The Mary Rose Trust is perhaps our most important source for the diversity of Tudor objects. As such I wish to thank them for their work in making available the treasures of the recovered Mary Rose: www.maryrose.org
Many thanks to Wayne Robinson for information on the diverse measures used by London Merchants in the Tudor period and the records of the Gunpowder Plot trial. As well I dare not forget my Uber Editor and critic Jocelyn.
A complete Tudor sources website will be available in the near future.
Regards
Gregory House
Terra Australis 2011
A Note on Tudor Names and Language for the Revised Edition.
To all my readers as a writer of historical based fiction, I strive to bring forth a contemporary understandable view of the Tudor Age, during the reign of Henry VIII. For instance, the English of the Tudor period is both maddeningly close and frustratingly different to our modern usages. As an example a number of placenames, titles and phrases may appear different since they’ve been written in their earlier Tudor forms. To aid the story flow and provide a period flavour I’ve made some efforts to render dialects and phrasing into more modern standards to take account of the many regional and class differences in accent and pronunciation. Hopefully this will give the reader a taste of Tudor English without sounding like a player at a Ren Fair. At this time there was nothing like standard English in speech or spelling which only gained prominence in the 1800’s after universal education and dictionaries. For any one who would like to look a little deeper into where our language came from I can highly recommend Bill Bryson’s The Mother Tongue, an extremely amusing account of accent, eccentricity and English. Finally apart from a good tale of adventure, politics and heresy as a historian and researcher I’m trying to give the reader as accurate portrayal of Tudor life, culture and attitudes as possible based on the surviving records and accounts. Please note for my American readers the English standard used in this is UK/Australian.
Regards Gregory House – January 2012
Prologue. The Goat’s Head Tavern Petty Wales London 4th–5th June 1530
The summer nights in the city were long warm affairs, rich in the soft twilight that was the gift of the season. Where one could, the labour continued taking advantage of the lingering light—farmers, tradesmen and even the punks who strolled the riverside flashing their loose ribboned hair along with other open bodice enticements. The wherries that plied the river in their thousands also had cause to thank the weather. It meant good trade for the bear and bull pits across the river in Southwark.
The merchants, as well, had reason for good cheer. It was the week that His Majesty, King Henry VIII, had summoned the country’s lords to the city to deal with the petition to His Holiness, Pope Clement, in Rome, for the annulment of his current marriage. While the tangled politics of the situation did not concern them, they still eagerly prepared for the anticipated bounty as the crowded city filled out with the families and retinues of the lords of the land. The holy orders also were not slow to see the potential and used the gathering crowds to advantage. Hundreds of mendicant friars had joined the jostling throngs of London to preach, threaten and cajole. Or as some parish reeves complained ‘make much mischief by their disputes, alarums, beggings and affrays.’
This was a sample of life in the great city of London, the wonder of the world in the year of Our Lord, Fifteen Hundred and Thirty.
The shrouding dark of the summer night brought forth its own custom—thieves lurked in the concealing wells of shadow, cozeners played their gambits to wide eyed farmers too beer befuddled to notice the twitched slip of the dice, while outside the taverns, whores and trulls plied their trade in the alleys of the Liberties. In all this new evening the sounds of life and death echoed amongst the thatched roofed lanes—grunts, groans and curses along with the sudden scream. If you were lucky, the Common Watch trundling along may come to your aid, if not too drunk or compliantly deaf.
Other cries, abruptly terminated by the sharp blade or choking flow of blood that washed out from a slashed throat went unnoticed in the nightly hubbub that was the riverside. Hands clenched, such victims died without the grace of confession, their spirits caught up in the torment of the moment, locked on the mortal plane, frantic for the release that vengeance brings.
Two men had a seat at the dockside tavern, still some hours to go before the yellow wash of dawn. They were raucous and loud as they downed a second firkin of ale. The shorter one gazed at a blonde punk a couple of tables across. She had that sort of eye catching beauty that gave a man a case of cramp in the codpiece with only a single smile.
Shorty wiped an encrusted sleeve across his face, leaving a wide dark smear that lent his face a savage look like those of the barbarous Indies across the great waters. He wasn’t watching her smile. “I wants ‘er!”
“Don’t be a clod pate. Yer cods a’ just got the itches! After what’s we did afore, we ain’t got the time!”
“I say I wants ‘er. Always gets the raging ‘orn affer a bit o’ work like that.”
“Yer a’ daft a’ a Bedlamite. We still got to finds it! Yer killed ‘em too quick afore they squealed.”
Rather than a serious complaint, this was more in the form of a professional judgement. The taller one lent out from their cubby and squinted towards the door, the iridescent feathers in his cap sparkling in the rush light. He was used to night work, preferred it to his daytime labour. For one thing, it was eminently more profitable.
“We’s got a couple o’ hours. ‘ow in God’s teeth are we goin’ to do it?”
“Naw got days ‘ow’s I rigged it. Any’ow stop yer yammerin’. We got friends who’ll see us right if’n they wants a share o’ the gilt.”
The shorter man gave a braying, evil–sounding laugh that startled the table of dockmen to their left. One of the younger men made to get up and complain but his grizzled haired companion put out a restraining hand and shook his head. The reputation of the two grimy drinkers was known along the river.
The one with the peacock’s feather in his cap grumbled a few more curses then slumped back into the cubby. This was the best cozener’s game they’d ever tried and all manner of men were keen to hand over their gold. He took another couple of hefty swallows and shrugged. Who was going to care about a pair of dead foreigners anyway?
Most deaths were given no more than a cursory glance in the daily mortuary bill of the city. But some deaths it was just too imprudent to encompass or ignore, for one never knew who could be drawn in by the trail of blood and heretical sin.
***
Chapter 1. Aldgate and the Friar, The Bee Skep Tavern to Aldgate 5th June
Ned limped through the grey stone archway of Aldgate into the clustered noisy wards of London city. He’d been at Aldgate Bars out past the wall to the east and it couldn’t have been more than a mile or so but it felt like several and up hill at that. His better angel sternly chastened his grumbling. After all it reminded him, he’d paid for the lessons and if he was clumsy enough or inattentive then Master Ned Bedwell certainly deserved the bruises! In answer his daemon chimed in that pain and lumps from left hip to ankle weren’t part of the bargain, nor was the painful stagger along the muddy road. Ned ignored them both. It was immaterial that the blows were unfair and not considered part of the gentlemanly code of combat. That was the point. Since the ambush last year on the way to Grafton Regis, where he had been forced to run for his life and cower in a badger’s set, he’d promised himself not to undergo similar humiliations. So as a consequence he had taken up Margaret Black’s offer and had trained diligently four times a week under the watchful eye and heavy hand of Master Robin Sylver, a veteran of the wars on the continent, and expert at the arts of staying alive in brawl, affray or battle.
The fellow was a true master of his craft, especially if it required the adroit use of the knee, boot, elbow or God forbid, the forehead. Master Sylver’s idea of combat rendered down to its raw essence was that y
ou walked off the battleground leaving your opponent bloody and groaning in possession of the field. Ned, at the beginning, had asked him about how that accorded with the code of honour and chivalry. After all, holding the field at the end of combat was what indicated victory. Master Robin gave one of his gap tooth sneers and commented that such fancy notions were fine for fellows who were rich enough to afford playing at the sport of war, or who could whistle up twenty armed retainers to guard them in their evening strolls. Then after a hawked gob towards the battered pell, he’d said that for ordinary lads without the security of ransom to load the grim dice of battle, one scrap of dirt was as good as another so long as it wasn’t being shovelled over you.
After the badger’s hole incident, that realistic appraisal of battle made a certain amount of sense to Ned. In his last affray, Don Juan Sebastian de Alva had been very insistent regarding what he felt was the honourable way to face an opponent, even to offering Ned a dagger, in fact the one he now had at his belt. Its acquisition had been a very painful and almost fatal spur to his current training regime. For one thing, Ned knew that the affair between the Spaniard and him was far from finished, and badger sets were in short supply in London.
Ned’s battered limbs were feeling the worse for the walk and he stopped at the Bee Skep Tavern on Aldgate Street past the city gates for a firkin of refreshment. The place had been recommended by Rob Black, the artificer, and even had the approval of his redoubtable sister Meg. Taking a seat at one of the outside trestles to enjoy the passing life of the Aldgate markets, Ned took a long pull on the fresh golden ale. As it went down he could have sworn it washed away some of the ache—beneficial indeed. He was planning on further relief soon by angling towards Greyfriars and the establishment of Williams the Apothecary, hoping that his sorry state, the results of valiant efforts on the training field, might elicit some sympathy and a useful remedy from Mistress Margaret Black. His last visit had earned a surreptitious smile when he had regaled her with the tales of his mighty battle with the Blackamore pell. True, she’d given him a light buffet when he sneaked a kiss, but it seemed to lack her usual affronted vigour. At the time he’d suspected the symbolic thump was only due to the two sniggering faces of her cousins peering through the curtain.
But now as he basked in the warm glow of the afternoon sun Ned appreciated the theatre of the street. This summer had finally come into its own. Last season had been a bit of a disappointment, with a long lingering winter that seemed reluctant to release it grip upon the land, only grudgingly yielding to the approaching warmth. The winter had seen drama enough with huge chunks of ice choking the river for weeks, blocking the usual river borne bustle between London and Southwark and forcing everyone to struggle across the bridge. The wherry men had been very bitter about their loss of trade and had led processions to the riverside churches, begging for divine intercession. Whether it worked or not Ned was unsure, but all the city officials from the Lord Mayor down, joined in the petitions and organised relief for those who suffered the enforced idleness. After all considering the fracas that had raged in Parliament this winter, no one wanted a large body of angry men wandering the streets of London, disgruntled and eager for mischief. Ned had shuddered to think what would have happened if he hadn’t helped solve the grain importing cozenage during the cold, dark and hungry days of February.
The astrologers and other learned men said the heavens were a mirror to the actions below and that such ominous portents could not be ignored, though opinion was divided on what exactly those omens meant. Ned had experience in dealing with dabblers in the future and the only one he’d consider believing was Dr Caerleon. The old man had proven singularly perceptive during the crisis last autumn, though Ned’s regard didn’t extend to trust. The astrologer was adept at subtle manipulation—a talent that had Ned keep a wary distance despite his curious nature.
He took another drink of his ale and idly watched the performance over at the market square pillory. The business of malefactors must be slow for the stocks were empty. Instead a small crowd had gathered to listen to one of the wandering friars who in recent times seemed to infest the city. They received a good hearing especially after a brief snowfall on St George’s Day had the merchants panicked. The price of bread had doubled in the city at the threat to the grain. That and the recent troubles of the mighty had provided a useful field for the market prophets to till. Anyway Londoners appreciated any good bit of free entertainment. Preaching or hanging it was all the same to them.
This friar had set his scene well. He had that wild eyed look that spoke of suffering in the wilderness, along with a staff lantern that fitfully spewed gouts of aromatic smoke to put his audience in the right frame of mind. It also served as a useful prop when waved it in broad sweeping gestures. Like the rest Ned listened in.
“The time of Woe and Lamentation is upon us. We have grievously sinned and for our faults the Lord God and all the saints have turned their backs on us.”
It was a good start, Ned considered, declaimed in a hollow booming voice. A few of the crowd jumped in fright and quickly crossed themselves.
“The sins of the great are many—pride, lust, avarice, impiety and greed! You, the good people of Christ’s Kingdom, will suffer for it. You will be the ones visited by fire and retribution—for you stood aside and allowed the Holy Sacraments to be broken!” The impassioned voice struck a chord and a few in the crowd muttered darkly. Any fool could see the friar was preaching against the faults of the Royal Court. Ever since the Easter celebrations this seemed to be a constant theme.
“You have forsaken the devotions of Mary, the mother of our Lord! The breach of the most holy sacrament of marriage, by the Lord’s anointed, will see this city laid waste by the cleansing flame of retribution. All within these walls will perish! You must petition our noble King to humble himself in forgiveness.”
Ned almost sprayed out his mouthful of ale. By the saints, that call was new and this friar was pretty bold to incite the commoners so! That was dangerous talk and would, in some quarters, be considered treason. The man was lucky he was wearing the remnants of a habit. Usually such calls would be met with a barrage of refuse. The people of London weren’t overly respectful of the monarch, but they openly despised the well–fed clerics who, led by Cardinal Wolsey, frequently paraded their wealth and power through the streets of the city.
But recently the situation had changed. Wolsey had fallen from his exulted position. Last year he’d arrived in all his usual pomp and splendour for the opening of Parliament, and taken his accustomed seat in the Court of Chancery at Westminster. Ned had been next door and word had spread through the Inns of Court that the Cardinal was to be brought low. He’d been part of the jostling audience in the Court who’d watched the Attorney General bring the charge of Praemunire against Lord Chancellor Wolsey. To the informed that was dealing with a foreign power to the detriment of the King’s Majesty, a dangerous charge for any man let alone a prelate who had to deal with the Apostolic See in Rome as part of his daily duties.
The issue of the summons had received resounding cheers and there had been a rush to follow the clerk as he left to present the suddenly former King’s great minister with the charge. Ned had been amongst the first and saw the shock that accompanied its delivery. Wolsey turned pale and withdrew to the hooting calls of the crowd. It may have been undignified but it was very satisfying, especially to Ned who’d almost lost his life when he accidentally became embroiled in one of the Cardinal’s schemes. Within the hour the news had spread though out the city, and thousands had gathered on the river, grabbing anything vaguely water worthy to watch the expected procession of the Cardinal down river, to his anticipated new ‘temporary’ lodgings of the Tower.
Such a spectacle was not to be. His Majesty must have been in a forgiving mood. The Cardinal was instead rowed towards his house at Escher by Putney. The cost of the a reprieve was the loss of his magnificent palace of York Place, and its coffers of gold and silver plate
and yards of silk tapestry. Lady Anne Boleyn was said to be very impressed with the prize, claiming it was more worthy of a King than a priest.
That act signalled the mood of the Commons at Parliament. The dismissal had been but a precursor to the raft of anti clerical legislation that the Parliament pushed through during its session, from the removal of multiple benefices to the practice of simony. The members of the Commons were in no mood for compromise. After years of arrogance and abuse, they were out to prune the abuses of the English clergy—with the King’s blessing.
There had, of course, been a bitter backlash from the Church and the bishops, who’d stalled legislation, seeing a real threat to their privileges, but with the loss of Wolsey that had been ineffectual. Most of the prelates had hated the Cardinal for his high handed manner and had exulted at his fall so were caught between celebration for the loss of a rival and dismay at the savage mood of the Commons, while the support of his Majesty for this vengeful baying had them floundering in confusion.
However that had been in winter and the difficulties since had a few muttering that the impious assault on the Church was being met by God’s judgement. No one knew if the King’s latest move in the campaign to put aside his wife, Katherine of Aragon, would see a counter reaction from her nephew, Emperor Charles V. The merchants fretted that the Holy Roman Emperor could easily close the vital Low Countries ports to English ships, thus strangling trade, or more ominously consider it an insult to Hapsburg honour, and commission an avenging fleet from Spain. So the mood of the city was nervous and twitchy, prone to violent argument and sudden outbursts of hysteria.
And now to stir up that volatile mix of London sentiment was this plague of friars calling down a vengeful rain of blood and fire. To Ned this fellow’s ranting was concerning. He called over the pot boy and slipped him a half groat to have a message delivered. The lad nodded in comprehension and trotted off while Ned lent back to watch the performance. Far quicker than expected, a small troop of the Common Watch tramped into view. As a display of stout citizens and sturdy yeoman of the city it wasn’t much, but rather the best that could be had. After all, the qualifications to join the Watch were pretty low: firstly you had to be alive or at least not of knocking acquaintance with death’s door; secondly, current or recent possession of most of your limbs was considered an advantage; and thirdly, and most importantly, you must possess the wits to know when to accept a bribe.
The Queen's Oranges (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries) Page 2
