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Authors: Gregory House
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Richard rang a small hand bell and the ever present Perkins came in and led him away to the small stable at the back of the house, where, after much cursing and more bruises, the painful shackles were struck off with a hammer and chisel under the pale light of a lantern. Freedom at last!
Chapter Four– Puir Ghostie o’ St Paul’s
Ned sat in the straw, rubbing at the raw chaffing marks on his wrists from the manacles, and tried to whip up his flagging thoughts. The grumbling of hunger, plus the strain of his former quarters as well as the recent shock of being charged with murder, all served to make that a difficult endeavour. The best he could do was to conclude that he’d been cony–catched to wear the blame for Smeaton’s slaying. On that and the loss of some eighty five angels he was definite. The rest of the puzzle of why, where and who was shrouded in the grey fog of his aching head. He lent back against a timber post and closing his eyes, whispered a small prayer for relief and guidance. His guardian angel had interceded so far. Mayhap that compassion could be extended further?
The night’s darkness this time was warmer and not so damp, so without the limitations of the Clink, Ned cautiously concentrated on what he had to do. His mind, at present, was a rebellious subject and only truculently responded, claiming with unfair justification that it needed food, rest and a firkin of the best double ale. The first task was to find out what had happened. Simple, yes? All he had to do was seek out his two friends, Will and Geoffrey. His memory, at least, wasn’t a full traitor. It had eventually, and grudgingly, supplied the image of sharing an upper tier bench at the Paris Gardens with them. So he had the first sign in his quest. All he had to do was catch either of them by the Inns of Court and ask about the other night. That was an easy start, since at present the only other image dragged up was a rat–faced man squirming in the mud, trying to plug the seeping wound in his gut. He doubted that witness was reliable, since the courts frowned somewhat at testament given from beyond the grave. Anyway admitting to killing a man where Smeaton was said to have been murdered, was tantamount to a confession to even the most diligent justice. Ned pushed that annoying fact aside lest it dampen his rising spirits. He felt happier now he had a goal—Will and Geoff that was it! They’d help him retrace his steps from that night. Simple.
“Master Edward.” The growling voice of Perkins brought him back to the unpleasant present and he opened his eyes. The old retainer had returned, and in the dim light of the lantern, Ned could see a sizable bundle packed into one of the leather satchels that was frequently used by travellers. “I’ve packed most o’ y’ clothes, along wit some food an’ a flask of Goodwife Beasley’s ale.”
He handed across the weighty pack, and after Ned settled it over his shoulder, Perkins pulled a short sheathed poniard from under his cote and presented it. “A gentleman should nay be left unarmed. God go wit y’ Master Edward.”
With that brief gesture the old retainer abruptly turned and walked back inside the house, leaving Ned puzzled in the stable. Downing a refreshing and invigorating swig of ale, he stowed his supplies then limped out into the early morning darkness of St Lawrence Jewry, heading down first Catreaton Street and then westwards along Maiden Lane towards the distant Inns of Court, out past Newgate.
He took a very cautious path in the pre dawn glimmer. If caught by the City Watch, he’d end up back in goal with no prospect of rescue. London was said to be a city that coursed and flowed both day and night. It was in part true. Ned passed a few bakers apprentices yawningly lugging trays of loaves to the communal parish ovens and others returning from long hours spent at illicit all night taverns and brothels that thrived in the City’s liberties. One raucous band were
Chapter Four– Puir Ghostie o’ St Paul’s
Ned sat in the straw, rubbing at the raw chaffing marks on his wrists from the manacles, and tried to whip up his flagging thoughts. The grumbling of hunger, plus the strain of his former quarters as well as the recent shock of being charged with murder, all served to make that a difficult endeavour. The best he could do was to conclude that he’d been cony–catched to wear the blame for Smeaton’s slaying. On that and the loss of some eighty five angels he was definite. The rest of the puzzle of why, where and who was shrouded in the grey fog of his aching head. He lent back against a timber post and closing his eyes, whispered a small prayer for relief and guidance. His guardian angel had interceded so far. Mayhap that compassion could be extended further?
The night’s darkness this time was warmer and not so damp, so without the limitations of the Clink, Ned cautiously concentrated on what he had to do. His mind, at present, was a rebellious subject and only truculently responded, claiming with unfair justification that it needed food, rest and a firkin of the best double ale. The first task was to find out what had happened. Simple, yes? All he had to do was seek out his two friends, Will and Geoffrey. His memory, at least, wasn’t a full traitor. It had eventually, and grudgingly, supplied the image of sharing an upper tier bench at the Paris Gardens with them. So he had the first sign in his quest. All he had to do was catch either of them by the Inns of Court and ask about the other night. That was an easy start, since at present the only other image dragged up was a rat–faced man squirming in the mud, trying to plug the seeping wound in his gut. He doubted that witness was reliable, since the courts frowned somewhat at testament given from beyond the grave. Anyway admitting to killing a man where Smeaton was said to have been murdered, was tantamount to a confession to even the most diligent justice. Ned pushed that annoying fact aside lest it dampen his rising spirits. He felt happier now he had a goal—Will and Geoff that was it! They’d help him retrace his steps from that night. Simple.
“Master Edward.” The growling voice of Perkins brought him back to the unpleasant present and he opened his eyes. The old retainer had returned, and in the dim light of the lantern, Ned could see a sizable bundle packed into one of the leather satchels that was frequently used by travellers. “I’ve packed most o’ y’ clothes, along wit some food an’ a flask of Goodwife Beasley’s ale.”
He handed across the weighty pack, and after Ned settled it over his shoulder, Perkins pulled a short sheathed poniard from under his cote and presented it. “A gentleman should nay be left unarmed. God go wit y’ Master Edward.”
With that brief gesture the old retainer abruptly turned and walked back inside the house, leaving Ned puzzled in the stable. Downing a refreshing and invigorating swig of ale, he stowed his supplies then limped out into the early morning darkness of St Lawrence Jewry, heading down first Catreaton Street and then westwards along Maiden Lane towards the distant Inns of Court, out past Newgate.
He took a very cautious path in the pre dawn glimmer. If caught by the City Watch, he’d end up back in goal with no prospect of rescue. London was said to be a city that coursed and flowed both day and night. It was in part true. Ned passed a few bakers apprentices yawningly lugging trays of loaves to the communal parish ovens and others returning from long hours spent at illicit all night taverns and brothels that thrived in the City’s liberties. One raucous band were
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