When they had reached the gable end, Robert Back looped the rope over a protruding stone mullion and dropped the end to the shadowed space below. Ned peered cautiously over. It could have been thirty feet to the grass below but from here it looked a lot further. This time it was Mistress Black who took the lead. She grabbed the rope and swung out into the abyss. In a few moments the lass was standing on the ground, untucking her skirt and brushing off the grime of the passage.
Robert Black bent down and whispered into Ned’s ear. “When you swing out on the rope, if you look at the wall you will see a number of slots carved into it, like treads. Use them to help you.”
Ned supposed that Rob Black’s advice was intended to be helpful, but a thirty–foot drop was, at the end of the day, still a thirty–foot drop. Then he remembered Mistress Black. By all the Saints, if she could do this then so could he.
Ned took a deep breath. If he were to slip he had no idea how it would help, but it did at least help to calm him and steady his hands.
There was a brief moment of panic as he hung suspended in the air with the sight of Rob Black’s concerned face above, washed by the last red light of the sunset, as his feet scrabbled vainly to find the promised treads. Missing the first, he wedged his foot firmly in the second and slowly began his descent. He hit the ground trembling and very thankful. That was not as difficult as he had expected.
The rest of their band soon followed. With a quick tug, Rob Black loosed the rope and stowed the coil in his doublet. Once more with Gruesome Roger in the lead, the small party quickly made its way through the orchard until they came to a recessed postern gate set into the wall. By now he was used to the conjuring tricks of the Blacks so when Mistress Margaret produced the required key from behind a loose stone, he was beginning to think that if needed they could supply the boat to find King Arthur and the Isle of Avalon.
Now that they were once more on the byways of London, Gruesome Roger assumed the lead as they wove through the bent alleys towards Crutched Friars, and he thought Northumberland House. But they took so many side laneways that he had trouble figuring out the landmarks. Each twist he noted still kept them on a westerly path towards the last dimming of the sun. Ned had no idea where they were going—so long as it was away from danger he was happy to follow. The hand of Gruesome Roger clamped on his shoulder like a vice, also indicated that his membership in the Black fraternity of peril had its limits, despite the given trust of Rob.
Slowly and steadily the night closed over London. The darkness pooled and spread, flowing out from the overshadowed alleys that rarely saw the sun except for a fragment of midday, until the deepest shadow had swallowed up all the streets and lanes. Wan pools of yellow light from lanterns or cressets irregularly dotted the streets, occasionally revealing treacherous mounds of rubbish or more likely, the painted sign of a tavern, gently swinging above. In theory city ordinances had been in force for over a hundred years requiring all citizens to have a small lantern outside their dwelling. It was to be lit every dusk between the celebrations of Hallowtide and Candlemass, but like most decrees, this was mostly honoured by the citizens with benign indifference. After all, who could afford the expense of tallow rushes for such an extravagance?
In the city the hours of darkness brought forth another aspect of the churning life and urgent needs of England’s greatest jewel. The ebb and flow of the day had changed. Gone were the carts, water sellers and cries of purchase. Instead between the ringing of the Vespers and Compline bells the tone changed. The diversions of the city’s dark called up all the aspects of a sinner’s soul that had the priests busy with confession and fuelled the booming market for indulgences.
It was a facet of London with which Ned had acquired a quick and easy familiarity, for it presented opportunities along with its manifest dangers–though this night was different. Each deeper well of inky black huddled in the mouths of alleys and crooked lanes held the uncertain promise of attack. For once it wasn’t the usual footpads and shadow lurkers that he worried about. Far more deadly hunters coursed this night. And now he was very thankful it was not him out front, sniffing for peril. That was Gruesome Roger’s duty. Mind you, like the wolf he resembled, Roger seemed to have the skill for it. On two occasions in their journey he had pulled them into a sheltering doorway to await the passing of a determined band of searchers. Lanterns held high they stopped every passer–by, rudely inquisitive and menacing. With the innate sense of the cityborn, Londoners knew some manner of mischief was abroad that night, and very few ventured onto the streets. In a way it made their passage easier but that palpable sense of threat also removed the cover of boisterous bands of revellers.
Despite the darkness and the lack of a moon Ned could tell they were heading for the river. The slope of the ground and the spray of coloured lights that could be seen as they passed by a parish church told him. He had frequent cause to remember midnight navigations by the illuminated windows of St Michael’s or St Botolph’s. It was times such as those that he was thankful for the devotions of late night penitents.
The Compline bells had rung their solemn toll by the time they reached the riverbank. It had been the most perilous journey across the city that Ned had ever made, and at every pace he felt like the satchel, tucked close to his chest, was acting as some arcane beacon sending out malevolent signals to their hunters. A leisurely stroll could see one cross that distance in an hour, but for them with all the hiding and detours three hours would be closer to the mark. Now they sheltered in the lee of a ruined warehouse upstream somewhere to the west of the Fishmongers Hall.
Ned was tired, hungry and sore. He would have been angry as well, but the other two afflictions had ganged up and forcefully reminded this long abiding sin of his that they were there first. More so he was trying very hard to overhear the whispered argument raging not four paces away. His daemon didn’t need to hint that it concerned his presence, and whether it was easier and safer to dump him in the river than reveal another of their secret activities. Right now he didn’t care so long as whatever decision they came to involved sleep and maybe a crust of bread while a firkin of ale would surpass it all.
A hand tugged at his sleeve and wearily he pushed himself up. His daemon screamed for escape, but his body was too weary to do more than silently agree. He hoped they were heading for a close refuge. Apparently that was the case for after the next block of buildings they arrived outside the impressive stone–arched gates of the Steelyard. For Ned another part of the Black’s secret locked into place. Once more Gruesome Roger stepped forward and gave a brief number of raps on the heavy timber doors. He hoped some warden would come soon—he felt very exposed standing in the small pool of light cast by the lanterns above the gate.
After a delay that had them all nervous and twitchy, a small panel opened in the door and a pair of suspicious eyes peered out. Obviously it wasn’t the first time surreptitious past curfew entrance had been gained, for only a couple of glinting silver coins had the portal opened and the grumbling warden leading them to one of the doors in a long colonnade. Further hammering produced the face of an irate Hanse merchant under the light of an upraised lantern. Ned braced himself for the expected explosion of wrath. The Hanse were a touchy company of merchants who made it very plain that they expected better treatment and respect than that usually granted foreigners in the city. Strangely they got it at least from the mayor and alderman. His uncle had cynically suggested it was due to loans they frequently made to the King or perhaps the twenty pounds of pepper annually gifted to the royal kitchens.
Whatever appetite for justifiable murder the portly merchant may have had for being disturbed at this hour was lost once he cleared the sleep from his eyes and spied the state of his visitors. To Ned his present company was approaching the realms of the incredible. The merchant, rather than bid such a raggle–taggle company hence, clasped each of them in turn and gave Mistress Black a kiss of welcome. Then to increase the feeling of being in a player’s scene,
this generous welcome included both Gruesome Roger and himself. Ned rubbed his eyes, perplexed. He’d always heard that foreigners were mad, and practised bizarre customs, but to have the proof in his own city—well!
The merchant, probably either German or Dane, dragged them inside and pushed them along a short corridor and through an open door into a mostly packed storage room. While accented the man’s speech was clear enough for Ned to understand as he assured them that they could rest here for the night. Ned needed no further encouragement and, grabbing some coarse sacking, settled down on a woolsack. He had no idea if the others followed his lead for as soon as he pulled the cloth over his head he was immediately lost to sleep.
Chapter Eleven–The Steelyard Hanse? Riverside
He was so warm and comfortable sharing the bed with Bethany who was showering his face with kissed as she nuzzled his ear. Her sharp little nips were causing pleasant reactions up and down his body, that was right up until the rough tongue abraded his ear. Ned let out a quiet but heartfelt curse. It wasn’t sweet Bethany but rather some cat which had his head held in its claws while his ear and face were given a good cleaning. By all that was holy, it felt like a wet rasp and it smelt strongly of fermented fish! If he wasn’t awake before he definitely was now. Ned carefully removed the claws, and lifted the furry beast off. It must eat well here. The animal was the size of badger, though with the thickness of the pelt it had better keep away from the London furriers otherwise it could end up as a mantle.
Having deposited the beast on his improvised pallet, Ned got up and had a look around his bedchamber. It hadn’t improved from his hazy memory of last night, a storeroom full of barrels, wrapped boxes and sacks. Of his night–time companions two sets of snores drifted out from other piles of sacking. From the deep reverberating timbre that would be Rob Black and Gruesome Roger. Of his third companion, Mistress Black, there was neither sight nor sound. Curiously suspicious about her absence, Ned quietly eased open the door and tiptoed down the corridor. He wasn’t usually a sneak and lurker amongst the curtains. It was just a necessary survival skill he had acquired over the past few years. However, considering the drama and treachery of the last few days, Ned felt his precautions more than justified. That’s why he remained concealed behind the door when he happened upon the conversation betwixt the absent apothecary’s apprentice and their host, the Hanse merchant.
They were seated at a table in what must serve as the merchant’s accounting room, a few doorways down from the room packed with trade goods. The Hanse must be doing well as the walls were coved in draperies of heavy brocade, replete with patterns of flowers and vines, while a few well–secured timber coffers flanked the table. Early morning light trickled through the room via the panelled glass window set on the eastern side and throwing Mistress Black’s face into profile. It was, he ruefully admitted, a good profile but any such considerations of beauty vanished as he overhead their discussion. Principally it was about him.
“Mistress Margaret, I can see your problems and in memory of your good parents, I could certainly find accommodation at Lubeck. Both you and your brother would be very welcome.” It was a voice only slightly burred with the thick German accent of the Hanse League on the Baltic Sea, and although he spoke quietly, it seemed to rumble out. His beard, long, thick and luxurious enough to hide a ferret in, trembled with every word. “But you must understand our difficulties. Recently it has been almost impossible to evade the inspections of Sir Thomas More’s men or those of the Bishop. They’ve been very hot for contraband, especially so these last weeks. The last shipment had to go by Norwich an’ so cost a fortune in gifts for the port reeves.”
“Do you quibble over costs for the Lord’s work?” There was a determined menace in that voice Ned hadn’t heard before. If the Hanse merchant was a wise man he would do well to heed it.
The Hanse made furious waving motions of denial, smart fellow. Perhaps he too had received a dressing down courtesy of Mistress Black. “No, no. We are determined to continue in that. But you must be aware of the threats. Since last May we have been very closely watched. Humphrey Monmouth still languishes in the Tower on More’s remit. You may not be able to hide here for long, and then there is the complication of your companion.” The merchant oozed a combination of sincerity and regret but it was the next comment that held Ned’s attention.
“Can we not perhaps deal with that? I regret the taking of a Christian life but…” The merchant made the universal gesture of a finger drawn across the throat and the unpleasant squeal that accompanied it.
Ned’s blood ran cold and then turned to ice as he heard Meg Black’s hesitant reply. “It is possible—his removal could solve a host of irksome complications.”
She paused, considering the solution. Ned would have paid anything to see into her thoughts. He could see the edge of her mulling frown and slight grimace of distaste, then she appeared to give a regretful sigh. “I fear it is too late for that. He’s full of himself, strutting proud and a lawyer, but too many powerful people are now after Master Bedwell, and if he disappeared they would still come after us. Anyway it’s hard to interpret the Lord’s will in this matter. He may still have a chance at redemption, or prove useful as a sop later.”
Ned felt a combination of relief, anger and chilled terror. Arrogant indeed! What would that girl know about anything?
“So what can you do?” growled the Hanse merchant, plucking at his beard.
Mistress Black heaved a deep sigh. “We have no choice—it must be the Tower.”
“What of the risk? Is it worth it?” The Hanse sounded nervous, which didn’t improve the disposition of Ned’s daemon. It counselled immediate flight.
“We have risk enough here waiting either for More’s pursuivants, the Lord Chancellor’s men or others worse. We must have faith in the Lord’s providence.”
“Nevertheless I will speak with the shipmaster, just in case.”
At that point Ned retreated quietly back to their lodgings. He had a lot to think about and not much time.
He carefully removed the cat from his improvised bed and pulled the sacking back over him. The beast seemed to take this as an invitation and began to nuzzle his neck once more with a purring rumble like thunder.
The discussion he had just overheard helped him pull a few more clues together. In some ways it had been sort of reassuring. It was, for instance, the first time Mistress Black had said that they needed to stick together, however reluctant that admission had been. As for the rest, he now knew the reason for the intricate secrecy of the Black’s. The family were Lollards and evangelicals, hot for the translated bible.
When he was at Cambridge the previous year, you would have had to been blind and deaf not to see the ferment that this new learning was creating. Erasmus of Rotterdam’s book, “Enchiridion Militis Christiani”, was currently the most prominent and the Colleges at least approved of that one. However there were other books, more intriguing, more radical and as a result, much more dangerous. First came the books and tracts of the condemned heretic, Martin Luther, which had been passed along, surreptitiously among the students. He’d even read a few, outside the purview of the College, burning with a quiet secretive guilty sin as he read the anathematized complaints against Rome and the Pope. Considering what he was seeing now in the actions of the Cardinal, there may have been some truth in the German’s claims. But there was one work he remembered most vividly. It had the Cardinal’s men frantically searching, hotter than a friar after a whore—the translation of the Bible into English, and men were burning for it, quite literally.
He’d witnessed it personally. Along with the rest of the students at Cambridge, he had seen what had happened to poor Father Thomas Bilney, a fellow of Trinity Hall. He still couldn’t believe it—a travesty of the Christian faith. Father Bilney was well known at the college as a kindly man. He’d ministered to lepers, as well as the poor and desperate in prison. How much holier and Christian could a man get? But last year he was
hauled off by the Cardinal, accused of heresy and of reading a translation of the First Epistle to St Timothy. It had caused quite a stir, and along with the rest of the students, Ned had been harangued by Dr Wharton, the Bishop of London’s hound of heretics, over the perils of reading the translated word of God. He claimed in a voice rippling with anger that; ‘when rendered into the common tongue the most holy word of God was twisted and turned, warping the true meaning of the Bible. Leaving the treasured soul bereft of the protection of Holy Mother Church and open to the perversions of apostates and devils like Luther! A man damned for his evil words for all time by His Holiness the Pope!’
The lecture had gone on for three long hours, and then at the conclusion, they were led out into the town square, where they watched a line of penitents, each carrying a bundle of faggots towards the posts set up for punishment. Some of them walked unaided but others had not gone well under the questioning and needed assistance from the guards, dragging broken feet. Father Bilney had been there, a trembling wreck, weeping as he cast his faggot into the fire and recanted his heresy. The symbolism was blatant. This time it had been a bundle of sticks that fed the flames. Should he lapse again it would be his body in the fire. Then at the conclusion, the Bishop had the condemned books consigned to the flames. As a practical man, Ned could understand it. However his better angel questioned the inclusion of the translations of the Bible. How could you justify destroying the word of God?
The Cardinal's Angels (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries) Page 14
