The Cardinal's Angels (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries)

by Gregory House

  His uncle paused, his face a picture of disdain at his nephew and his habits. However now it held the slightest shadow of doubt.

  Ned saw it was close, and knew that if he wished to remain in London for any length of time then he had to appear useful, even necessary and so he spoke another quicksilver thought. “Since we are beholden to the Cardinal, shouldn’t we try to find out who did kill his servant? Or maybe this is a plot against him? Another segment of memory flashed into being, the conversation at the bear baiting with Will and Geoffrey. “Since the failure of the Annulment Commission, His Eminence would be very keen to reward those who prove their loyalty.”

  Ned could see that the lure of preferment had hooked his uncle’s interest. Though in truth, any man of rank kept a weather eye on the shifting alliances and enmities at court, preferment could come by many routes and rivals may not always strike in the open. Similar manoeuvring and strategic friendships had secured the support of Thomas Cromwell, the Cardinal’s principal secretary, an alliance that his uncle was at some pains to maintain. Ned had seen enough ploys at the law courts to understand the true workings of human nature and greed when it came to power and advantage. Erasmus of Rotterdam wrote of the complexity of man’s immortal soul and, like the philosophers of old, claimed that there had to be other facets motivating a man’s nature, like honour, love and compassion.

  However in Ned’s estimation, Uncle Richard gave those only lip service, his guiding principle being advancement. When in doubt, which Ned had to admit was a rare occasion, his uncle followed some inner compass that dictated his friendships and allegiance, which, a disgruntled and resentful nephew had to agree, was often a correct reading of the political winds.

  It was a silent struggle of minutes, damned long minutes. Every instant Ned witnessed the careful balancing of advantage in those cold, grey eyes. Finally Uncle Richard cleared his throat and spoke gruffly. “You have ten days to find the murderer. If not, I’ll fill out the writ myself. Any news, give it to Perkins. He’ll be at the White Lamb from sunset till the Vespers bells from tomorrow.”

  Ned bowed his head in a show of apparent respect and humility for his uncle, rather than let him see the present flame of anger and resentment. Apart from clearing his name, Ned was damned keen to visit some righteous retribution upon whoever set him up.

  But Uncle Richard wasn’t finished yet. He bent over and tilted up Ned’s bruised face with a strong hand. “Edward, you do this with your own means. From this night I’ll not see you again unless you are successful.” His eyes had gone past the flint hard stare. They were flat and lifeless, like those snarling demons that tormented sinners in the figures sculpted into the crowns of St Paul’s pillars.

  Ned didn’t need to nod. His uncle could see he’d got the import of this warning.

  Uncle 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 extolling the many virtues of Pleasant Anne with an attempt at rhyming verse. Although inventive, the tune would have sounded better if yowled by cats. A whispering tease of ragged memory engaged Ned’s attention. The name, he knew something about the name. Curious now, he slipped along behind them, keeping to the deep shadows.

  Lady Fortuna or a kindly saint must have finally have taken pity on his plight, because he caught a closer glimpse of the weary carousers as they staggered along the southern wall of St Paul’s and past an early morning procession of monks on their way to Matins prayers. The light from the wavering lanterns were enough to show him a drunken Will Coverdale arm in arm with two other inhabitants of Gray’s Inn. Ned would have smiled but it hurt. Still he took a chance and joined in the chorus and, moving fast, nudged Will’s swaying prop aside. “Greetings Will, how be you?”

  A very bleary pair of eyes tried to focus on its new crutch. “Gods wounds, tis Ned’s ghost. Mornin’ ghostie. Whats y’ doin’ w’out y’ shroud?”

  What! Dead? His friend’s response sent shivers down Ned’s spine and the shock froze the welcoming smile into a rictus grin. Faster than he would have thought possible, Ned re edited his opening words from a frightened mewl. “Why?…Why, ahh, to check on my good friend Will of course! Anyways, how do I come to be dead?”

  Master Cloverdale tried to tap his nose in a conspiratorial manner. He missed and clouted his other walking crutch in the ear. The fellow spun off and stumbled into another of his boon companions, leaving him with the unce
rtain and now frightened support of Ned. His new passenger leant closer and the fumes of ale and sack washed over Ned, setting him coughing and gagging as a teary Will tried to console him “Puir Ned, p’rr Ned…Ned? C’n y’ nay recall it? Twas the brawl in S’thwark did y’ in, wit’ th’t whores ’n Smeaton.”

  “What!!” Damn, was he going to have to escape to France anyway? Ned’s shivering increased with the mounting fear. Will reacted to the display of shock with more teary sentiment. “Oh y’ puir, puir ghostie. Nay tremble so. I could nay help. The Watch were a carrin’ y’ off a’time we gots out the door.”

  Ned just nodded sympathetically. Well at least he knew who had his sword and purse, the damned thieving Southwark Watch!

  Will gave a big smile and lolled his head in a northerly direction. “Said a prayer an’ lit a doz’n candles fo’ y’ soul o’ St Bot’oophs. Sure Geoff did a’well, though he’s a gone t’ Glo’stshire, or Ch’shire or Sumwh’reshire.”

  Hmm, smart Geoffrey. He obliviously knew enough to get out of the city with a dead Smeaton literally lying at his feet. Ned had a moment’s suspicion of his other friend, but in any slaying the last suspect would be Geoffrey. The lad was terrified of blood for one and, unlike Ned, always shied away from a fight, relying on his skill with words. But enough speculation, back to his drunken friend. “Thanks Will. That was kind. Where was this? I’ll go and light some candles there as well.”

  Perhaps that was the wrong question since Will once more began sobbing almost uncontrollably. “Ahh puir, puir ghostie. He don’t kn’w wh’re he died. S’thwark, ghostie, S’thwark. Oot side the C’dinal’s C’p, wh’ren we was all singin’ wit your friend an’ the purrty girl.” At this point, Will began to weep noisily.

  “Puir ghostie o’ Ned. No shroud fo’ your rest, an her’ S’Paul’s!” His sorrow then shifted with a snuffling snort on his sleeve and once more returned to the song about Pleasant Anne. Ned eased him onto another pair of shoulders and headed south towards the river.

  Thoughtfully Ned trudged through the slowly stirring city. So Southwark was his destination. That news wasn’t unexpected. Will’s reaction, however, was. Now one apprentice lawyer, Ned Bedwell by name, was by some considered a dead man! Ranks of chill marched up and down his spine as he mulled that over. Did they think him slain in the brawl or slain by the consequences? Either could explain why no one bailed him, though it didn’t give light to the reason for Geoffrey’s rapid departure, especially to the countryside. If any lad could have been said to be city born and bred, that was Geoffrey. His existence was strictly bound by the spires of Westminster in the west and the Tower in the east, while the river and wall circumscribed his other boundaries. It was hard enough getting him to the practice butts in Moorfield and they lay only a few hundred yards past Moorgate in the north. Now poor Geoffrey was out there, in the depths of the surrounding shires. Only fear and desperation could have prompted that.

  Ned would have shaken his head in perplexity, though at the moment that hurt and didn’t aid his slowly clearing mind–fog. His memory was as whole as a beggar’s doublet, while his guardian daemon sarcastically pointed out that if a carrack had such gaping holes in its belly, it’d be sitting on the bottom of the Thames, a worm eaten wreck. Ned considered that unhelpful, as far too woeful an assessment, and banished the thought. However, as he walked along, it kept on popping up in the distance like an annoying fly pestering him.

  So off to Southwark, his, ahh, natural stamping ground. Usually he’d catch a wherry across the river to the southern bank. Lack of coin now meant risking the bridge. His head may be as full of wool as a mercers’ bale while his ribs ached with every breath, but in the past he’d survived worse poundings. So that didn’t mean traipsing into the Liberties like a wide eyed gawping yokel. One warning still rang clear from the mush of his memory—Canting Michael was keen to have him as a ‘guest’. So he’d use the morning flood of produce from across the river over the bridge as cover for his crossing, although that meant he’d have to wait till the bridge was opened by the clerk of the Bridge Wardens. Until then, he found a dry perch under the sheltering eave of a riverside tavern and rummaged forlornly through his satchel. That search quickly brightened up the morning. Perkins had packed much more generously than Ned had been expecting. Wrapped in a shirt was a small purse containing, along with his mother’s ring, eight groats and twenty pence in smaller coins. He knew it couldn’t have been his—it would have been spent before now and it was unlikely to have been his uncle’s—the man was chronically lacking in charitable impulses towards his nephew. Hefting the small purse in his hand Ned frowned over the unexpected assistance.

  His had not been a happy existence, mostly due to his uncle’s harping on about the debt and duty that Ned owed his family. In amongst that sullen anguish, there had been some good times he recalled, mainly due to the kindly intervention of the family servants. Now he thought about it, Perkins had been prominent in a couple of those, saving him from a few undeserved beatings, as well as a few more deserved ones. The old man never said why, just scowled and walked off, muttering about years of service and what did a man get in return.

  Perkins had also thoughtfully raided the larder, supplying a small manchet loaf from yesterday’s baking, and a slab of smoked fish. He fell upon these offerings with a ravenous hunger. After two days in gaol this went a long way to filling the yawning chasm in his belly.

  He looked over at the growing crowd by the bridge, and then peered up the muddy street towards the east. It was difficult to see how far the sun had risen due to the soft drizzle and low cloud, but it could be lightening. Anyway the guards wouldn’t open the gates until the first ring of the Matins bells, and he judged that this was still a half hour or so off. So Ned settled back into his shelter, downing another deep draft of the ale and attempted to sort through his conundrums, whether his aching head or daemon willed it or not.

  It all revolved around the death of Smeaton. Ned knew he hadn’t killed him, and to be honest, no justice, not even a Surrey justice, would waste their time indicting him for the slaying of one of Canting Michael’s men. The thieves, murderers and villains that infested Southwark were the scourge of the people of London. He had heard many times, the railing and complaints of the Lord Mayor and his Council over the lawlessness that was rampant across the river. While the death of any man or woman was, in law, subject to an inquest, the loss of such scum was only given cursory attention. He hoped that Canting Michael’s pervasive influence across the river didn’t include too many of the County officials. With luck that was too expensive a selection of purses to fill, especially that of the notorious Justice Overton.

  A murdered Smeaton, now that was something else, darker, more dangerous. His prominent connection to the Lord Chancellor, Cardinal Wolsey, was too important to be ignored. Some even quietly said that the Cardinal eclipsed the position of the King, though a prudent man would only whisper that to very close and trusted family and friends.

  For as long as Ned had been alive, Cardinal Wolsey had been the man who ruled the kingdom, granting petitions, approving appointments and, of course, levying taxes, like his infamous ‘Amicable Grant’ of 1525. Everyone in England remembered that arrogant imposition and the riots and rebellions that it had caused. No gentleman or yeoman willingly paid either tithes or taxes at anytime. However that natural disposition had been ignored by the Cardinal, who had decided to charge four shillings for each pound of value for property and goods. Outrageous! Then to add to this insult, he blackmailed Parliament into increasing the tax by two shillings, and this was the part that really stung, backdating the increase to the previous year.

  Did he think that they were wretched, humbled slaves to the Musselman Turk? This had been a serious miscalculation. Even his uncle had growled over the indignity of three different sets of tax collectors pouring over his property within the space of one year. At the time, Ned was uncertain whether Uncle Richard was angered over the gross abuse of law and rights
, or that he had failed to get preferment as one of the assessors. After all a man could make a fortune by granting exemptions, or more usefully be encouraged to rigorously examine a rival’s estate.

  But those grievances aside, and the rumours about the failed annulment, the Cardinal was still supreme in the kingdom. It was said that he retained over a thousand men, more than any earl or duke, and the rooms of his great London house at York Place next to Westminster, had to be seen to be believed. It was reputed to be the most splendid palace in the country, outshining Greenwich or Richmond. As with anything in this world, with privilege and power came rivals and greed. It was common knowledge that to gain his place as the Lord Chancellor, the Cardinal had pushed aside other nobles close to the King. As men of ambition and prickly honour, they didn’t take kindly to being displaced, and restricted in access to the honours and riches that were in His Majesty’s gift.

  That most of London loathed Cardinal Wolsey was a simple fact of life, like the stench of the Shambles. Ask any citizens and they’d immediately make disparaging references to the Cardinal’s sumptuous display and excessive arrogance. It could be said that it was just the public grumblings of the commons against any lord. However in the taverns and at the parish wells, truth came more easily. Londoners were against Wolsey because he controlled the church courts and, under him, the increased charges and exactions had set a deep and abiding ranker, especially when it came to wills and probate. Now here was the interesting part. Despite his uncle’s current allegiance, even he had complained frequently to his friends at the Inns of Court about the loss of clients, as the Cardinal’s Council of the Star Chamber usurped more and more of the common law cases. As of this morning, that usurpation also worried Ned, since the Cardinal had recently decided to add incidents of riot along with forgery, perjury, and libel to his purview. If he didn’t find the real murderer then there was every chance he could be tried before Wolsey himself! So rather than face that ominous threat, he really had to find out who’d want to kill a servant of the most powerful lord in the land.