Ned instinctively crossed himself. Lord God, save us! The dreaded Sweats—it had carried off so many. Like most Londoners, he’d seen too much of its visitation, the almost constant tolling of the bells and the slow processions of carts to the burial pits, after the graveyards had filled up. Some talked of the end of the world. Others muttered that it was spread by foreigners and Jews in service to the Great Turk poisoning the waters. The bravest, or most foolhardy, said it was a righteous visitation because of the sins of the Royal Court, and the pride and vanity of the Lord Chancellor.
God’s wrath or poisoned water aside, Mistress Black continued to recount those painful memories, her tone quietly speaking to Ned of deep loss and pain. “It was a few days past the procession of Corpus Christi. My mother had complained of a headache and sore neck. She’d just been to Chirk Lane to drop off a remedy for Widow Alsford’s malady, since she was on the parish roll.”
Ned nodded in understanding. For the old or impoverished without family, the only assistance they could get was from the generosity of their local parish. He’d seen some cases at the courts where that generosity had been sorely abused. Unfortunately, since it frequently included church officials, those pleas were now only reviewed in the Church’s courts. From what he’d heard only the few without patrons, influence or ready money were arraigned before a judge.
“Father prepared the usual treatments, and dosed her and put her to bed, but later that night she started complaining of pains in the chest and sweating with a burning fever. Pa looked very worried and he sent us out to my Uncle Williams for help, and he then sent off for the doctor.” That last comment was accompanied by a dismissive sneer.
“Finally, one old tosspot turned up, dressed in embroidered robes, and reeking of sack. His assistant had to haul the old drunkard up the stairs, he was so taken with drink. He looked at my mother, waffled about the four humours being out of balance, an excess of bile, then instructed his fellow to bleed her.” A loud sniff interrupted the tale and Ned obligingly passed across another scrap of cloth. “Father was distraught. That’s why he let the fool do it. Mother was delirious with the fever and screamed about the pain and how stiff her arm was. I think that was when the old fool sobered up and realised what she was suffering from.”
Mistress Black’s voice came out harder now. “You could see his face turn white. Suddenly the measle complained that he had to attend others, and pried several angels from Father, then almost tumbled down the stairs in his haste to be gone.”
And now her voice was as flat and hard as iron, and as unrelenting. Ned, on his daemon’s urged, edged ever so slightly away.
“It was already too late. In the potbellied scum’s rush to be out of there, the ham–handed assistant had nicked the artery in her arm.”
Ned crossed himself. Oh merciful Lord, what a way to die. He’d seen a few taken by the Sweats, screaming, convulsing, with high fever and wracking pains until the sufferer lapsed into the long sleep of death, and all within a day.
Mistress Black was lost in the immediacy of the past and it was with an almost conversational tone that she continued the story. “We tried to staunch the bleeding—bandages around the arm, fingers to shoulder, but with her thrashing around and being lost in the dangerous dreams of the fever, it was too late. By the next morning it was over.”
Now tears streamed down her face and he could hear the choked sobs return. Ned would have moved closer to comfort her, this time responding to his better angel, but was unsure as to his reception.
“And at midday it struck Father. He trembled with fever and poured with sweat. Then he forced us out and barred the door to the house. We pounded on the timber for hours. I went out into the lane and begged our neighbours for help. No one not a soul answered!”
Ned thought about the way Christian decency seemed to flee during pestilence. However he understood the action of her father. By keeping his children out of the house, he no doubt saved them from being locked in with him by the parish reeve or the Watch.
“I was shunned and they put the mark on the door, the red cross of warning. Roger Hawkins found me huddled by the doorstep and brought me to Uncle Williams.”
It was a grim tale, both parents lost, but there was, within it, a deep secret thought. It was mean spirited and bitter, and surely he would do penance for it later. But a part of him wailed that at least she had her own family till now. It may have been the shadow of that regret that helped phrase his next question, or more generously, it may have been professional concern. Either way it did come as a surprise. “So with your parents dead, who got the share of the estate?”
At his question Margaret Black sniffed loudly, dabbed her face with a sleeve and gave a shake of her head, chuckling mirthlessly. “So it is true. That’s as typical a question as I’d expect of any lawyer! No pickings here I am afraid—all settled, witnessed and sealed. So Master Bedwell you’ve heard my tale. Fair’s fair. Why are you learning to prey upon decent folk’s problems?”
Ned raised a single eyebrow. Mistress Black was certainly quick to strike out here, but to be fair, it was a good question and deserved, in return, a good answer. He chewed a lip, deep in thought for a moment. His angel pointed out that this was a perfect chance to prove a degree of honesty, so spontaneity had his tongue. “No, no. I wasn’t going to be lawyer. Originally I was meant for the church. My uncle thought that a cleric would be an asset to the family”.
Ned made a small shrug of part embarrassment. “You’ know, ahh, the costs of exemptions, well they were too high, so it was determined that law was a better course. Uncle Richard needed a cheap assistant, one he could depend upon, so here I am, first year at Gray’s Inns of Court.”
His unalloyed truthfulness was working. Mistress Black nodded, her eyes sparkling, as she once more questioned Ned. “Why did you need an exemption to take Holy Orders? From what I’ve heard, they’re so desperate for clerics who can actually read that so long as you’re breathing, you’re in.”
Ned pursed his lips and tried not to blush. “It is said by my uncle that I suffer from the taint of, ahh, bastardry. So I’m barred from any high office by canon law.”
Mistress Black graced him with a brief, puzzled smile and one more memory of the other night hit him between the eyes. Yes, it was her smile that drew him at the Cardinal’s Cap, like a flash of sunlight after a storm. Ned tried desperately to hold on to any more elusive wisps. No, it was no use. Whatever else had been there briefly was once more gone.
“Well, is it true?”
Coming back from those hazy memories, he gave his head a cautious shake, trying to recover his poise. “Is what true?” Oh no, this sounded more like the drooling response of a Bedlam loon. Mistress Black’s lip turned up in an inquisitive smile, dazzling him once more.
“Are you a bastard?”
This flummoxed him. Before today, most people had assumed it was a fact or he’d evaded the issue. This time it was asked with genuine honest curiosity, he hadn’t had that before. “Well according to my uncle and family, it is.”
This produced a snorted chuckle that that she quickly covered with a hand. “And they have never lied to you before? What about your mother? What does she say?”
Ned was struck speechless. He had not thought of it from this intriguing perspective before now. Up to this instant everyone else naturally accepted his uncle’s word. “Oh, ahh…yes well, my uncle has been known to take a casual stroll around the truth occasionally. As for my mother, God rest her soul, she died soon after I was born I am afraid so I cannot ask her.”
Now it was Mistress Black’s turn to make the sign of the cross. She was plainly unsatisfied with his response and so continued with her inquiry. Strangely, considering their previous animosity, Ned didn’t find this intrusive. If pressed, he may have said it felt like the relief of confession.
“So what we have is a status claimed by those who would profit by your ignorance. That is pretty flimsy evidence. It reminds me of our King’s cur
rent problem.”
Now he thought about it, there were a few facts that had always gnawed at him, inconsistencies in the often repeated story and slight lapses from the family servants. If he ever managed to extricate himself from this current morass, then this was something that needed to be resolved. Then the final part of what she had said gained his attention. “What do you know about the problems besetting the King?”
From her expression, this was not something that Mistress Black had meant to say. The frown, absent so briefly, returned again. “Where have you been for the past months—Cornwall? Every soul in London knows about the Papal Commission for the Annulment.”
As he was coming to expect from Mistress Black, her comment was off hand and dismissive. However it set Ned a thinking. It was true that the Legatine Commission, headed by Lord Chancellor Wolsey, and the Pope’s representative, Cardinal Campeggio, had provided the city with a ready source of entertainment since May, as they deliberated on the King’s marriage problems. Just recently, as Will had recounted, the court had been abruptly terminated in a welter of controversy and rancour. Now it was September, and since the recommencement date announced was for early October, there should have been a flurry of activity—letters, summons and the like. Those preparations would have been instantly visible at the Inns of Court. But it wasn’t so. The slackened pace had even prompted a rush of wagers on whether the Commission would reconvene at all. Ned’s flagging brain struggled to link this with his present problems. Slowly a real idea formed out of the fog. This may be a wild shot, but was there something in that delay that caused Smeaton’s death?
Ned had been out of the loop for more than three days, and now had little chance of obtaining information from his usual sources at Gray’s Inn. But maybe Mistress Black could be of assistance. His daemon helpfully noted that any proprietor who had a hidden entrance certainly had access to at least one of the informal networks that made up the many layers of the under strata of the city.
“I was wondering what you may have heard, about the commission that is? Since we have a murdered servant of Wolsey, maybe it has some bearing upon our present situation.”
Mistress Black looked distinctly nervous. Her eyes flitted about the room and when she did reply, it was with great reluctance. “I might have one piece of news.”
Ned nodded for her to continue. There was a very long pause. “It is just a rumour. The King is going to call Parliament to sit over winter to consider a special petition.”
By all the saints, that was a very specific rumour and a dangerous one. It had been several years since the last Parliament, and as far as he could see, the only reason to call it this time would be His Majesty’s ‘Great Matter’, as one of the senior lawyers had called it. If that were so, then it was possible that the stable patterns of power in the land of England were shifting. The Commons of Parliament had proved very truculent in their last dealings with the Lord Chancellor, constantly criticising his taxes and management of the war with France. Even with Cardinal Wolsey’s man, Sir Thomas More, as speaker it had not gone well. He remembered the anger that appointment had caused at home with his uncle. Sir Richard Rich had no liking for More, claiming that the former under–sheriff of the city had a unreasoning prejudice against them. But there could be something to this. A clutch of senior lawyers at the Inns had been shuttling to and from the King’s palace at Greenwich the past couple of weeks, and despite the preening value of a royal summons, they’d been unnaturally silent. That was out of character. Mostly they were as garrulous as a murder of crows. Ned left off his musing and returned to the present. His companion had assumed a demeanour that he could only call reticently coy. To Ned it stoked his smouldering suspicion—she knew something important.
“So Mistress Black, how well do you believe this rumour?”
Ned watched her response carefully. The apothecaries’ apprentice evaded his gaze and twitched distractedly at her dress. For the first time Ned felt like he was in command of the situation so he pressed harder. “I need to know—it could mean our lives. I will swear an oath to any saint you choose that I’ll not betray your secrets.”
As a token of trust, it failed. Mistress Black continued to stare steadfastly at a patch of wall over his left shoulder. Ned’s daemon cheered—it knew she was hiding something, perhaps that she supported one of the court factions. Ned was quite prepared to join them if this was the case, even if they proved to be hairy kneed Scots, just so long as they offered protection from Wolsey. His erstwhile saviour seemed to have her own secrets to protect.
Mistress Black frowned and shook her head. “No. First swear by your mother’s soul and by your hope of salvation.”
This was unexpected. And indeed very binding. Ned briefly considered evasion, but the image of the flames of Hell made even his daemon gibber in terror. Time was running out. “Alright, if that is what will make you happy, I do so swear.”
“No, say the words.”
Now it was his angel’s turn to remind him of his mother’s memory. He sighed and breathed out deeply. “By the soul of my blessed Mother and by my own hope for salvation in the world beyond this, I swear that I mean neither you nor your brother any harm.”
After this Mistress Black relaxed visibly, tilting her stool back until she leaned comfortably against the end wall. To Ned’s growing amazement she explained the shadowy workings of the city’s various businesses. “You know Master Lawyer that apothecaries are part of the Grocers’ Guild?”
That received a short nod of agreement.
“Well, the Guild has an arrangement with some of the officials at Westminster, and at the Royal Court. They let the Guild know well beforehand of any significant events happening in London.”
It was Ned’s turn to nod in comprehension. So it was as simple as a bribe. And, he thought, in this way are the meshing cogs of government and trade greased.
“According to my uncle this has proven to be very useful, since with foreknowledge they can order sufficient provisions for the influx. As for our trade, we need to stock up on medicines, both for the sessions, and for the families and retainers of the Commons and Lords that attend.”
For a lad who had his own methods of gaining intelligence, he could easily see how advanced warning could be a bonanza for the well prepared merchant. They’d be able to get their purchases in before the suppliers at farm and warehouse heard the news and jacked up the prices. Clever. Ned considered the inventory in the workroom below, and his Uncle Richard’s reliance on his spiced physic. Yes, for an apothecary, stocking up on expensive, exotic medicinal necessities like cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger and pepper could have one rolling in gold before the end of winter.
“We have it on good authority that the King is going to issue the writs by the end of September for an October sitting.”
This was very interesting, and well before the Michaelmas law term. That began at the start of November. The timing would be very good for the city.
Suddenly Ned realised that Margaret Black had said something very important. “Who did you say was going to summon Parliament?”
She frowned at him for interrupting. “Are you deaf or just stupid? I said the King is issuing the writs.”
A vision flashed before Ned’s eyes, and for that brief moment he knew what had happened to Smeaton. “That, technically, is true. The King does call Parliament, but usually he uses the Office of the Lord Chancellor who, then in turn, has Chancery send off the writs. Where did this rumour come from?”
Her reluctance to answer returned. “Umm. It came from a reliable friend. He had it from a Groom of the Chamber, but confirmation also came from a foreign envoy.”
“You can afford to bribe an ambassador?”
At each succeeding revelation, Mistress Black had acquired a greater level of smugness. “They have debts too, and we do have some friends from across the sea.” This was becoming most vexing.
Mistress Blacks’ statement was both a realistic appraisal and an enigmatic answer.
The Grocer’s Guild must have more wealth and power than that of the Mercers. Although once you thought about it everyone had to eat and he ruefully considered that if he were placing a spy or informer, then the kitchens would be the best place. Gossip was the readiest currency among servants.
“Now what we need to know is, has the King bypassed the Office of the Lord Chancellor for this instruction? If so, then we’re a step closer to solving the murder.”
At this she looked downright evasive and twisted her fingers together in visible agitation. “It may be possible, but…”
Ned leant in closer. Mistress Black may be going to divulge another fascinating titbit. However, whatever she may have being going to say, was left unsaid as Gruesome Roger chose this moment to reappear. His right arm and head hove back into view as he struggled free from the hidden passage.
His mistress may have extended a limited bond of trust, but Gruesome Roger hadn’t and still retained his ill concealed suspicion. Mistress Black retreated from her almost intimacy and leapt up off the stool to consult with her returning retainer. Ned tried to look both innocent and harmless as Gruesome Roger broke off the whispered conversation to throw him a selection of threatening frowns. Finally the fellow glowered once more then stomped off down the small staircase, though the stomp was more an indication of his mood, since Ned noticed the man usually moved with nary a sound.
Margaret Black rubbed her pert nose and gave him another of her puzzled glares. “How have you upset the Spanish?”
That was new. Ned stammered out reply. “I…I don’t even know any Spaniards!”
“The captain of the skulkers out the back is clearly one, and from his doublet, cap and sword, a well off gentleman.”
Oh God and the saints, not more hunters! Ned waved the distraction aside. “It doesn’t matter. How are we to get out of here, your secret passage?”
“No. Roger has arranged a disturbance to sweep away the watchers. Follow me.”
The Cardinal's Angels (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries) Page 11
