The Traitor’s Mark by D. K. Wilson Read Free Book Online Page B

risk another delay. I would stop in Southwark and seek out my old friend, Ned Longbourne.

Chapter 4
    Calling on Ned did not take us much out of our way. He lived in the shadow of the great abbey church of St Mary Overie where he plied the trade of an apothecary. Ned’s grizzled pate covered a storehouse of wisdom – wisdom born of varied experience and much suffering. He had spent most of his life as a monk. Then, King Henry closed the monasteries and, like his brethren, he had been forced to earn a living in the world of ordinary mortals. He had fetched up in another, rather unlikely, ‘convent’, the bawdy house at the old St Swithun’s inn in Southwark. Here he had ministered to the medical needs of the whores, pimps, lorrels and ribalds who congregated within its walls. But two years previously he had been rendered homeless again. In one of the government’s occasionalpurges St Swithun’s had been closed down. Of course, this did not stop harlotry; it simply dispersed the brothel’s inmates. Ned had had to find his own lodgings. But that was not his only misfortune. He had a ‘companion’; a well-favoured, athletic young man called Jed. Just at the time that Ned needed his support, Jed had formed another attachment and left. It was quite shocking to see how much this desertion aged my friend. Fortunately, his skills and his amiable disposition had won him the affection of many Southwark dwellers and he had little difficulty in finding new accommodation. Now he occupied his time ministering to the needs of the local community among whom he enjoyed a considerable reputation. I was in no doubt that he could have amassed a considerable fortune – or, at least, managed to live very comfortably – through the sale of potions and simples and the performance of minor surgical operations. Heaven knows there are mountebanks a-plenty who gull huge fees out of people with evil-smelling hell broths, incantations and pretended knowledge of astral motions. By contrast, I suspected that Ned all too often provided his services free of charge to those who were too poor to pay (or who feigned poverty).
    He welcomed me with his usual effusiveness and I stooped to enter the room that served as living space, shop and work area. He led the way through to the small garden which was his particular delight. Here, sheltered on oneside by the wall of the old abbey and on the other by neighbouring houses, Ned cultivated the herbs, flowers and plants from which he concocted his nostrums. He settled me on a bench and brought out two horn beakers containing an amber liquid.
    â€˜â€™Tis a tincture of honey, rose buds and aqua vitae ,’ he explained. ‘Most of my customers prefer it to hippocras and it is excellent good for expelling the damp humours.’
    I sipped it appreciatively. ‘Ned,’ I said, ‘I must not tarry long. I’m on my way to Hemmings. I wanted to have a word with you about—’
    â€˜About our unfortunate friend Bart Miller?’
    I could not suppress a chuckle. ‘They say, “bad news rides a fast horse”, but I had not thought you would have heard so soon.’
    â€˜An evil business. Poor young man.’ Ned stroked his long grey beard.
    â€˜You know that he’s gone into hiding; become an outlaw; a suspected murderer on the run?’
    Ned nodded.
    â€˜He seems to think he can only clear his name by discovering the real criminals.’
    â€˜That could prove more arduous than the Grail quest. The kingdom is over full of desperate men. Without taxing my old brain too hard, I could name you half a dozen boot-baler gangs who have sold their immortal souls for a handful of transient silver.’
    â€˜You think we are looking for hired hacksters, rather than the regular retainers of some great man?’
    Ned looked up sharply. ‘You said “we”, Thomas. I hope that does not mean you intend to plunge yourself into