“Don Juan Sebastian, your plot is over. I’ve got men going through all the powder stores. You’ll not blow them up now.”
“But Master Bedwell, I didn’t rely on them.” Don Juan Sebastian half turned and snarled a command. A small flash sparked up, illuminating the terrified profile of Welkin’s aged servant. The tardy retainer was trying to light up a powder train. Past that Ned could see three rows of fireworks pointing in the direction of the Tower
“It very simple. The roof of every tower is covered in loose power, a few sparks and well…”
Ned had the impression that Don Juan Sebastian was going to reveal a bit more of his extremely cunning plan. However that was cut short by the ‘sproing’ of a ball hitting the stone parapet to his right. The Spaniard dove for cover. If it wasn’t for problems of his own, Ned would have used the distraction to leap at his foe. Several shots now peppered the small space around him forcing him to seek the same shelter as the Spaniard, though at the distance of a few feet. They weren’t the only ones affected by the volley. Welkin’s old servant gave a loud squeal of fright, dropped his lantern, and scuttled towards the open stairway. The power trail remained unlit. Ned gave an amused chuckle as another volley slammed into the tower. Someone must have found a few harquebuses. From the angle of the shot, it was probably from the top of Byward Tower. You’d get a good sloping angle from there.
“Yield Don Juan Sebastian. Your plot is finished.” Ned tried to wave his hand above the wall. Surely at thirty yards, backlit by the lanterns, Skelton should be able to tell the difference. A ricocheting stone chip told him, probably not! Who the hell where they aiming at?
With no other option he once more levelled the pistol at the snarling Spaniard. “It’s either Skelton or me, Don Juan Sebastian.” Under the circumstances, Ned thought it a very reasonable offer.
“Not you, Bedwell.” The Spaniard shook his head in denial, then he threw his sword at Ned. The hilt knocked the pistol from his hand and the Spaniard dove across the tower, scooping up the spluttering lantern. Ned tried to get up, but as his cap cleared the parapet, a fusillade of shots reminded him of the unseen harquebusiers on Byward Tower. Damn, couldn’t they see the Spaniard?
“I leave you to hell, Bedwell!”
Several events now transpired together. The powder flashed into fitful life, and Don Juan Sebastian leapt onto the crenulated recess in the wall, lantern in hand. Ned dropped his dagger, and ignoring the splatter of balls, threw his body towards the flaming trail, arms outstretched. His hands frantically beat at the sparking powder, trying to scatter the small leaping flames as the grains of powder fizzled and burned like miniature demons. Then as he was consumed in his urgent task, Ned noticed another peril. Don Juan Sebastian, grinning like a fiend, had tossed the lantern before diving off the wall. It described a gentle arc, flying overhead in the direction of the open barrel. In that instant Ned had two choices-try and intercept the lantern or leap after his enemy. Instead fate intervened. He tripped on the body of the axe man and fell against the far rampart and the top of Lion’s Tower roared, flashing fiery orange and black.
Ned rolled back away from the wall, coughing fit to choke. His eyes watering, he tried to peer through the cloud of sulphurous smoke. If this was hell then he was going to have a big problem-breathing. His first daemon hove into view and a long lanky hand reached out grabbing his shoulder. Ned would have screamed but hawking up the muck in this throat had precedence.
“Why, the Lord has seen fit t’ bless me. Tis Red Ned!”
Great! An eternity of a Canting Michael shaped daemon. His sins truly must be weighty.
The apparition became more solid as another hand snaked out from the darkness and secured his right arm in a vicelike grip. The pale face of his newly acquired daemon thrust forward, inspecting his blacked features with a curiously hungry intensity. “Red Ned, ‘ave y’ done ‘ll the powder o’ the devil?”
What a stupid question from a daemon! Ned nodded and coughed and would have collapsed but for the support of the clenching hands.
“On the roofs, arghh!The fireworks…to set them off.” That’s all he got out before a violent fit of coughing strangled his breath.
“Thank y’, Red Ned. I’ll leave y’ now, though I’s still ‘ave claim on y’. That’s naught settled.” The grim apparition disappeared and Ned collapsed to the stone floor, trying to quell his rebellious stomach. The stench of brimstone was overwhelming. Slowly both the smoke and his sight cleared and the London air grew sweet as he eagerly sucked it in. Ned crawled over to the other side of the Tower. Amazingly the barrel still stood in place, covered in a layer of thick black soot, as was the rest of the ramparts. He gave it a tap and it fell over, spewing a plume of fine black dust. He could have cursed. He could have laughed. What he did do was shake his head in wry amusement. Dr Caerleon had been right-greed had held sway and became it’s own downfall. Lady Fortuna had blessed him. Don Juan Sebastian’s culminating trump card was one of the powder sorter’s remixed barrels.
***
Chapter 35. The Shipmaster’s Cabin, Again, The Ruyter, Morning, 11th June
Ned pushed himself upright with a heartfelt groan. From the incessant ringing of the bells, and the light pouring in through the open shutter, it must be the seven of the clock in the morning of Sunday 11th June. The day looked bright and glorious, but he didn’t feel it at all. The bruises hurt, all of them. His throat felt like sand paper, and the burns on his hands stung as he flexed them. As for his aching ribs, he preferred not to dwell on the possibilities. Having taken stock of his painful catalogue, and now a touch less bleary eyed, Ned bleakly surveyed his accommodation. Well surprise, surprise! Back in the damned shipmaster’s cabin again! Though for the first time in a week his muzzy instinct no longer trembled at the hungry presence of ghosts. Maybe their souls had been assuaged by last night’s red handed vengeance. Or perhaps ending of the affair with the Gonne powder had liberated their spirits. Either way a touch of ease flickered within him.
Well this was the day that would see them freed or condemned. Ned had prepared as much as he could. The rest was up to the providence of the Lord and the good sense of the Lord Chancellor. One he could pray for while the other was…uncertain. As he eased himself off the bunk a light rap sounded from the door, and his temporary retainer, Ouze, let himself in. Gryne’s men had performed many varied tasks this last week, ranging from protection to whore mastery and door wardens. This time Ouze was acting the chamber groomsman and arrived bearing a complete set of fresh clothes. That was doubly welcome. After the continued fracas and wear and tear, he was unsure whether he had anything left suitable to wear to a court summons.
In the light of the morning the dress doublet acquired a subtle shimmer that made him reach out and finger the cloth in amazement. This wasn’t any of his apparel. The rich silver thread brocade was well beyond his means. An intricate pattern of silk embroidery caught his eye. It was set above the heart, just below the left shoulder and no more than a few inches across. It didn’t have to be any larger. It would appear that the Duke of Norfolk had kept at least part of his promise. Ned was now shielded by the Howard crest, so long as he accepted the gift.
That was a difficult decision. He was supposed to be Cromwell’s man. His good lord hadn’t so far been very supportive in this last week, except for the tainted writ that had them scrabbling all over the place, dealing with the Queen’s plot. Serving members of the Privy Council could be a very thankless task, as he’d found. The place was awash with rivalry and deadly intrigue. So what was he to make of this gift of fine clothing? Ned hadn’t received anything from Cromwell, not even via the usual heavy hand of his Uncle Richard. For a man so attuned to the shifting currents of favour and fortune, that was unusual. The only message was the writ, and the handing over, seemingly, to the dubious friendship of Skelton and his master.