The rattling cough reverberated down the corridor, along with the sound of dropped keys. The echo of a thud and accompanying curse lifted his spirits-maybe he had a chance. After all no one hired gaolers to think and that dwarf appeared dimmer than a village idiot. Pulling himself up, Ned edged around the wall in preparation.
Freedom was a step away!
Chapter Three-An Uncle’s Kind Regard? St Lawrence Poor Jewry
Or not.
Slowly the heavy door had opened and the small jailor stepped in, blinking as he’d held a battered lantern above his head. It could have worked. It should have worked but the two armed men behind were brighter and followed the dwarf too closely for surprise. The larger one had raised a pair of shaggy questioning eyebrows at his attempted ambush, shook his head and tsked loudly in disappointment, while his friend gave a deep nasty chuckle.
Feeling cheated by Lady Fortuna, Ned dropped his clenched hands and, resignedly, took his place between the amused guards. As they left the building, the flickering lantern told him the news-it was the Clink. Oh no! Ned wasn’t going to be done over by old Kemp’s warders until he was a toothless wreck! He struggled free and attempted to make a run for it. The abrupt sharp thwack of a pole across his legs terminated the escape and brought him face down into the mud of the street. The sneering guard picked him up and swiftly pulled a coarse cloth bag over his head, then gripped tightly between them, they marched through the dark streets of Southwark. For Ned it was a painfully short journey that terminated abruptly as he was dropped into a waiting boat.
The landing was awkward, setting his damaged ribs complaining afresh at the treatment, but he hadn’t time for that. Instead Ned was disciplining his breathing. The gagging stench from the shrouding cloth almost had him throwing up, and he had no intention of being smothered by his own puke. So for whatever reason they were crossing the river to London. It certainly beat tripping over the turds and refuse via the bridge. Any relief soon passed as once more he found himself still hooded and blind, being led through successive alleys of the city.
The difficulty of travelling in a concealing hood was that your feet were ambushed by every rock and hole, while the uneven cobbles conspired to trip you up. As for the turds and the filth of the gutter, they made a poor situation even worse. Ned had voiced a few complaints regarding the steering of his escort. Their abrupt reply had set his ribs aching again. The other problem was that in the dark, in the dead of night, he had no idea where he was being dragged to. The question of a destination was uppermost in his thoughts, surpassing even the matter of bruised feet and slimed boots. The only hopeful omen for this clandestine escort was that Ned could be fairly certain they weren’t heading for the Tower, for which he sent up a private prayer of thanks. Discrete night time journeys to the royal prison cum residence tended always to use the water gate from the river. Obviously, by the ruts and cobbles, he was in the city proper, so not Southwark. That was…good? Ned didn’t know whether it had been the headache, sore ribs, or lack of water that had him so thick headed. But now suspicion and fear coursed through his body, firing up his previously dulled mind. Someone important paid out a hefty ‘Clink bribe’ to get him. It’s a pity his memory felt so fogged. He couldn’t instantly recall any powerful men who might think that young Ned Bedwell had a debt to pay. While it was possible some London aldermen and guild masters looked less than kindly upon him for various misdemeanours or ‘misadventures’, none sprang to mind as being in the Canting Michael class of grudge holder or vindictiveness. As his feet tripped over a mound of something extremely squelchy and putrid, Ned’s instincts came into shaper focus at the stench. He clamped his jaws shut at the urge to vomit.
Even with the twists and turns this was a long passage. Was this the centre of the city? The sounds of the night were muffled by the hood and he struggled to remember the feel of the cobble stones under his feet. Was this Cheapside? The surface was teasingly familiar. One dreadful consideration caused a shiver of apprehension. Maybe the other night, had he by mischance slain a relative of one of the premier families of London? It was whispered on the street, that some senior aldermen had an impatient attitude to the due process of law. If it was so, then this could be his last journey!
As that implication of his current suspicion worked thought to its logical conclusion, Ned threw himself sideways and collided with the guard on his left. His shackled hands swung down, thudding into the man’s thigh. He could hear the guard grunt with pain and collapse. Next he dropped to a crouch and lunged to the right. The second guard must have been stunned by the sudden violence for he barely turned before Ned’s shoulder drove into his midriff, followed by the rest of his six foot frame. Guard two slammed into a wall and fell to the ground gasping for breath. Ned straightened up and began to drag off the hood when a pole knocked his hands away. A band tightened suddenly around his throat as a voice from behind gave a menacing drawl.
“Nay! Naught o’ that master strife. We’s can drag yea there like a carcase or yea can walk. Troubles me naught. Which is it to be, lad?”
The rope tightened around his neck and Ned felt a sudden, clawing need for air. His shoulder daemon whispered fight it out-with two down the odds were good. However his guardian angel counselled prudence. Mayhap he could bargain later-he was good at bargaining. Ned chose a longer span of life and dropped his hands. The other two guards, once they were back on their feet, made sure he remembered every stumbling step of his journey. The one on the right had a penchant for slamming his charge into walls. So it was a much more bruised and battered Ned who finally reached his destination. The deferential knock at a solid timber door and the click of the lock had that well oiled, heavy tone that bespoke care. Then under foot was the squeak of floorboards rather than the rustle of rushes, or the hollow tap of stone flagging. So the miscellaneous sounds hinted at a private house, rather than another prison. That could be useful-a house offered greater hope of escape.
With none too gentle jabs in the back, Red Ned, hero of the Paris Gardens Bear pits, was urged forward, up a timber staircase and face first into a hanging bracket. Their jeering laughter echoed in his ears and Ned swore quietly. Those vindictive whoresons would get theirs soon enough!
The final passage was down a corridor and to the left through another doorway. At least it was warm. Ned could hear the steady crackle of a fire, and smell through the stifling cloth, the rich scent of fresh chestnuts. It made his mouth drool in easily recalled hunger. However it was another more familiar aroma that had him stiffen in startled shock, one of sweet cinnamon, tinged with the tang of lemons. Oh damn, it had to be here, didn’t it? That would account for the elusively familiar route through the city.
The rank cloth was pulled from his head, and with a subservient bow, his guards left, one of them sniggering loudly as he closing the panelled oak door behind them. Ned pulled in a couple of clearing breaths. Free of the taint of the hood, the room’s rich tang became more apparent, as did its occupant. He was a solidly built man, in the middle years of his prime, with the sort of light brown to blonde hair that was common in Middlesex. Grey eyes set him apart and gave him an open and friendly appearance, aided no doubt by his usually pleasant smile. The scene was completed by a fur trimmed robe, left open to reveal the hint of silk lining, and a languid hand resting beside a heavy pewter tankard, from which exuded that heavy, sweet scent flooding the room. Ned recognised the concoction from its aroma, as a hippocras, one favoured by the more expensive physicians for balancing of the humours and also as a sovereign remedy to the miasma of the sweating sickness that had claimed so many this past season in London. Whether this was true or not, it was currently the preferred drink of London’s wealthier citizens.