The Cardinal's Angels (32 page)

Ned dodged another lunge—the Spaniard was damned fast. If only he could get to his blade, then maybe he’d have a chance. His daemon and angel metaphorically kicked his ego in the codgers. No, that was wildly optimistic. If he still had his sword then the matter would have been concluded a good five minutes ago, with him dead on the ground skewered by the much better swordsman. This weaving through the copse was what had kept him alive, well that and the muddy ground. So much for a damned clear road!

He could hear Don Juan Sebastian roundly cursing him as a cowardly English dog, a creature not fit to soil his sword. Ned’s daemon facetiously pointed out the irony in that comment, since the Spaniard was hell bent on doing just that. Ned forbore telling his daemon to shove it. He was currently fully occupied with just staying alive. Further shouts and screams from the road gave him some dim hope his plan was working and he prayed to dear God and all the saints that his friends were still alive. The slap of a branch to his face reminded him that all he had to do was maintain the same condition. Ned ducked under the next bough and scurried along a badgers trail. It had been a clever ambush and he blamed himself for failing to foresee it.

A couple of miles out from Grafton and they were sure that the pursuit had been outpaced. Skelton and his band had to be a good hour or so behind them, delayed by the ‘privy matter’ and Rob’s astute swap of horses. So despite his still aching muscles Ned felt he could pull them back from the flat out pace of earlier, particularly to spare the bruising of his buttocks and cods when they hit the saddle too hard. Later he felt that was the reason for their survival, though Gruesome Roger claimed the credit of sighting the ambush as they entered that encroaching patch of woods. The first trap looked like a simple fallen tree, but the Black retainer ordered them to rein in rather than leap the horses over the barrier. It was perfect timing. The crowding trees created deep pools of shadow in the late afternoon light so they had little warning. Still it was enough to reflect off the steel in the low brush. Some eager fool had pulled out his blade too early.

The whole company sawed hard on their reins pulling up the horses hard. At least one of Gryne’s Men tumbled off his mount landing in the mud in an undignified sprawl. Not that it saved them much, since the barrier and brief warning still left them milling on the road desperately trying to hold back the panicked horses, as several men burst out of the cover from either side. Their escort drew a variety of large blades and pushed Ned and the rest into a huddle which they surrounded. For Ned this was his first taste of battle apart from his frequent affrays with the other apprentices or a parish scrimmage, so he was endeavouring to figure out a more London way of solving this. Then a crossbow bolt thudded in the horse shielding him and the beast reared screaming throwing its rider into the ditch cutting short his reflection.

Ned may have been experienced as a brawler and lacked the proper training in the arts of war as practiced by more elevated gentleman at the Inns. However that didn’t make him an idiot or blindly obsessed with honour. You could be a veritable lion of battle, but a crossbow bolt was going to kill you as easily as the most eager coward at twenty paces. Ned stood high in the saddle and quickly cast a rapid glance over their miniature battlefield. He could see two crossbow men on each side. One was re–cranking his weapon but the rest were lining up their targets. It was looking like a replay of Pavia with their companie cast as the French.

Ned threw up an arm and called out. “We yield! We yield!”

His escort was initially unwilling until Gruesome Roger drew their attention to the other crossbows. Then all of them dismounted with hands kept well clear of weapons.

Rob Black and Gruesome Roger where standing protectively before Mistress Black, and three of Gryne’s Men were spread out arc before them. Ned however was off to the other side of the protectors, still trying to figure out who of their many pursuers had pulled this ambush. His muscles tensed with ill–suppressed anger, trembling with the combination of this rage and reaction to the attack. It was only a couple more miles to Grafton. They were almost there, so damned close!

Eventually a figure trotted out from the trees on an impressive chestnut horse. Ned, with a sinking feeling, recognised the jauntily feathered cap and fine velvet cloak that fluttered flatteringly at every bouncing step of this beautiful scion of Bucephalus. Envy and disgust tasted bitter in his mouth. It would have to be him—what did Skelton call him, oh yes a damned Spanish popinjay! He thought he’d seen the last of the Spaniard back at the
White Lamb
. It appeared that may have been a bit too much to hope for. Don Juan Sebastian must have driven several horses into the ground to get here in sufficient time to set this ambush. That spoke of either supreme dedication or a serious loss of dignity that had to be avenged. Everyone at the Inns of Court knew foreigners like the Spaniard were touchy over their weird ideas of honour.

The gentleman in question slowly coursed his horse through a few of it showy paces in the hundred yards betwixt them– the damned fool was showing off his skill. Ned hadn’t realised a man could be so vain and then had a germ of a very wicked idea. If the Spaniard was all that Skelton claimed then it just might work.

He lent slowly across to Mistress Black and whispered. “Can you play upon his vanity, the piteous wronged maiden like you did at
Louland
Inn at Bermondsey?”

Mistress Black frowned at him as if he was the origin of all their woes and arched an eyebrow. The consideration hovered for a moment and then she nodded her head slightly.

“Good, follow my lead.”

That was all the preparation he had time for. Ned had to hope that Rob Black and Roger were quick enough to catch on.

The Spaniard pulled his horse into a half rear as he came closer, the flashy show–off, and trotted over to the encircled company. He looked very smug, with a gloating smile of satisfaction. Ned called out and slowly began to walk towards him on the right and unbuckled his belt that held the sword from Master Robinson and an obviously bulging satchel holding them up before him. “Don Sebastian, I will yield to you if you spare me.”

Mistress Black quickly strode after and threw herself at his left side clutching at his boot. The horse pranced a bit at the surprise and Don Sebastian pulled harder on the rein to calm it. “Good Sir, for the mercy of St Mary,
save
my brother and myself. We were
mislead
by this
measley
rogue—he’s going to betray the Queen!”

Ned gave his best affronted gasp and slung back his own counterclaim. “Silence lying slut. Don’t listen to her Don Juan Sebastian. They plan to steal the Cardinal’s letters.”

With them arguing across him on either side, something that required very little acting for their parts, it was a touch confusing for the Spaniard.

“You tickle–brained,
pribbling
, pig–nutted, measle.
Ned Bedwell I curse the day you staggered in and cony–catched us into helping you with this treasonous plot. Please sir, protect us!”

That was very good. If they ever went mad and let girls be tavern players, Meg Black had a bright future. The despairing wail was a great touch and almost made him believe it. For the Spaniard this screaming match confirmed all his thoughts about the miserable English. It was also proving entertaining for his minions who were howling with laughter.

“Treason you call it! I damn you and your miserable hedge herbage. You tried to poison me, you witch!” This was going really well. Ned was getting into the swing of exchanging insults.

“I wasted my craft to heal a thieving lawyer? God’s curse upon you!
Panderer of problems, defiler of widows and children!”
She was so good Ned could almost believe she meant it.

“Senorita please!
Master Bedwell?” Don Sebastian was enjoying the show. His satisfaction was plain to see upon his smug face as he totted up all his coming rewards and made only half–hearted attempts to cool the argument.

“How dare a lewd french–
poxed
punk spout such
filth!
Don Juan Sebastian, I’ll prove I’m right. Catch!” With that last taunt Ned hurled the sword, belt and satchel up into the air towards the startled Spaniard.

It was instinctive and that’s what Ned was counting on. Don Juan Sebastian lent back and stretched upwards, endeavouring to catch the prize sailing over his head. To his surprise he continued over as Meg Black pulled on his left leg and Ned pushed the right. The result was a colourful flash of velvet cloak as he tumbled off the horse, landing with a muddy squelch in the roadside ditch. Immediately the saddle was vacated, Ned swung up and grabbed the reins as the beast bucked and snorted at the change in riders. It wasn’t easy but Ned somehow managed to lean down, grab Meg Black and haul her onto the horse and didn’t his ribs complain about that!

That gave them a minute before a muddy figure struggled up from the ditch spitting mud and invective in equal measure. As any veteran will tell you, a minute is almost as long as an eternity in a battle. It gave Ned’s companions a distraction to use to their advantage. Due to the argument, most of the Spaniards band had gathered around to watch the roadside theatre rather than pay attention to their loosely held captives. So when the cony–catching trick came, the crossbowmen were the first to fall. They should have stayed back, more fools them.

Apart from that surprise, Rob’s use of his flailed chain kept three more at a wary distance. It may have been the sight of the very large apprentice artificer and his strange weapon was too disconcerting for these hirelings. Gruesome Roger had gone for a more practical method and spooked their horses. That had broken up the rest of Don Juan’s minions who were either trying to avoid the frightened beasts or Roger’s blade and cudgel. As for their escort, they were going at it in the fine Southwark tradition with boots, knees and blades.

While this well laid plan was falling into chaos, their leader Don Juan Sebastian had finally managed to extract
himself
from the embrace of the deep morass. The Spaniard was clearly enraged at the trick. He tore at the remnants of his once fine velvet cloak to free his entangled sword. Some poor servant was going to be spending hours trying to restore that piece of ruined finery, though it was probably doomed to failure. Ned felt it would be more prudent to be somewhere else and gave the Spaniard’s horse a kick in the ribs. The prompt proved to be much more than necessary and the horse bounded off, throwing him back into the comfortable grasp of Mistress Black. It was at that moment looking pretty good. Victory was within his grasp. Ned called out to get his friends attention and heard a piercing whistle. The world moved.

Well it felt as if it had. Actually Ned kept moving—the horse however had stopped suddenly as if its hooves were rooted to the road and Ned continued a stately horizontal progress over the beast’s head till he landed with a splash in a deep puddle. Clawing his way out of the slippery hole, he coughed up what felt like a lake of brown mud and cleared the gritty water out of his eyes.

That damned horse was stock still on the road with Mistress Black flailing with all her effort to get it to moving again. It wasn’t taking the slightest notice. More ominous to Ned was the dishevelled figure slowly stalking towards them. It was Don Juan Sebastian and he was not a happy Spaniard. He’d drawn his sword, one of those wickedly long, slim ones. According to Rob Black these were all the rage across the water in France and such. What Ned really remembered was the claim that the blades were savagely fast and in a flash could skewer a man like a frog. The artificer had waxed lyrically over the new design but the finer points were lost on Ned as the Spaniard came closer. All his attention was on the dangerously glittering honed point.

He supposed his actions should have been classed as a noble selfless act, but from his current perspective they just looked foolish. Ned knew that the Spaniard’s presence in the brawl would definitely tip the odds against them and the man was getting closer to a still stalled Meg Black. So he did what any desperate man would do in the circumstance—screamed an insult and
legged
it towards the woods on the left.

“You Spanish bastard, you’ll never get it!” It was a mistake and just the start of his many problems that afternoon.

Ned ducked a cut and slipped down into a hollow that wove through the woods. Don Juan Sebastian immediately jumped after, determined to follow. He’d never seen a man so possessed by anger. The Spaniard was ignoring the savage toll the passage was having on his fine clothing and his face was covered in scratches from clawing branches. Ned vainly wished that the season was warmer—it was getting cold in here and the dying leaves were stripping the place of cover. It was not the best place to seek shelter but it was the only one available.