“Senorita please! Master Bedwell?” Don Sebastian was enjoying the show. His satisfaction was plain to see upon his smug face as he totted up all his coming rewards and made only half-hearted attempts to cool the argument.
“How dare a lewd french-poxed punk spout such filth! Don Juan Sebastian, I’ll prove I’m right. Catch!” With that last taunt Ned hurled the sword, belt and satchel up into the air towards the startled Spaniard.
It was instinctive and that’s what Ned was counting on. Don Juan Sebastian lent back and stretched upwards, endeavouring to catch the prize sailing over his head. To his surprise he continued over as Meg Black pulled on his left leg and Ned pushed the right. The result was a colourful flash of velvet cloak as he tumbled off the horse, landing with a muddy squelch in the roadside ditch. Immediately the saddle was vacated, Ned swung up and grabbed the reins as the beast bucked and snorted at the change in riders. It wasn’t easy but Ned somehow managed to lean down, grab Meg Black and haul her onto the horse and didn’t his ribs complain about that!
That gave them a minute before a muddy figure struggled up from the ditch spitting mud and invective in equal measure. As any veteran will tell you, a minute is almost as long as an eternity in a battle. It gave Ned’s companions a distraction to use to their advantage. Due to the argument, most of the Spaniards band had gathered around to watch the roadside theatre rather than pay attention to their loosely held captives. So when the cony-catching trick came, the crossbowmen were the first to fall. They should have stayed back, more fools them.
Apart from that surprise, Rob’s use of his flailed chain kept three more at a wary distance. It may have been the sight of the very large apprentice artificer and his strange weapon was too disconcerting for these hirelings. Gruesome Roger had gone for a more practical method and spooked their horses. That had broken up the rest of Don Juan’s minions who were either trying to avoid the frightened beasts or Roger’s blade and cudgel. As for their escort, they were going at it in the fine Southwark tradition with boots, knees and blades.
While this well laid plan was falling into chaos, their leader Don Juan Sebastian had finally managed to extract himself from the embrace of the deep morass. The Spaniard was clearly enraged at the trick. He tore at the remnants of his once fine velvet cloak to free his entangled sword. Some poor servant was going to be spending hours trying to restore that piece of ruined finery, though it was probably doomed to failure. Ned felt it would be more prudent to be somewhere else and gave the Spaniard’s horse a kick in the ribs. The prompt proved to be much more than necessary and the horse bounded off, throwing him back into the comfortable grasp of Mistress Black. It was at that moment looking pretty good. Victory was within his grasp. Ned called out to get his friends attention and heard a piercing whistle. The world moved.
Well it felt as if it had. Actually Ned kept moving-the horse however had stopped suddenly as if its hooves were rooted to the road and Ned continued a stately horizontal progress over the beast’s head till he landed with a splash in a deep puddle. Clawing his way out of the slippery hole, he coughed up what felt like a lake of brown mud and cleared the gritty water out of his eyes.
That damned horse was stock still on the road with Mistress Black flailing with all her effort to get it to moving again. It wasn’t taking the slightest notice. More ominous to Ned was the dishevelled figure slowly stalking towards them. It was Don Juan Sebastian and he was not a happy Spaniard. He’d drawn his sword, one of those wickedly long, slim ones. According to Rob Black these were all the rage across the water in France and such. What Ned really remembered was the claim that the blades were savagely fast and in a flash could skewer a man like a frog. The artificer had waxed lyrically over the new design but the finer points were lost on Ned as the Spaniard came closer. All his attention was on the dangerously glittering honed point.
He supposed his actions should have been classed as a noble selfless act, but from his current perspective they just looked foolish. Ned knew that the Spaniard’s presence in the brawl would definitely tip the odds against them and the man was getting closer to a still stalled Meg Black. So he did what any desperate man would do in the circumstance-screamed an insult and legged it towards the woods on the left.
“You Spanish bastard, you’ll never get it!” It was a mistake and just the start of his many problems that afternoon.
Ned ducked a cut and slipped down into a hollow that wove through the woods. Don Juan Sebastian immediately jumped after, determined to follow. He’d never seen a man so possessed by anger. The Spaniard was ignoring the savage toll the passage was having on his fine clothing and his face was covered in scratches from clawing branches. Ned vainly wished that the season was warmer-it was getting cold in here and the dying leaves were stripping the place of cover. It was not the best place to seek shelter but it was the only one available.
Ned dropped and rolled suddenly to the left. He was blindly following instinct now and it saved him from the hissing blade. The damned Spaniard really shouldn’t have been able to cover the ground so fast to be on Ned so soon, slashing and probing with that bloody awful sword. Ned felt cheated as if the countryside was serving this highhanded foreigner, not one of its native sons. He’d had a good fifty paces on the man when he’d started but now it was a barely a few yards. Sobbing with effort, Ned swung around another old chestnut tree, trying not to trip on its writhing roots. It was only a matter of time. The Spaniard was really too good. He moved with an economy of effort that was perfection itself and bounded over the rough terrain with barely half the strain that it cost Ned. His ribs were really complaining now-breathing was getting more painful with every laboured gasp.
Ned saw a chance and took it, diving between a tangled mass of roots into the welcoming shelter of a badger’s set, under the twisted limbs of a sprawling yew tree. He pulled his legs in and tucked himself up, crawling through the strongly scented burrow. Ned hoped the owner was out but anyway he couldn’t be worse off here than outside with the irate Spaniard.
The foreigner in question had stopped outside the set’s narrow entrance and from Ned’s rapid glimpse, a muddy leg could be seen leaning against a gnarled limb. “Englishman, come on out and I will make it quick.”
Somehow Ned didn’t believe that, nor did he care for the offer. He hadn’t thought of a way out yet but he’d be damned if he was going to give up trying now, so he wiggled down narrow tunnels that led deeper into the beast’s lair. None appeared able to accommodate his broad shoulders. Damn!
It was another minute. Don Sebastian must have been getting impatient. “Come English, I’ll even give you my poniard so you can fight like a man and not skulk like a rat.”
“No!” Ned preferred to live like a rat at present thank you very much.
He heard a deep sigh before Don Sebastian began a different sort of conversation. The Spaniard must have seen the futility of honour and now tried his hand at guile. For Ned it was a disturbing insight dripping with the hidden menace of court intrigue. “Well Master Bedwell you have put me to quite a task. All that effort to secure those letters. I spent twenty angels gaining a lever into the Boleyn whore’s retinue, another ten to see one letter.”
So long as he kept talking Ned remained alive. He threw a question over his shoulder while searching around in the den for any sort of weapon. “What about Smeaton-how did he fit in?”
“Yes the Cardinal’s man devious, cunning and lacking in honour. He could have been very useful. Smeaton bribed my letters away from my agent and made it known both they and more dramatic writs were available at a price.” After that confession Don Sebastian made a disappointed tchtch sound.