Rob, it seemed, had recovered his voice. He grabbed his friend’s shoulder and pulled him close, gesturing down the river. “Ned, while we were loading the falconet, I saw a string of torches and lanterns off past St Katherine’s. They’re heading this way!”
Ned wearily shook his head-it hurt. That would have to be stage two of the plan, the men to wear the harnesses stored in the ship. Just what was he going to do now? He gave a deep sigh and looked around. Damn, damn, damn and Satan’s merry devils! He’d made such a fuss of proclaiming his right to command all this week to no avail, and here were fifty men and girls all looking expectantly at him, waiting for his orders and he didn’t have a clue.
Searching for inspiration he looked towards the road. The way was clear. No sign of either Canting Michael or Don Juan Sebastian, just a pile of dead and groaning bodies. He gave a silent pray that they’d offed each other, but apart from the open space he had no instant solution. Except for what was here-fifty men and girls.
Fifty men and girls?
Fifty men and girls!
Of course!
And two Great Gonnes!
***
Chapter 32. St Katherine’s Bridge, By the Tower, Riverside, Night-time, 10th June
Ned stood at the end of the bridge, nervously waiting for the marching column to arrive. His palms felt wet and clammy and he could’ve sworn his legs were trembling. So much for being a great leader, his daemon scathingly remarked! At least he had the reassuring presence of Tam Bourke. The mercenary stood beside him holding high the lantern that gave a dim luminance. The wavering lights of the column came closer and Ned could even make out the menacing glint of spear point and bill. He’d been right in his estimation. At four men a rank, there was well over two hundred in the contingent. This waiting was nerve wracking. His tongue felt dryer than rawhide.
Finally, at the other end of the bridge, the column came to a halt and several horsemen rode forward under a shrouded banner. Their hooves rang hollowly as they came onto the bridge.
Ned stepped forward, and in what he hoped was a commanding voice, called out. “Halt in the King’s name!”
The clatter of hooves stopped, except for one rider who slowly edged his horse forward. “Who calls upon us and where is Sir Roderick?”
Ned swallowed. Now they were for it. “I’m Edward Bedwell, pursuivant to Councillor Thomas Cromwell, and I have a warrant from the Privy Council. Sir Belsom is dead. He fell during a brawl earlier this evening!”
Ned felt that was sufficient to make them pause. Two more riders moved forward to join their perplexed companion, and Ned could hear the edge of a discussion. They sounded confused. All the horsemen now trotted to the end of the bridge, and Ned could see their commander was dressed in a more functional version of half armour than the late Sir Roderick. Also, unlike the late unlamented knight, this gentleman had all the presence and manner of a soldier complete with a great Landsknecht style beard. His flankers were also similarly well armed with the look of hard eyed veterans. Ned swallowed again. These were professionals.
“I’m Captaine Harris I was given an Order of Array to bring my Companie here to suppress rioting. Are you telling me there is no disorder?”
Ned felt he’d waited long enough. He raised his hand, and behind him several lanterns were unhooded, revealing the rest of his company in all it martial splendour.
A couple of the horses reared and snorted at the surprise, but not the commander. Captaine Harris kept a firm hand on his rein, rock steady, instead leaning forward to survey the troops before him. It was a long measured minute before he spoke. “Master Bedwell, I note some of your companie are wearing dresses…and ribbons!”
“Yes Captaine. Southwark and Petty Wales Ward Muster, they’re a new parish Companie.” Well it was the best he could come up with at the time. Rob had broken out the hidden armour and everybody wore some of it, even Mary’s punks. Thus Ned stood there in a short leather covered steel brigandine and a polished helm. At a distance and in the dark he’d hoped it looked intimidating.
The commander it seemed wasn’t so easily impressed. “Master Bedwell, if I give the order my men will sweep this lot away.”
It was a simple statement of fact. Even with Gryne’s men, Ned knew they couldn’t stop a determined advance. “True Captaine. However…”
Ned gave another wave and his company split in two. They moved off the centre of the road revealing the pair of Great Gonnes and several falconets lashed to a small dray behind the front ranks. Rob stood between them, lit linstock in hand.
The bearded commander gave a very slow nod. London rag tag he could discount, but backed by Gonnes? The man wasn’t a fool or an unskilled, puffed up, glory hound like Sir Belsom. He understood the mathematics of modern warfare. Captaine Harris paused, his head sunk to his chest. Ned knew that at this instant it all depended on the commander’s cold calculation of profit and loss. The lives of all them weighed in the swaying balance of Lady Fortuna.
Finally the commander straightened up, gave a short half bow and tilted his head. “Master Bedwell, I believe we passed a very good Inn a few miles back, the Harts Ease and since there’s no longer a riot, we’ll retire there.”
“That, captaine, would be an excellent idea. As a reward for your loyalty, my master wishes you to have this.” Ned untied his replenished purse, and presented it to the bowing horseman.
Captaine Harris weighed the present in his hand, and broke into a slow smile.
Ned returned his own bow of respect, according to Usages of War. “Captaine, I recommend you all, drink to the health of His Sovereign Majesty.” As if any soldier needed an excuse to have a tankard of ale!
“My thanks Master Bedwell.Would that all my marches were so profitable.” With that the captaine gave an abrupt wave and trotted back to his company.
Ned could hear a series of loud commands, and the clatter and shuffling of soldiers preparing to move. He’d made a fervent prayer that they’d see sense. Then a moment or two’s hesitation and the lights of the column began to move back down the river.
His company gave a wild cheer and Tam Bourke clapped him on the shoulder almost felling him. “Well done, Ned. Ye’ll make a fine captaine!”
His company crowded around, slapping him on the back and kissing him. The first from Gryne’s men had to be endured. The second from the Petty Wales punks he enjoyed despite their helmets almost boffing him on the nose.
In the midst of these celebrations another sound intruded, the clatter of arms and shouts from behind them! “Ware! There’s a company a heading this way!”
Ned could have cursed. He’d forgotten about Don Juan Sebastian. It looked like he wanted the bridge clear. With no time to swing the heavy Gonnes, Ned rallied his band to face about. The dim pools of lanterns swung closer. He’d put Gryne’s men in the front rank. Mary’s punks may have been willing, but donning on a suit of Almain Rivet and waving a pole arm didn’t make them warriors.
“Ho. Tis Red Ned wit’ ye?” A loud coarse voice rang out from the approaching band.
Ned could have sagged with relief and cursed at the same time. It was that damned northerner and his heavily armed lads. “I’m here Skelton. Come no further! What do you want?” Ned didn’t step forward. He felt quite safe as it was.
“That Spanish cur. Has ye seen ‘im ‘ere?”
“He was with thirty men dressed as monks. That was back by the wharf during the fight. I haven’t seen him since and he didn’t come this way.”
That answer received an interesting stream of northern dialect swearing. From the invective, it sounded rightly profane. Ned was glad he didn’t understand the barbarous tongue. “Well, I can deliver a summons ta ye. Ye lass an’ her friend wants ye back at the dock. She seems a mickle distraught lad.”