Ned wasn’t sure if this was another trap by Norfolk’s man, and he wasn’t taking chances either way. “I’ll meet you there, Skelton.”
“Aye lad. See ye keep an eye o’tfor’n that Spaniard!” The band of northerners turned and jogged back the way they’d come.
Ned wasn’t so eager to follow without precautions. He left Rob in charge of the Gonnes with the Petty Wales punks, the Ruyter sailors and a dozen of Gryne’s men just in case. The rest formed a solid block at his back and they hurriedly tramped back towards the Tower Wharf. Well at least he could find out what Meg Black was so teary about.
And now his better angel gave him a pointed reminder of what that could be- a dead Ben Robinson. Ahh, that could be it. For a moment shame overwhelmed him. Damn, Ben was a good friend and he’d failed him!
Distraught? How in the seven levels of hell could Skelton call her distraught! The northerner was leaning against the wall, an amused grin on his face, and flanked by his laughing retinue. Ned would have challenged the lying sheep fondler there and then, if he didn’t have more pressing matters. Even Tam Bourke, his solid shield, had shirked his paid duty.
“You miserable measle-brained idiot! The Good Lord spare me from the stupidity of men!” The rage of Meg Black had surpassed anything he’d seen before. She stood there, hands on hips, incandescent with righteous wrath, eyes glowing and hair sparking with anger.
“Damn you for an ungrateful shrew Meg Black! I saved your ship, your cargo and killed Belsom! I stopped his men from plundering the city, spoiled their scheme and saved your life!”
“You louse pricked fool. They weren’t important! It’s Don Juan Sebastian who led the plot!”
“No he was just the messenger. How could he be in charge anyway?”
“I fear Ned lad, the lass has it aright. The Spaniard’s the head o’ the treachery.”
Ned swung around to look at Skelton. The northerner actually appeared to believe that. “How do you know?” he asked suspiciously.
“Cos o’ yon braw heid clerk.” Skelton waved over towards the shadows past the warehouse were Ouze was supporting a hobbling figure.
Ned suddenly felt a rush of relief. There was no mistaking that gleaming dome and prominent nose. “You found Master Robinson!”
“Aye lad. Twas where ye said he’d be a muckin’ about wit the powder, though the Spaniard weren’t there as ye promised.”
Ned heard the threat in that. Skelton still wanted his pound of flesh. A slap across his face reminded him of the ignored Meg.
“Ned Bedwell! Where’s the Spaniard? The whole idea of letting you run loose was to capture Don Juan Sebastian!” Now that was typical. Meg Black thought she was in charge of the venture.
Ned felt a very justified surge of anger. “Me? You were supposed to catch him, as he went to set off the powder at the old abbey! That’s why I sent you there with Skelton!”
“Ahh lad. We did in a few monks on the way, some dozen or so, but nay Spanish catamite.”
Another voice broke through the growing argument. “Ahh Ned. That wasn’t what Don Juan Sebastian had planned. I overheard Watkins and Edwards talking about it.”
Master Robinson had arrived. He sounded a little hoarse and looked blacker and grimier than a turd carter. Ned hoped the colour had more to do with his recent trade than the effects of the powder sorters’ ‘encouragements’.
“Well if he didn’t plan on blowing up the city, what was he going to do?” That may have come out a little waspishly, but it had been a really rough night so far, and his tolerance had fled with the blow from an ungrateful Meg Black.
And no surprise to Ned she interrupted everyone. “Blow up the Tower you dolt!”
Oh no! Ned ignored the fierce scowl of Meg Black and looked up at the darker bulk of the Tower wall. Could the Spaniard do that? For once his angel and daemon were in unison-they both vehemently whispered definitely.
***
Chapter 33. To the Tower! The Tower of London, Night-time, 10th June
Six thousand barrels! Six thousand barrels! Six thousand barrels!
Those numbers were a litany of doom that revolved in his thoughts. What kind of unimaginable destruction could you wrought with that great quantity? Ned would’ve cursed himself for a fool. How could anyone be so moonstruck as to encompass such a plan? To think he’d actually thought himself rather clever with the solution he’d come up with. Having seized the Tower it seemed so simple to hold it and use it to set fire to the eastern part of the city. Wasn’t that what those two hundred or so men he’d turned back were for?
He fended off the approaching wall with his oar as they glided towards the wharf at Traitor’s Gate. This was a damned ominous entrance to the Tower. Though it was used by His Majesty when the King boarded the Royal Barge, its other use was the traditional portal to which gentry and lords were brought to be incarcerated for the length of His Majesty’s pleasure. Last year Londoners had crowded the riverside leading to this channel, expecting to see transported hither the disgraced Lord Chancellor, Cardinal Wolsey. To their disappointment, Wolsey had gained a reprieve from the King.
Now Ned was cautiously tying up their wherry on the wharf next to another moored boat. The tide was still high so that the water occasionally lapped the slick timber planks. Very quietly the other three boats joined him, hands outstretched to stop the vessels thudding against the oak piles. A muffled curse reached Ned’s ears. Someone in the second boat had caught their fingers between the jostling timbers. He gave a thankful prayer that they’d left Meg Black behind dealing with the injured. She just couldn’t be trusted to keep her mouth shut.
Tam was the first off and moved his large bulk silently towards the iron gate. Preparing for the worst, he cautiously tried it. It was unlocked and easily swung open. The low squeal of poorly oiled iron echoed up the stairway, but nothing happened-no call or cry.
“Where’re ta’ guards?”
That was a good question. Tam was being very observant tonight. Ned leant past him and peered up the stone stairs. The lantern at the top was sputtering. It was a good question. Where were the guards? This was the heart of the King’s realm. Usually fifty yeoman guards patrolled the walls and the gate, so what had happened?
Master Robinson hobbled along the wharf to join in the inspection, closely followed by a wary Skelton. The royal official sadly shook his head. “I heard Edwards gloating over the opportunity. Blackford had drugged their ale and wine. No guards will be awake. Those rats were looking forward to this night. They’d gathered twenty odd scum from the riverside in preparation for a looting spree.”
That’d be right. He was certain Blackford had made sure everyone in the Tower had a full measure of his generosity, probably claiming his saints day as an excuse or maybe, ironically, the King’s great petition.
Skelton gave an evil chuckle. “Nay need ta worry. My lads looked affer that gang o’ wharf scrapings.”
He growled out a further command to his fellow northerners, and drawing swords, they quietly paced up the stairs. Ned was quite happy to let him lead the way. Norfolk’s man had done a bit of looting of his own earlier that night, and acquired one of the powder sorter’s breech loading wheellock harquebus. With a weapon like that, Ned wanted Skelton in sight all the time.
Whatever the drugs were, they’d worked. Two guards were slumped by the exit of St Thomas’s tower. Ned stooped down and checked them. Well, well. Sergeant Cod Scratcher was one, and he was snoring away like a babe. Ned resisted the urge to kick him. Drugged wine that was a very cunning ploy and helped explain why no one from the Tower had raised any alarm over the affray down by the wharf. He’d been curious about that silence, once he’d had time to think about it after the battle. “Ben, where are the powder stores?”