The Cardinal's Angels (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries)

by Gregory House

  “As y’ all made t’ leave y’r table wit all y’ friends,” Bethany gave another of those deep sighs, “includin’ him o’ the cornflower blue eyes.”

  Ned suppressed his instinctive petulance and lent even closer this had to be the vital part, the mystery revealed.

  “Red velvet grabbed a’ the girl, then he would nay leave it. An’ Ned, you smashed a whole pitcher o’ ale in ‘is face, an’ there were a furious brawl around the door, then the fight pushed out to the street. Anne had ‘er lads slam the door shut an’ wedged in the lock beam.”

  This got worse with every breathless word Bethany uttered. Now he was brawling with gentlemen! Why didn’t he just get really impulsive and shoot the race at London Bridge, at the ebbing of the tide—it was said to be an easier way to die than the hemp jig! There was still some hope, however faint. He needed to know who else was brawling by his side.

  “What of your young Adonis?” Ned asked in bitter tones.

  “Who?” Bethany looked at him, clearly puzzled.

  That was a stupid thing to say. He shouldn’t have let allusions of classical education and ranker ruin his chance. Ned ratcheted down his sarcasm. “Him of the cornflower blues eyes. Know who he is?”

  That resulted in the biggest sigh yet and a dreamy smile of rapture. Suddenly Ned felt the heavy tug of envy pull at his temper. This was insufferable!

  “Nay, I’s wish I did. Y’d tell me Ned, sweetkins, wouldn’t yea? It’d be worth a few shillings.”

  Well there went that particular avenue of inquiry. Bethany wanted to pay him to find her elusive blue eyed hero. Right now, giant or not, he wanted to punch him in the nose. Ned had a sneaking suspicion that ‘Blue eyed Adonis’ was the source of all this mischief, and if his mind’s mire would just release a smidge more, the whole solution would be visible.

  Ned was beginning to feel more than desperate. The day was flitting by, he’d handed over the coin and, as of right now, he wasn’t a single step closer to a solution. Maybe, if he focused on the brawl? “Anything you can tell me about the gentlemen I was fighting?”

  That had her tapping her teeth with a finger in deep thought. As he watched the punk, an ungracious thought surfaced. It must have been a difficult exercise to look past a patron’s clothes or purse and see the person beneath, except of course for young Adonis. He knew that was a surly and wicked thought and Father John back at Gray’s Inn would have set a penance for it. However it was galling that the only clue to save his life was held within the plodding thoughts of a punk.

  “Ye–es, I’s think so.” That came out slowly and with a certain amount of reluctance.

  Ned strained to hold his friendly smile in place. Though to Bethany it couldn’t compare to her blue eyed Adonis, it would ruin any chance he had if his temper broke free.

  “Yes, he was a tall, lanky man, older, an’ had a band o’ grey through his hair fro’ crown to nape an’ enough gold rings to be a lord.”

  That did it, thought Ned gloomily. He was doomed. French cooking here he came! At her word his mind’s fog shook loose another image, the sight of an enraged Smeaton staggering back, his clothes soaked in ale, shaking pottery shards out of his beard. There were four men behind him and one had drawn a blade. Ned recalled the sight, but in that instant he’d thought it strange, for the one with the blade was focused on Smeaton’s back, instead of on the marginal threat of Ned. Damn, maybe the ship to Calais wasn’t so bad an option. He could get used to French food and habits, eventually. Ned slumped on the narrow bench, dejected.

  Bethany lent over, giving his shoulder an affectionate hug and him a good eye full of her plump, white breasts peeping over the corset. Maybe she wasn’t as heartless as he’d thought. Perhaps his anger had lead him astray—again. “There, there Ned. It can’t be so bad. Anyways, for two groats I can give you something that may save y’ troubles.”

  He considered the diminishing condition of his purse. Well he needed some sort of pick me up, but could he afford a room and bed? Damn it all, he was only young once and probably soon not even that! He fished in the purse and pulled out three coins. As soon as they landed on the table Bethany’s hand shot out and grabbed them.

  “Go to Greyfriars an’ ask for Williams the Apothecary. I knows one o’ the gentlemen a’ the table. ‘e comes in all the time, he does the rent from Mistress Anne. Y’ll know him fo’ he wears a dark blue brocade doublet an’ speaks like a northerner.”

  This triggered the image of an angry bearded face and a blade, but it wasn’t worth the burst dreams of a pleasurable hour and the odds had just lengthened. If Pleasant Anne was bound to one of the gentlemen he’d brawled with, then it was likely that at any inquest she would be called against him. Great, his only saving grace was that, as a proprietor of a known disreputable house, her word could be discounted.

  Bethany grabbed hold and pulled him into her bosom. Well that was a surprise and quite invigorating, just what any young lad needed after such a shock. Her warm breath tickled his cheek and normally it would have raised his spirits until her next words. “That man o’ by the well, he’s one of Canting’s Ned, an ‘he asked about you yesterday.”

  An icy chill ran down his spine and the warm prospect of a few hours with Bethany evaporated. Not to be daunted, he had a quick nuzzle. Hmm, she knew how to kiss, and the odour of onions wasn’t so bad, after all. He bid her a good day as if he were her gallant, and walked back towards the river. As he left Bethany called out in an eager voice, “When y’ find blue eyes, gets ‘im to call on me!”

  Ned waved his assent and walked off. So Greyfriars in the City was his next target. There may be hope yet!

  However, ill news was piling up just as fast. Ned had to cross the river before the hue and cry. The urge to run was almost overpowering though regard for his ribs along with his other myriad aches as well as caution dictated a slower pace. Now he had to ask, had Canting Michael put out the word because of the slaying, or was it something else? The eighty angels weighted large in his memory. If he was in Southwark and at the baiting the other day, then the gold had to be from Canting? His mind and thoughts weren’t a complete mush. He did easily recall that for six months or more he’d risked all and won and fairly at that, against one of Canting’s savage plays in the pit. Despite his clear victory, the Pit master was known to hold a grudge where the loss of money was concerned.

  Oh well, mayhap that’d be solved once he reached Greyfriars. First he had to escape from Southwark. If he cut across to High Street and along to the pillory square at Bermondsey, he might be able to lose this watcher, then slip down to the river and hail a wherry.

  At a hundred paces to the square, he was still being trailed, not on his heels, but close enough. Ned didn’t think they’d let him leave the Liberties and so he considered possible distractions. It would have to be near St Thomas’s Hospital. This was a popular place, always crowded with an interesting cross section of the Southwark populace—beggars, the afflicted and a collection of mountebanks selling miraculous cures or sacred relics guaranteed to preserve one from any illness. Combine this with the usual traffic of carters, water sellers and the common throng and the congestion was almost impossible.

  Another twenty paces and he was in the midst of the maelstrom, pushing off the clawing beggars and battling for a way through. A quick glance back showed that his companion was gaining. Ned dug into the purse and flung several coins back over his shoulder. The silver ones arced in the wan morning sunlight, a glittering rain that caught everyone’s eye as well as their rapt attention. A few of the coins might actually have reached the muck of the street, where they would have lain with the ordure, mud and offal, but he didn’t think so. Fortuna was with him. A glance over his shoulder gave a last glimpse of his pursuer as he was knocked down in the stampede.

  Thanks to this trick Ned was now free of the press. Most of the crowd had rushed past him to argue or dispute possession of the scattered treasure. Lengthening his stride he made it onto one of the many sma
ll wharfs that jutted out into the river. Finally his luck was in and one of the infamous Thames wherries was discharging a passenger, from the look, a yeoman from the country, wide eyed and amazed at the mass of buildings and multitudes of people. Ned knew how that felt. He’d been struck the same way when he arrived in London from the university a few years ago. It was said that London held within its boundaries over a hundred thousand souls. Walk through it at midday and you’d think they’d seriously underestimated that figure.

  A few more of his diminishing pence saw him rowed over to Galley Key on the London shore. Normally wherry men were a garrulous lot, renowned for their use of profanity, and lack of respect. This one however was silent, with hardly a word spoken for the entire passage. Even stranger the boatman kept muttering under his breath. Ned thought they might have been prayers, but the cadence didn’t sound right for Latin. Then the fellow even helped him off the boat when they reached the London side wharf and Ned could have sworn he’d heard the old man say, “The lord wills it lad,” and briefly twitch his rag wrapped hand in the sign of a cross. In a surprised reaction, Ned slipped the wherry man another penny coin and walked off towards the Tower shaking his head. The common folk always said the city was full of wonders—now a ferryman had blessed him!

  Past Petty Wales Ned considered his path. It would be quicker to skirt the midst of the city, and head for Greyfriars over Tower Hill then via Aldgate. Not even the announcement of the Second Coming could clear the main streets by now, since the midday bells had just sent their bronze peels ringing out over the city just as he’d landed. If Londoners needed any other sign that the day was half done, these dominant tones bid them hasten in their work and duty before the evening chimes brought the day’s labour to a halt. Ned always remembered his first journey to the city—the low rumble of the bells and the accumulated hubbub of the city could be heard several miles out. The wave of sound, rather than the forest of spires, had spoken to a young boy of the rolling might and flow of the city.

  It was a brisk walk northwards, and a few times he had to cut into the side alleys that flanked the thoroughfare to bypass carts that blocked the road. One had sunk axle deep in a pothole that had opened up in the cobblestones. As expected, it was surrounded by a crowd, not necessarily to help, but to watch the performance as its crew stood there arguing over the best way to remedy their problem, with the occasional diversion of haranguing of the locals over the state of the city roads and curses aimed at the parish beadles. Due to these diversions the journey to Greyfriars took a few hours. He was also more wary than he’d been in Southwark, always watching for anyone tagging along after him. At one time he slipped into the maze of Beer Lane past Petty Wales, and hid after he noticed a pair of lounging swillers had left their tankards and sauntered in his wake for a hundred yards. Whether they were from the Liberties or just local rogues looking for an easy mark he didn’t care. He’d taken enough risks already without having to worry about being done over by the brawlers, foisters and nips of London.

  Chapter Six–Discovery at Greyfriars

  He may have landed at midday but the toll of the hour bell told him that the walk through the city had taken over an hour, and every dozen paces had him twitching over suspected watchers. Finally after avoiding several overly inquisitive corner lurkers, he reached the area of Greyfriars. As usual it then took a further half an hour of inquiries, and another silvery penny to one of the children playing in a nearby lane before he ended up outside of the establishment that Bethany had mentioned—Williams the Apothecary. To Ned the location was a touch odd. This placement was outside the usual haunt of grocers and apothecaries over at Cheapside. Then again the City always did have strange pockets of trades and specialities.

  Like many buildings in the city this one towered three to four storeys above the muddy street, with the top most levels precariously overhanging the cobbles below. Since space in the city was at a premium, each building sat cheek by jowl with its neighbour, almost begrudging the common usage of the lane. As in all quarters of the metropolis, the diversity of wealth was evident in the quality of the buildings and in their decoration. It wasn’t uncommon the see a dilapidated wattle walled house with rotting thatch abutting a fine stone mansion with lead framed, glass inset windows. But the building he was after lacked the pretentious display of the rich, though it was timbered, neatly painted and fitted with moveable shutters in the windows denoting reasonable prosperity and standing.

  A mortar and pestle illustrated in bold colours on a carved board hung from the second storey, proclaiming the traditional practice of the occupant. If any were still in doubt, the beguiling scent of flowers and spices wafted from the open door, submerging the usual street stench for all of fifty paces. Ned paused and breathed deeply. It was a joyous scent that beguiled his senses. For a year now he had endured the fetid aroma of the city. These few paces took him home to the fields of Suffolk. Now, exactly what was he to do? How did one say; I’m here on the suggestion of a punk who works at a gaming house and says you witnessed a murder? If that lean and nebulous fact came up in court, his case would end very abruptly much to the delight of the prosecutor. There had to be better way. His daemon snidely muttered that all his choices were gone, what else was there but to press on? Ned tried to dismiss the annoyance but even his angel conceded that his bruised body needed a rest. As for the slow pounding of his head, well it didn’t help his reknitting memory. The simple facts of inquest and court stated he needed witnesses to aid his testimony of Smeaton’s murder. Anyone other than Smeaton’s drinking friends could pull him back from the noose at Tyburn.

  Ned quietly swore in pained frustration. Why couldn’t this be a common slaying? Usually in those cases he’d watched at the Courts the senior patriarch of the family stepped in to save the family name and any erring kin. It was simple—a bond was pledged and matters were sorted out quietly elsewhere. Commonly a ‘gift’ to the judge helped ease matters along. Since this was a ‘murdered’ royal official the common procedures wouldn’t work. A man under threat had to call in all the favours he may have built up over a lifetime. Red Ned Bedwell didn’t have extensive networks of influential friends or patrons, while Uncle Richard had made it abundantly clear that he wouldn’t risk his position to save a dishonoured bastard nephew.

  There in the muddy street Ned had to face up to an unpleasant fact. He was on his own. Only his native wit and cunning could save his neck now. With little choice left, Ned metaphorically girded his loins and stepped into the shop. Maybe his patron saint was watching over him.

  As Ned walked through the doorway, he was wreathed in pale smoke. It had the sharp tang of wormwood and lazily rose from a small brazier by the entrance so that he was bathed in its bitter essence. It was an interesting transition that left the muck and noise of the city behind.

  The interior was unlike any apothecaries he’d ever been in before. On one side from floor to ceiling was a huge wall cabinet of marked drawers while hanging from the beams were willow hurdles from which bunches of fresh and dried herbs were suspended like a hanging forest. Walking through it was like strolling upside down in a garden.

  Several other customers briefly turned and regarded his presence. Unlike other shops and stalls no one rushed out to serve him or to angrily bid him hence. That was a good start. Ned lent back against one of the corner posts and just watched, breathing in the refreshing aromas. It helped clear the aches from his body and nudged back the cloying mind fog.

  As for the other customers, they were a good selection of common Londoners similar to the people you’d find in any market. Two were obviously goodwives with merchants or trades masters as husbands. Their fine woollen dresses edged in satin trim proclaimed as much, as did their rounded prosperity and studied avoidance of the two men in rough labourer’s garb and the older woman who was almost bent double and propped upright by a heavy black staff. This menagerie was dealt with by a pair of young girls who from their apparent duality were possibly sisters or cousi
ns. They moved through the various mixtures and potions with an effortless and accustomed manner, while maintaining a practiced banter of both conversation and instruction to their customers. It was quite a treat to observe. He could have watched for hours, entranced by their patterned dance, bespelled by their lithe, willowy grace, as if snared by the court of the Faerie Queen.

  It was only after several minutes watching, that he’d realised both girls possessed other attributes, like their obvious knowledge of the medicinal arts. His angel prodded him to ignore the smooth skin, smiles and sparkling eyes and pay better attention! It was how well they treated each of their customers irrespective of their position in the hierarchy of the city that intrigued him. The common workers were listened too with as much attention and respect as the goodwives. This was most peculiar, especially since apart from an occasional disapproving look the two women from the near the top of the London social set accepted this unaccustomed fraternity. This unusual display of equality had him perplexed. While all the denizens of the city looked down on anyone from the countryside, regarding them as no better than peasants, and frequently treated nobles and gentlemen with dismissive disdain, the traditional social hierarchy of London was clearly recognised by all its citizens or else they wouldn’t spend so much effort trying to climb it. One custom of standing was that the higher tiers were fawned on and had precedence in any establishment. That this didn’t hold here and was accepted by its customers denoted an interesting puzzle. It was a pity he had more than enough difficulties today. This one teased at the edge of his mind—somehow it was important.