“You English, you think you’re so clever sometimes. Smeaton was bought by me, one hundred of your golden angels and a post in Bruges. But he was so foolish and greedy he sought out that meddler Howard and his barbarous minion. It brought his death. Though I am disappointed it wasn’t my hand that ripped his soul to Hell.”
So Ned had his answer. One way or another Smeaton was dead that night. Dr Caerleon had been correct. In between gasping for breath he wracked his brain to sort out any other cryptic clues the old astrologer had dropped. His daemon helpfully pushed one into view but he was damned if he knew how to employ it. “Don Juan Sebastian, you know Skelton slew Smeaton?”
“Yeas, Master Bedwell. This is not news to me.” The Spaniard sounded a touch bored.
Ned had to keep the conversation going and reached back to the speculation of that night. “That maybe so, but Skelton got to Smeaton’s satchel first. My friends only recovered it after a long chase. Are you so sure I have what you want?”
Doubt hovered. The Spaniard stopped tapping the root he was against and went very quiet. Ned pushed further. “How many letters were there Don Sebastian?”
Ned could almost feel the mental calculation going on outside as the Spaniard worked through the various permutations of events and circumstances. It wasn’t much of a delay, but Ned thought that even a minute was worth the effort. He’d found a knobbly section of root, not quite the Excalibur of the tales but in desperate need it might help. At a time such as this the priests always said one should examine one’s soul and prepare for the end. Considering how he felt about the church at present, this bland assurance no longer gave him any certainty or comfort.
“Master Bedwell, you are a more sensible English. I have considered your news. It has some merit, so I ask you chose life and wealth, not the path of Smeaton. I Don Juan Sebastian de Alva pledge my word on the bond. I may even forgive the insult to my doublet and cloak. What do you think Englishman?”
Ned was spared time for consideration. A loud yell terminated the discussion. “Yea bloody Spanish louse, shove me in a jakes will yea!”
Ned hiding in the badger’s hole turned pale at the familiar voice shouting in anger. Damn, Skelton was here!
The hollow reverberated to the clash of hard steel meeting in violence. What was going on? The sound of blades squealing in stress penetrated the burrow, as did the continued stream of profanities from the northerner now facing the Spaniard in battle. Say what you will about Howard’s rent collector and hired sword, the northerner had quite a grasp of wonderfully graphic allusions. Ned was quite impressed with the range and breath of the curses, such as ‘yea mother’s mother was nay good enough ta be a poxed whore ta a goat!’ Though the best one was ‘yea Spanish cock has fondness fo’ the arses o’ rent boys, since yea pizzle’s so withered an’ mankyfra humping a donkey!’
The Spaniard seemed to take it in good part since he kept up his end of the repartee. Since Ned wasn’t skilled in Spanish he could only make a guess at what he was saying from the sheer sneering quality of his accented replies. Though his Latin gave him an idea that it may involve copulation with…a bear? This titanic exchange lasted for a few minutes then suddenly terminated with matched gasps and then the mutual cursing continued but now it had a more strained, gasping quality.
After the frantic song of the swords, Ned found this change curious and he cautiously worked his way to the entrance to see what was going on. He recalled another titbit that Rob Black had told him about these new fashion swords. Sometimes the action could be so fast that both combatants struck at the same time. Well it was deeply satisfying to see that his friend had been correct.
Don Juan Sebastian had rammed his long tapering sword into his opponent’s shoulder, while Smeaton’s erstwhile friend and murderer, Skelton, had skewered him in turn in the outer part of the thigh with a poniard. And so they stood leaning against each other, the weapons rammed home and each blade streaked with its victim’s blood that slowly trickled from the wounds-though the Duke of Norfolk’s man looked a lot less sartorially splendid than he had at the gaming house, and stank worse than a pile of ordure. Ned did his best to hide the snigger. The taunting back at the Inn had worked far better than he’d a right to expect.
Neither man looked very pleased with their coup and gasps of pain and struggle leaked from their clenched teeth. It was an interesting and painful stand-off since Skelton’s heavy backsword was locked at the hilts with the white eyed Spaniard’s dagger as each man strained to overpower the other. Skelton was larger and broader than his adversary, weighing a good thirty pounds of extra muscle, while the Spaniard had a lighter more agile build, but his lunge was held with all the strength and commitment of a professional swordsman. Every time Skelton tried to employ his superiority with another jerk or spasm, Don Sebastian’s wrist would twist ever so slightly flexing his blade in the wound and stall the attempt. The first to drop their hilt might be able to gain an edge, but to lose their grip on the blade might also surrender a deadly advantage to their rival.
For Ned it was a convenient opportunity and he crawled out from the set and circled the entangled opponents. This was an interesting conundrum and one he certainly took pleasure in. Both men occasionally spared him a glance from their mutual efforts of murder and neither was very happy.
Skelton, the man in the ordure smeared blue brocade doublet, vainly tried to throw Don Juan Sebastian to one side as he snarled at Ned. “Damn yea, Bedwell. Aid me!”
The Spaniard gave another twist of the buried blade and Skelton bellowed with pain. “God rot yea Spaniard. I’ll ‘ave yea stones for that!”
Don Sebastian spared Ned a smidgen of attention, to put in his own claim. “You do English and it’s treason.”
It was an interesting viewpoint because from where he was standing they were the ones committing treason. No matter! He wasn’t going to stick around and argue the finer points of law. “I bid you gentlemen good day and farewell.” He gave a nod to both and turned to leave.
Ned had some rudimentary skill and training at battle. He could, when pressed, use a sword, and like many was modestly proficient with the bow, but as for experience in combat, that was limited to brawls and similar affrays. The man he had slain last week was possibly his first and so it was no surprise that the next instant caught him out.
It was Don Juan Sebastian.
Skelton, having served in the King’s French and Scottish wars, knew a few of the tricks of battle that could keep a man alive, so when the Spaniard shifted his grip, he was ready to seize the initiative. Though it did save his life, it was however the wrong action. The Spaniard deflected his threatening sword into his already wounded thigh and then slashed Skelton across the chest with his freed blade. Skelton could feel the blade skipping from rib to rib as it gouged its way across his doublet. With a muffled scream he released his grip on his dagger and threw himself backwards, wrenching the Spaniard’s sword from its lodging.
Ned stopped at the cry. Swinging round he saw the northerner drop to the ground as well as a now unencumbered Don Juan Sebastian limping towards him. It was Ned’s inexperience that told against him, for rather than sprint off, he froze. The thrown dagger thudding into the muscle under his shoulder was the penalty.
Ned looked down in horror at the hilt protruding from his doublet. It was but a fraction of time before the paralysing wave of pain struck, but in that moment he managed to see in fine detail the silver wire twisted around the ivory hilt and the fine chiselled figure inscribed on the pommel. He idly considered if he could get something like that from Rob Black. And then he screamed as his arm twitched uncontrollably and his bright blood began to seep through the rent in his doublet.