Thus they came to the problem of Walter, the quarry of their pursuit. Ned was almost certain the supposed young reformer had a set of priorities at variance with those of either Meg or his family. Normally he wouldn’t care a fig about this but his patron, Councillor Cromwell, directed otherwise, and then there was the other problem. Walter had fallen in too easily with the likes of Earless Nick, a notorious rogue, and his incentives for turning were as cheap as a blonde punk and purse full of gilt. That was poor enough, but as Ned trudged through the snow heading along Fleete Street a worse prospect hovered overhead. What if young lamb Walter had been scooped up by More’s pursuivants? A lad who’d fallen for his first flash of tits was unlikely to possess the moral resilience to resist the Lord Chancellor’s questioning. Ned’s daemon readily suggested that Walter would sell out anyone to save a bruised finger, and as loath as he was to condemn, Ned had to agree. Walter Dellingham was proving too unpredictable to be allowed to have free range of the city. Something would have to be done.
The snow was coming down heavier and even their improvised lantern was spluttering. As for visibility, well Ned could see Meg to his front and Gruesome Roger some two paces on. However after that even the few outside lanterns either side only shed a fitful illumination at the odd doorway. Ned shivered. This was damnedly bleak weather to seek out the lost lamb. They’d better find him soon or else they be frozen. He’d heard how earlier this week several beggars had been found huddling on the Church steps, all dead and frozen by the piercing cold. He for one didn’t want to end up like that.
Suddenly Ned bumped into a stationary Meg. Gruesome Roger had halted just in front and was crouched down, shielding the cresset in a doorway. He stretched out a hand and pointed at a figure wrapped in a cloak quickly walking down the road maybe twenty feet ahead. “There’s our little lamb!”
How Roger knew, Ned didn’t have to ask. The furtive way the figure kept on looking over his shoulder reminded him too much of the service at St Paul’s. All they had to do was grab him. Feeling an overwhelming desire for a touch of retribution after all the lost lamb’s diversions, Ned volunteered to sprint after Walter and seize him, while the others watched out for Earless Nick’s men. Anyway Gruesome Roger was still limping from his earlier run in with their dear lost lamb.
Slipping out from their cover, Ned strode through the snow. His long legs made it relatively easy and while the knee high horseman’s boots were cumbersome, his feet were dry. He’d picked a shadowed approach, moving fast from doorway to corner water butt, trying to keep out of Walter’s darting, over the shoulder scans. Ahead Ned could see the lanterns on the bridge. In between the flurries of fresh snow they glimmered like the mythical Faerie who lured travellers astray.
The be-cloaked Walter was at best ten paces from the Fleete Bridge. After that up the steep hill there was the gate into the city. At this time of the night it would be closed, but for a fee, the Common Watch would let you through. The gate was the perfect barrier to slow down Walter, except that who knew what sort of fracas the fool would raise when collared. Ned didn’t want to take the chance of loosing him again, so he left his final patch of cover and ran as fast as he could towards Walter.
About one pace off and Walter’s nervous habit swung his head around just as Ned was reaching for his shoulder. The lost lamb’s bleary eyes widened in shock and he almost bleated. “Wh…Wh…What?”
Before he could dart off, Ned’s fingers locked onto his cloak, pulling the errant lad up short. “Walter. My, my, how we’ve missed you!” Ned reeled the lost lamb in and put a friendly but firm arm around the clearly reluctant figure and began to walk together onto the bridge. Got him crowed Ned’s daemon!
It was as Ned was strolling across the bridge, his charge ‘securely’ rescued that it all went terribly wrong. “That’s ‘im!”
The cry came from just behind them and Ned spun around to see three figures standing under the light of the bridge lanterns. Gruesome Roger and Meg, his supposed ‘rearguard’, were conspicuous by their absence. Three to one weren’t good odds, and though handy in a brawl, Ned had only recently started training in the not so gentlemanly arts of defence.
There was of course another problem-lost lamb Walter. Only the good lord knew were his loyalties lay. It was a brief struggle for a moment, though as his daemon said, the sheer unpredictability of his charge made Walter a dangerous liability in any fight. Knowing that it was only marginally the better of two poor choices, Ned pushed the lad towards the black shadow past the end of the bridge. “Walter I’ll stay here and keep them off. I want you to run up the hill to the gate and summon the Watch and then head for the Sign of the Spread Eagle!”
“Ye…ye…yes Ned!”
Before he released the lost lamb, Ned pulled Walter close and stared into his watery eyes. “Now Walter my lamb, if you betray me, I’ll see that you suffer in ways that you can’t begin to imagine!”
“Ne…ne…never Ned. On my soul!”
Ned closed his eyes for a moment and thrust Walter into the darkness, then shook his head. Humph, Christ on the Cross! He’d had the fool for almost a minute, damn!
Dropping into a half crouch, Ned drew both his sword and poniard. They whispered from their sheath with a very soft hiss, almost imperceptible in the falling snow. He exhaled slowly and twisted his feet to check his footing. It’d been a few months since he’d last been in a fight and that one hadn’t ended well. Actually the final result was success, but the battle itself was a shameful rout that had him hiding in an empty badgers set waiting for an irate Spaniard to go away. Chance, pride and revenge had rescued him that day — it was unlikely to do so here. Ned took up the stance he’d so recently learnt from Master Sylver, his instructor in the less than gentlemanly arts of survival. His left hand was down by his thigh with the dagger inclined upwards and forward while his sword was held out point towards the threat and laid at a slight deflecting angle around torso height.
The first of Earless Nick’s men moved into the fitful shadows of the centre of the bridge. He was a large brute, armed with an iron shod cudgel and a long dagger. The second, just behind him, was smaller and appeared to have at least one dagger. Ned factored for two. The third stood back and was perhaps of medium height. From the glints as the fellow passed the lanterns he was armed with a large heavy blade, maybe a cleaver like those favoured by Captaine Gryne’s men.
The odds were bad. By the damned saints, where was that sluggard, Gruesome Roger? Ned breathed slowly as his potential assailants warily slid forward. It looked like he was on his own. Even if they heard the sounds of a fight, the Watch stationed at the gate wouldn’t interfere. They didn’t like trouble, especially if it was unprofitable. Ned had been in his fair share of brawls and fights. He could count himself reasonably skilled with fist and boot. As a ‘gentleman’ he’d been pursuing more honourable methods of defence such as sword, dagger and polearm. He was far from an expert and was in fact mostly a novice. However Master Sylver said the art of defence was also a matter of feel for the situation. Did your opponent want to be there and how did they move?
Watching these three slowly advance, Ned gained the impression only one of them was really keen on a scrap. The other two were more in the line of strutting roisters. That was good as he needed any advantage he could scrape up. So rather than wait he launched himself forward with a bound.
His attack startled the large fellow with the cudgel. Earless Nick’s sturdy beggar waited too long to swing and Ned slashed him across the arm in passing. His target was neither of the front two. So he also bypassed the smaller fellow armed with a dagger, parrying briefly, and jabbed at a thigh as he slid past, before colliding with their surprised leader. The heavy blade had swung down in a standard slash but Ned blocked it with his crossed sword and dagger and threw himself forward on now unsteady feet. Behind him the larger assailant had begun to howl in pain, while the dagger wielder had backed off, reluctant now to close. That was all to the good. Even in a brawl, Ned knew it was damned difficult to concentrate on more than one opponent at a time. With all the snow and ice the cobbles on the bridge were as slippery as a greased slide. With his forward momentum still accelerating, Ned gave up on keeping his footing. Instead he hammered the sword pommel into the cheek of Earless Nick’s retainer with all his falling weight. The fellow gave up on the fight and staggered backwards, dropping his heavy blade, hands clutching at his face. It was then that the smaller fellow decided to be brave, and with a cry, charged. Ned was down on his knees, sword somewhere else. Instinct swung him around and Master Sylver’s training had him automatically thrusting out his left hand before he’d actually had time to think about it.