While some men in the city made their reputations in trade or as bestowers of patronage, Captaine Gryne had taken a different path. He had recognised a fundamental truth of advancement in modern England. No matter how much the gentry of the court wanted to portray themselves as learned and genteel, their rank was still due to the number of stout men in their retinue. The Captaine had seen an opportunity in this need and ensured that, given the right price, he could provide any size retinue—men experienced in the real arts of war, who could supply either intimidation or martial presence to even the most insipid bunch of milksops.
Since Ned’s recent reluctant involvement with Cardinal Wolsey’s plots, he was double fortunate to count Captaine Gryne as a friend. While the city was not a festering sewer of rapine and violence, as some friars painted it, only the most naive of rural bumpkins would blithely traipse through the streets without precautions. Ned though had more need of prudence than the average citizen. For one thing, Canting Michael, the lord of the Southwark bearbaiting pits, still held an unreasoning grudge against him. Without the protection of Gryne’s bloody reputation, Ned would have choked out his life on any one of the back lanes of Southwark or Bermondsey by now. Then there was Earless Nick, but as his daemon counselled, best not to dwell on unsolvable problems.
The choice was sound, though he was curious regarding the cost of retaining expertise in intimidation—Gryne didn’t work for pennies. That simple fact recalled his need for a discussion about the practices of trade and profits with his business partner. Sooner was better than later. Ned knew an opportunity when he saw it and exuding all his newly learned courtly gallantry, offered to escort her home. Unfortunately it was politely, and he felt reluctantly, declined. It seemed that Margaret Black took her responsibilities very seriously. She wasn’t going to leave until the vessel, cargo and crew had some protection. Meg did however pull out of her ever present satchel a pot of what she swore was a sovereign remedy for his bruises. Ned accepted the offering but felt he’s lost out on the compromise. His shoulder daemon prompted him to play the gallant knight and stay, whispering of possibilities in providing comfort to a vulnerable, frightened young girl. However his better angel sagely reminded him that news of his ‘claim’ was speeding its way to a host of royal officers and Privy Councillors, and he’d best head off and do some serious grovelling to his Uncle Richard and his patron, Thomas Cromwell, before the wings of rumour trumped him.
***
Chapter 4. A Humble Petition, Westminster Hall Morning, 6th June
It was a beautiful summer day, the sort that dimmed the memories of the cruel winter and erratic spring. Today the warmth spread its benefice to all, giving a day that should be spent galloping through the green fields and small woods that lay to the north of the city, celebrating the exhilaration of life and all the pleasures that it offered. Hunting, drinking and sparkling blue grey eyes were the first three that sprang to mind for Ned.
However, not today. Not for him.
Today he sat bored and impatient, watching the slow march of time by the crawling spray of light from the high window across the tiled floor. Ned supposed he only had himself to blame for his situation. Perhaps he could have come up with a more plausible delay for More’s pursuivants. Thus did the usual excuse ‘it had seemed such a good idea at the time’ transform into the promises of a drunkard.
Now as the day slipped away, bored, worried and anxious, he’d all the time he never wanted for those second and third thoughts to crop up and wave the banner of rebellion. What was going on? What if he’d used another ploy? What if they’d sunk the boat, moved the bodies, or arranged an accidental fire—all those wonderfully stupid and impulsive ideas that struck one as so sensible and obvious at the time, but soon after led to an avalanche of recrimination and regret, even if they had worked before.
His better angel nudged a past memory into view. The affair of the toads and the tankard had been one of those regrets. His only defence was that the offence occurred when he was considerably younger. It had taken old Father Wilkins weeks to get over it without shaking, months even before he safely sampled another ale. And the upshot was the old man glaring at him in suspicion for all of the following year during every Mass.
Just getting into this well appointed chamber had created its own burdens. He hoped that Margaret Black was appreciating his sacrifices. The prompt missive from Uncle Richard to Thomas Cromwell, asking for an immediate audience, had cost him dearly. His uncle had gained his several pounds of flesh, sentencing Ned to a week of wading through a pile of old legal pleadings, to rewrite them from the archaic Norman–French into modern English. As to why, he’d not slightest idea. It seemed part of a pet project of Uncle Richard’s, so a labouring amongst the dusty tomes he must serve. As for other services like sniffing out advantages, well Master Richard Rich may be a very canny lawyer, but the hint that this would inconvenience Sir Thomas More had his instant support.
Ned could curse and rail about his having to once more dive into the perilous drama of the court, and damned satisfying it would, be muttered his daemon. Still it wouldn’t help. Ned had to admit it was an act of free will and a consequence of friendship that he undertook this task. Nor could he claim he was naively wandering into the lion’s den. He was eighteen now and for most of the past decade he’d watched the true workings of the kingdom under their Tudor monarch. If he’d kept any childhood illusions, they’d have been soon lost in service at the Inns of Court. Power and patronage were the twin hearts of the beast.
These wood panelled halls served every day as tournament field for the prizes and privilege that surrounded the King, his court, and all the royal officers who could dispense the rewards of patronage. Ned had witnessed the minor battles and disputes at the law courts between the lower members of competing factions, in the pursuit of land, title, revenge and occasionally, justice. After last year, he had realised that this was just the dogs squabbling over the scraps left by the rival lions of the court, as they fought and manoeuvred to bask in the unshadowed, splendour and generosity of the King’s Majesty.
He and his friends had been forced to make a choice of patron last year or suffer the terminal and unpleasant fate of traitors. It had been a knife edge balance at the final moment and Ned would be the first to admit that only the intercession of a kindly God had saved them. But the resulting reprieve had drawn them to the attention of some very dangerous people, for that saving act had firmly proclaimed their allegiance to the Boleyn faction. If that wasn’t enough, Ned in particular was now marked as an up and coming servant of Thomas Cromwell, the former secretary of the now disgraced and replaced Cardinal Wolsey.
In the months of service since, Ned had grown less sure of how crucial their discovery of the missing letters had been to securing Secretary Cromwell’s transfer to the King’s personal service. Cromwell was a clever man, deft at moving through the dangerous shoals of patronage and personality that had wrecked so many gifted men before. Thus Ned couldn’t believe that his master would leave any factional shift to sheer chance. In fact he’d never seen a man more thoroughly organised, or potentially ruthless. That last factor was the one Ned was currently nervously considering.
During the grim proceedings yesterday, he had run through all the possible options and as he reviewed them again in the bored warmth of the day, they looked no better. Ideally appealing to Lady Anne Boleyn or her father the Earl of Wiltshire and Ormond would have been safer, considering their regard for Mistress Margaret Black, whom, it had been not so subtly hinted, supplied them with the latest in forbidden overseas literature—the sort of light reading that would have the present Lord Chancellor cheerfully striking the flint for a heretic’s faggots himself.
Heretical books, the bible translated into the English tongue; was the burning issue of his times. Where was a man supposed to stand on that, law or conscience? Did one loyally follow the lead of his monarch and Holy Mother Church? That in itself created a difficulty. His Majesty had relaxing
his restriction on the publication of heretical books early this year. However the decision had been reversed and instead, now held to the rigid stance of the bishops and their good friend, Sir Thomas More. That being so, how could Ned safely rely on the evangelical connection of Lady Anne? Her father had more influence on the Privy Council than even Cromwell, except that Sir Thomas Boleyn was currently racing all over the kingdom, rallying support for the King’s latest petition. Only the King or God knew where the Earl of Wiltshire and Ormond was to be found this week.
In a fit of desperation Ned had also very briefly considered whether an approach to the Earl of Suffolk may have worked. Sir Charles Brandon had the ear of the King and it was rumoured appreciated ‘generous gifts’. That narrow door of opportunity had unfortunately been slammed shut. The Earl’s wife Mary Tudor, the former queen of France and sister of the King, absolutely despised Anne Boleyn and made it very plain that any friends of the Boleyns could only expect a helping hand to the gibbet—especially any named ‘Black’ or ‘Bedwell’ due to an unfortunate run–in with the Earl’s men last year.
Scratching Wiltshire and Suffolk from the list only left the Earl of Norfolk, Sir Thomas Howard, an eminent member of the Royal Court and veteran of the wars with the Scots. There was a firm family connection to grasp since he was the uncle of Lady Anne, his sister having married Thomas Boleyn. Unfortunately, due to those same circumstances last year, Ned wasn’t amongst those Norfolk favoured. Ned had, for his own survival, foiled a possible plot of Sir Thomas Howard, involving Cardinal Wolsey and Lady Anne. Who the intended target was still left Ned confused, lost in a maze of treachery and murder, though the whole affair had tended to confirm the reputation of Lord Howard for cunning and double dealing. The current jape at the Inns of Court was if any snake followed following the course of his lordship’s schemes, it would be tied in knots. Anyway he wasn’t sure the Earl’s man, Skelton, viewed Ned with any fondness since the Grafton Regis incident and his wounding.
So out of them all Ned was left to the dubiously good graces of Councillor Thomas Cromwell, a man on the rise and a dangerous competitor in the fatal game of court intrigue.
It was closer to midday when eventually some arrogant snot of an usher from his lord’s secretary, Ralph Sadleyer, waved him into the inner sanctum. As when he had last seen him, Cromwell was hard at work surrounded by clerks sorting through various papers of state or reports. The man was definitely in his element. From Ned’s viewpoint, all the participants moved with a timed synchronicity that reminded him of one of those new mechanical time clocks. The centre of it all was of course Cromwell’s table where he weighed and judged every scrap of parchment that passed before his perceptive eye.
Ned approached and made the appropriate courtly bow of deference. He was certainly getting a lot of practice at this. His acknowledged ‘good lord’ barely flicked an eyebrow at the show of respect and continued with his inspection of current matters on his table. Ned had sufficient experience of the man to know that this was part of a testing process. You remained still and patient without flinching and in due course would be accorded the priority your petition deserved. At least he had got in the door—some could wait for days…or weeks.
The slow minutes crawled by and Ned stayed very still, concentrating on the low murmur of the clerks and the cracks in the tiles. No doubt one or more had already presented some news on his rapid appearance. His reception depended on what Cromwell regarded as important, for him, or the King.
“Master Bedwell I have been told one of my servants impounded a vessel on my authority, in the name of the King, our Sovereign Lord. Could you explain why I would wish to do that?” It could have been considered a quiet voice though it rang sufficiently through the panelled chamber. If Ned had not already been accustomed to its snap of assumed command, he would have jumped at the shock. Instead he gave a lower bow and said nothing. Prior experience had taught him it was safer to allow Cromwell to vent his displeasure before giving any explanation. “Master Bedwell, this deposition also states that you refused to allow an officer of the Lord Chancellor’s access to the impounded vessel. Would this be true?”
Ned continued to graze the tile floor with his doffed cap and clamped his lips tight.
“This presumption has left Sir Thomas More exceedingly vexed, a point he repeatedly makes in his missive to me.” It was very difficult to ascertain from Cromwell’s tone whether he was upset at the usurpation of his authority or amused that it discomforted Lord Chancellor More.
Ned took it as a finger’s breadth of leeway and began his explanation. “Councillor, I admit I did act impulsively. I plead the urgency of the matter and its connection to Our Sovereign Majesty’s honour and the Great Petition. I feared that the Chancellor’s pursuivant was not cognisant of the full import of his actions.” Ned hoped this was good start. It was always difficult to judge the right approach, balancing grovelling with flattery and the flag of self interest.
Cromwell appeared to consider his plea for a moment and tapped the table with a finger as he swapped attention between the papers before him and Ned. “For an apprentice lawyer, Master Bedwell, you seem remarkably well acquainted with the mind of Our Sovereign Lord. Would you be so good as to enlighten this poor servant on His Majesty’s thinking regarding this affair?” The observation came out as crisp, dry and menacing. Ned fervently hoped it held an undertone of tolerant amusement.
“Councillor, it concerns information best kept close.”
That reply had Cromwell quirk his eyebrows into a more pensive frown before dismissing his cluster of clerks with a single command. Once the room had been cleared he waved Ned forward. “Why is it, Master Bedwell, that somewhere in this tale I suspect is the presence of your friend, Mistress Black?”
Ned was already sure that if pressed Cromwell could have come up with the complete manifest of the vessel at the centre of this and its list of owners, so he made no pretence of evasion. “She does figure prominently Councillor.”
Cromwell gave what might have been a sigh and signalled for Ned to continue. “I am sure that the Lord Chancellor has already supplied you with his reasons for wanting charge of any investigation?”
This received the smallest nod of acknowledgement Ned had yet seen. Briefly he wondered how many pages Sir Thomas More had churned out to justify his rights. He did have a reputation for excessive wordage and a very fast quill. His legal fees were said to be outstandingly large.
“I’ve inspected the scene and I believe that there are sufficient inconsistencies that the zeal of the Lord Chancellor’s minions would miss or ignore to the detriment of the King in his pursuit of the resolution of his Great Matter.” That waved banner of royal interest acquired a flicker of Cromwell’s heavy eyebrow, encouraging Ned to continue. “I will not shock you Councillor, with the gruesome details of what I saw, just a few facts.”
For a man who had, by repute, served in the Italian wars, Ned doubted anything short of the Apocalypse could shock Councillor Cromwell. Courtly custom stated that it was good form to imply genteel sensibilities even when it was known to be lacking. “Both the shipmaster and his nephew were slain the previous night. Then the murderers removed the clothing of the dead, made a cursory effort to clean up the site of the crime, and placed the naked bodies in the shipmaster’s cabin, in such a position as to lead to gross speculation and suspicion.”
Cromwell lent forward a little, his face still a blank mask. “Master Bedwell, I see no sign for our involvement…yet.”
It may have looked ominous but Ned had prepared for the next revelation. “Once the dead were so unnaturally disposed, the ship had no guards for at least four or five hours, and as far as I can tell, nothing was removed or taken. And some of the cargo is assigned to a member of the Royal Court.”
This last statement had Cromwell suddenly very interested, if only for the royal connection. He peered once more at his sheaf of papers, finger still tapping. Ned was silently praying his lord and master could pu
t the clues together, after all every merchant in London knew the reputation of the city riverside. Any item, even a stick of wood left unguarded for less than a minute, could vanish. If an object of so little worth was at risk then an entire unprotected vessel and cargo represented a veritable treasure trove of opportunity. Whatever one thought of the docks of London, they were not renowned as the abode of saints. He’d heard one evangelical fellow claim that the waterside taverns were the ‘nests of Satan where the owls of impiety lurk and where all evil is hatched, and blown up by the bellows of intemperance and incontinence. Creating a veritable rat’s nest that breeds thieveries conspiracies, common conjurations, detractions and defamations’. He’d always thought it an unfair slander, after all the dock men and sailors had to drink somewhere.
Cromwell’s tapping stopped as he rubbed a freshly barbered chin. “There could be some interest in this. Anything else, Master Bedwell?”
This was said in similar tones to Cromwell’s first statement, just maybe this time with a hint of curiosity. At least it appeared to Ned the baited hook was tugged.
“Two further parts. Firstly, the ship and crew are from the Hanse League. As I’ve heard at the Inns of Court, His Majesty’s appeal is making slow progress both here and across the waters.” As a statement of fact that was pretty bland and safe, thought from the rumours he heard the words used were more like ‘stalled’ or ‘dead’ rather than just ‘slow’.
“Councillor, the Hanse merchants of the Steelyard consider themselves amongst His Majesties most ardent and loyal servants.” That was a further consolidation of fact. Everyone knew of the connections of the Hanse with Lady Anne Boleyn. Cromwell accepted it with nary a twitch.
“Although they do not control armies, the Hanse do hold the trade routes that armies rely upon for the maintenance of effort, timber, salt, leather, iron and armaments. They’ve sympathy for Our Sovereign’s plight and could be extended to other princes and lords in the German Lands to the benefit of His Majesty.” Ned left it there. He didn’t have to say that if the current problem was handled indelicately, any sympathy would evaporate.
The Queen's Oranges Page 6
