At least he could rely on Rob. At this moment his companion was working at the Inn’s smithy. After supervising the shoeing, Rob Black was using the smith’s forge to his own advantage. While Ned was satisfied with the sword Master Robinson pressed upon him and Gruesome Roger had his personal arsenal of knife, cudgel and grim visage, Rob had felt out classed in the company of Gryne’s Men, who were a travelling display of the diversity of edged ironware. Maybe it was the walls of the Gryne Dragone that set him thinking. Anyway Rob had decided to create his own weaponry since the apprentice artificer had been largely unsatisfied with both the authority and presence of a dagger. At one of their first stops, he’d acquired a length of heavy chain from a smith and at every halt since then, he had continued to work on it. Ned supposed Rob knew what he was doing, but the flail that had emerged from that chain still looked pretty rustic to his eyes. He wasn’t sure how four section of chain joined to a short oak staff could make a weapon. However Rob seemed satisfied with it and carried it proudly slung from his saddle, giving their progress a merry jingle counterpoint as the horses trotted along.
As for the other two of their company, the insufferable Meg Black and Gruesome Roger, the last he’d seen of them the girl was being hustled off by the Innkeeper’s goodwife, no doubt on some matter of hedge witchery or other. He neither knew nor cared which it was, so long as she kept her distance. Ned in the meantime had more pressing business, a ‘privy matter’. Not just his thighs had been strained from the ride-the pain had moved upwards cramping his gut, which at this moment was demanding his urgent attention. One of the Inn’s servants said there was a jakes around the back and Ned needed to find it immediately.
It was a primitive affair made up of rotted scantling scraps that had already seen service for several other dubious constructions and no doubt been rejected as too poor to burn for a beggar’s fire. If he’d had a choice a ditch could have been safer. The wooden frame and sides seemed to balance precariously over the stinking trench and swayed violently when he brushed up against them. Without a doubt an overloud fart or belch would see it fall on the next poor soul who sought relief! The innkeeper would be well served to get it rebuild. If ever Ned saw a potential writ for damages this was it! He must remember to mention this potential case to master St Germaine’s apprentice at Middle Temple. The esteemed lawyer was said to be compiling a book on English legal customs. Ned was sure in such a dry tome a little light levity wouldn’t go amiss.
Having refastened his braes and adjusted his codpiece, Ned hobbled towards the front of the Inn. Coincidentally this put him in an excellent position to see the arrival of the latest group of travellers, which had Ned instantly diving behind a large hay cart. It was that damn Skelton and his minions! Norfolk’s man pulled hard on his reins and wrenched his horse to an abrupt halt in the courtyard. Skelton then leapt off the horse and strode over to one of the servants chopping firewood, and pulled him up by his jerkin until the poor fellow was nose to nose. Ned from his hiding spot could see the glare in Skelton’s eyes as he made his forceful demand. The Inn servant, his face whiter than a sheet, pointed a wavering finger in Ned’s direction. Abruptly Skelton dropped the servant hurried towards the hay cart, his heavy boots splashing through the puddles.
At that instant with Skelton’s footsteps getting closer Ned fervently started praying. Any saint would do since his chance of escape was nil! All he could hope was that Skelton didn’t find him on his first search then maybe he would be able to slip away and warn the others. Ned crouched behind the heavy wheel and watched between the heavy spokes as the dangerous northerner’s long leather boots paced closer. At the last instant Skelton swung right and broke into a hobbled run for the jakes. The door shivered splinters as he slammed it and Ned could soon hear imprecations to St Thomas for aid in what sounded like a very painful experience.
It was then that a very nasty thought came to Ned and urging his sore muscles into action he sprinted for the smithy. As expected the entire escort was lounged around the forge fire, watching Rob work on the sparking iron. Ned didn’t know what it was, but the fascination of a smith’s work seemed to draw everyone in the vicinity. Maybe it was the magic of the flames and glow of the metal or perhaps the fact that on a cool autumn day the forge was the warmest place in the village. Ned grabbed the closest man of their escort, a hulking fellow who went by the name of Tam Bourke.
“Skelton’s men have just ridden in. You two stay and delay them.”
That command received a very doubtfully speculative stare from the one called Tam, while his friend peered out the door towards the milling horsemen and then edged just a bit further back and freed his blade.
“Master Gryne said we’s were to protect yea.” This blanket statement by Tam gained a ready chorus as Gryne’s men checked their ironware.
Ned waved his hands in front of the incipient affray and pulling out his purse poured a dozen angels into the Tam’s hand. “No! No don’t fight them-buy them firkins of the local double. Tell them you’re celebrating the birth of a son or getting married. Get them drunker than a bishop. I’ll deal with their leader. Meet us at Grafton tomorrow.”
That received a very appreciative though bemused acceptance and Tam and his companion went off, smiling, to fulfil their task. The remaining members of their guard rose from their perches around the forge, and plainly expecting to be assigned similar duties, drew closer. Rob had now completed whatever part of the artificer’s craft he had been working on and with steaming iron in hand came over to join them.
Ned gathered his retinue and explained his inspiration. It gained a rousing chorus of yeas and a few rueful chuckles before they readily followed him out to the courtyard.
Ned stood back and surveyed his handy work. He’d never considered that helping out his uncle as Commissioner of Sewers could have proved so useful. Uncle Richard had battled all year to get the Londoners to deal with their wastes in the modern and approved methods and to clean out the festering sewers that had not been upgraded since King William had marched in. He had waxed lyrical particularly on the siting of middens and cesspits uphill from wells and called down God’s wrath on the foolish for placing the source of evil and pestilent miasmas so close. The Commissioner of Sewers would be so proud to see the site of the Cosgrove Ruse on Wye Inn privy. Although flimsy and precarious, it was carefully sited on the downhill slope, about ten paces from the Inn building, well away from anything else and built over a convenient noisome trench that flowed off into a nearby marsh. Such an excellent spot and the gradient gave the rolling hay wain a good turn of speed as it careened down hill gathering speed at every yard. It was such a satisfying crunch as the charging hay wagon impacted with the privy. Ned could clearly see he had been right-the structure had been in need of repair for it gave little resistance as shed, wagon and occupant all tumbled with a crash into the reeking trench. As a final malicious twist he had called out in Don Juan Sebastian’s accented speech inquiring if Skelton was pleased with his new abode. Then laughing with the rest of the company, he left to collect the horses and continue on to Grafton. The road was clear!