Ned would be the first to damn Don Juan Sebastian as a blackhearted popinjay, but even his daemon readily conceded that the Spaniard knew the Arts of War as well as any captaine. Two men under the gateway lanterns and the faint shadow of another could be seen on the top battlement, as they walked the parapet. There was no way to get across without being seen, as you crossed the bridge.
Which is were Sir Welkin came in. Ned eased the wherry under the span. He could hear the casual conversation of the two guards above. Now he had to depend upon Ben Robinson and Ouze playing their part. A collection of footsteps echoed above him
“Ho fellow, is your master in the tower?’ The quavering voice of Sir Welkin punctured the silence.
“Christ blud sir. Nay so loud. Where’s ye bin anyways? T’ captaine ‘xpected ye back haf a’ hur ago.”
“My varlets here are a damn lazy pack. Took ‘em forever to load.”
“Here watch ut…Arghh.”
Once more a box dropped, followed by an exclamation ending in a gurgle, closely followed by the clatter of a dropped weapon and finally the thud of a body hitting the flagstones. Ned pulled the wherry out from its cover to beside the Middle gate. Ouze dropped a rope over the parapet and Ned, followed by the other four in the vessel, scrambled up and dodged into the shadow of the gate arch. Ben Robinson had a shaky Welkin covered with one of the wheellocks while Ouse, Tam and two more of Gryne’s men scouted the rest of the passage through to Lion Tower. Ned grabbed a lantern off the wall and gave it a couple of waves towards Byward Tower. From deep within the gate tunnel a hooded lantern was opened once. Excellent! The rest of their band was now traversing the western walls. Ned prayed it was enough. Between them and the party Ben Robinson had sent to check the White Tower, he was left with only ten men to take out Don Juan Sebastian and however many retainers. Considering what happened the last time he didn’t like the odds.
Ned recited a quiet prayer.
Pater noster qui es in caelis.
Sanctificetur Nomen tuum.
Adveniat regnum tuum.
By the saints, this was taking for ever. He’d recited it several times already. Another three and up the stairway they’d go. Back at Traitors Gate he’d come up with a rudimentary timing so that they could coordinate their actions. The arrangement was ten slow recitations of the paternoster and then they’d take on Don Juan Sebastian. It’d better be soon. The night wasn’t as quiet as it had been. The sounds of some sort of affray could be heard from beyond Lion Gate bulwark. Ned had the feeling they were running out of time.
He’d say the prayer once more then go for it. The sounds of conflict were getting closer.
Fiat voluntastua.
Sic ut in caeloet in terra.
His pistol and sword were at the ready and his stomach churned as though he had the gripe. He could only guess what was going on across the short bridge. A yell echoed from just past the lower gateway.
Panem nostrum quotidianumdanoblishodie.
Then the door he was standing next to opened.
“Hey Paul, Paul! T’ captaine wants ta know where Welkin’s at …Christus who are you?” A heavily built figure in monk’s robes burst through the opening. He must’ve been almost running down the tower stairs from his speed. He took one surprised look at Ned, and tried two conflicting moves, drawing a blade concealed under his monk’s robes, and at the same time throwing himself backwards. Failing at both, the false monk instead slipped over and crashed onto the steps in flail of arms and legs. Shocked by this dramatic arrival, Ned reacted instinctively. His hand flexed and the pistol discharged with a roar that bounced along the stone passageway until it sounded like a Great Gonne.
As if Don Juan Sebastian needed any further warning that his plan was going awry!
Luck had directed the path of the missile, hitting the monk in the shoulder. The wounded man’s screams and a second pistol blast confirmed the potential collapse of the plot. Welkin had made his last poor choice. In the growing racket he’d made a break for freedom. Ben Robinson casually shot him in the back. Though appropriate justice, it didn’t make life any easier for Ned. A talking prisoner may have been useful. With a curse, he kicked the wounded man out of the doorway and made for the stairs. At the clatter and groans from behind him Ned assumed the monk was playing improvised doormat. With luck it signalled two more of Gryne’s men were following.
Ned was concerned with reaching the top of the tower. In the initial surge he’d passed the first and second levels, and though now he’d slowed down, the shouts from the parapet told him that the element of surprise was gone, as did the distinct ring of weapons on stone above him in the stairway. It sound like a hundred armoured soldiers. A similar roar from below indicated that his men where surging up in his wake. Being in the middle of the clash suddenly struck him as a very poor choice, and not part of duties of a commander. Ned reckoned he’d a few seconds before becoming a smear on the wall, so leaping up the stairs two at a time, he made it to the third level, and ducked into an alcove, where he wedged his body into the shadows just as a dozen monks thudded down the stairs.
Where was Don Juan Sebastian getting all these warrior monks? Couldn’t he run out soon? Ned felt a trifle outnumbered. The crash of opposing armies roiled up the stairs. The splattering thuds made him very glad he wasn’t part of this battle. It sounded like morning at the Aldgate shambles.
Cautiously edging back into the stair he gave a quick glance below, before continuing his steady ascent, sword and dagger at the ready. It was the last flight. Ned was almost bent double when he passed through the open hatch onto the parapet space, the better to reduce his shadow from the dim radiance spilling up from the lantern below. That probably saved his life. A heavy axe bit into the oak door where his chest should have been. He dropped and lunged forward with his sword, as Master Sylver had drilled him, and felt the satisfying shudder of blade punching through flesh. His assailant gave a sigh and collapsed onto the stone floor. However the monk kept a firm grip upon the sword. Rather than contest it, Ned cleared the entrance in a diving roll. This was another wise choice. The whisper of a deft sword hissed past his ear.
A light flared. Someone had lit a torch and Ned’s skilful evasion abruptly terminated as he collided with a barrel.
“Master Bedwell! Good to zee you again. I missed you at the wharf.”
It was as hateful a voice as it was last year, heavy with that hawked Castilian lisp. Ned gave his head a shake to clear the stars that flashed before his eyes, and scrambled around until the barrel was between the Spaniard and him.
“Yeay surely, Don Juan Sebastian. And I’ve missed you as much as the Spanish pox!” Ned hauled out the unloaded pistol and pointed towards the advancing Spaniard. His opponent was giving his sword a few lazy swings and grinning with feral delight. This was weird. The Spaniard was ignoring the pistol pointing at his chest. At this range the foreigner must have known Ned couldn’t miss. Did he realize it wasn’t loaded? No, that wasn’t possible. Was it?
“Tch, tch, Master Bedwell. That would not be a wize act.”
“Another step, Don Juan Sebastian, and you can tell it to Satan’s devils.” Was the Spaniard insane? Why didn’t he take notice of the threat?
“If I do you’ll be by my side. Look at the barrel Master Bedwell.”
Ned spared a glance downwards, and his blood, heated by threat and violence, chilled to ice. It was one more of those damned, cursed barrels of the King’s powder and the bedlam fool had the top open. He slowly got up and backed away a pace still keeping the barrel between them.