made a bolt for the end of the alley.
He made it two paces before coming to an abrupt halt. Mistress Black was standing behind the downed pursuivant, idly swinging Gruesome Roger’s cudgel while the weapon’s owner was a pace further back, leaning against the wall with fist shoved into his mouth in a vain attempt to muffle loud guffaws. Embarrassed didn’t seem to be an adequate word for how he felt. He wished the cobblestones would open up and swallow him.
“When you’ve quite finished playing with that pursuivant we need to leave.”
What could you say? Silence was better than admitted shame, so Ned hastened after the fast moving girl and fell into step with her chuckling guard.
They retreated from the spreading brawl at the White Lamb and joining the rear guard of Gryne’s men, cut along the side alleys until they came to Moorgate. There was a momentary hold up as the price of exit was negotiated with the guard, but once more the Cardinal’s angels smoothed the way and they hurried back to the Inn.
Ned’s surprises for the evening hadn’t ended. All the horses were saddled complete with his small pack over the rump of one of them. Now that he was calming down from the events at the White Lamb, it took little urging for him to join the rest of the party. In the lingering flare of twilight they rode north out of the straggling fringes of the city.