The Cardinal's Angels (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries)

by Gregory House

  For Ned, weeping bitter tears as he watched men he had admired humbled and broken, it had been a salutatory lesson. Though he didn’t think that it was the one that Bishop Tunstall had intended. It had taught him that knowledge was power, and that jealous men would do anything to retain their grip upon it. He’d also made himself a promise that day. Come what may, he would endeavour to serve justice and not solely the fettered letter of the law, for the laws were made by men, and men influenced by power, greed or lust would readily bend them to their wishes.

  So it seemed to come back to the matter of the Blacks, brother and sister. Now he understood their reticence and secrecy, as well as the extensive network that they dipped into as part of a group that he more than suspected smuggled in the translated bible and other heretical texts. That was a damned dangerous business, even if, according to rumours, the profits were good. One law apprentice at Gray’s Inn had been caught two months ago selling them for three shillings a book. Considering the possible wealth of the Apothecary’s trade, he doubted that they were doing it for the money. Being burnt at the stake was a lot to risk for a few pounds profit. It looked probable that the family were Lollards, followers of the excommunicated Wycliffe, an Englishman who had first suggested translating the bible back in the days of King Henry V, the victor of Agincourt. It was said that there were still many secret adherents throughout the city and the south of the country. From what he’d seen under Wolsey, they must number in the thousands. As a Christian he really couldn’t see the difficulty in translating the bible into English. Even as an average scholar he hadn’t been blind to the history of the bible. It had first been written in Aramaic and Greek then translated into Latin, the vernacular language of the Roman Empire. So if in the time of the first saints it had been rendered into a common tongue, then why not so now? For the love of God, from what he had heard, it had recently been translated into the miserable language of the French! Should good God fearing Englishmen play seconds to the loathsome French?

  Ned sat down and pondered his latest problem. This affair of Smeaton’s murder was beginning acquire a collection of complications that created more questions than answers. Well, he asked himself, what was he going to do about this one? His personal daemon whispered suggestively, hand them over to the Cardinal’s men with the satchel, and claim it was a treasonous plot he’d discovered? It hovered in his thoughts for a few brief moments and then died, savagely poleaxed by his better angel. No he couldn’t admit knowledge of their secret. First of all, he doubted that it could save him, and second was the memory of Father Bilney. It tore him up pretty hard that he’d been unable to help his old tutor during the heresy trial. Now perhaps he had a chance to pay back that kindness. While he still didn’t trust Mistress Black, even less so after the overheard conversation, there was another claim upon his honour, her brother Rob. Despite her ungrateful manner, Ned freely acknowledged his debt to Rob Black.

  Since the night’s rest most of his thoughts had knit back together, and during the brawl he had recalled three instances of Rob protecting him in the affray. A gentleman did not forget such debts of honour, and while Ned may lack the gilt required for the position and be labelled a bastard, that didn’t mean he should act like the lowest Southwark stew scum. Since due to the unreasonable demeanour of Mistress Black, the bonds of trust were pretty fragile, the best he could do for Rob was to solve this murder. The first part of achieving that lay within Smeaton’s satchel. What did it contain and had its contents caused the man’s death? Second to this he must discover the identities of the other groups who were seeking them, and as for the third, well he’d figure out what that was if they survived the first two.

  Chapter Twelve–The Fallen Angels, The Steelyards

  Ned had little chance to reflect further upon his options. The soothing chorus of snores was abruptly terminated by the return of Mistress Black, who in her own usual delicate manner kicked the shrouded lumps until she got the appropriate response, in this case muffled groans and complaints. Ned moved faster than his companions and so was witness to the brief disappointed expression on the face of Mistress Black at the spoiling of her fun.

  Mistress Black, despite her obvious satisfaction at waking them in such an abrupt manner, had at least brought along food—a couple of leather pitchers of small beer, a round of cheese and several small loaves of manchet. The bread was fresh and crisp from the ovens so the Hanse merchant’s servant must have gone out in time for the early baking.

  It was the first time all of them were gathered together without dodging pursers and it gave Ned a good opportunity to observe his new found companions. The interplay was fascinating. The relationship with Gruesome Roger was just one example.

  In any normal household a retainer knew his place in the family hierarchy. He was higher than most servants, but still lower in position than the least of the family members. This was different. Roger occupied the place of a close retainer whose duty was to watch over their safety. Commonly such men were veterans of the King’s French wars, and were an essential part of any retinue. Most families of any rank, even merchants, had at least one. His uncle could call on three, while a knight or peer would have anything from a dozen to perhaps hundreds. These men played many roles within a household not only that of protection. They could, for instance, be used to display their master’s power and authority. Smeaton usually did, modelling himself after his master, the Lord Chancellor. Wolsey had gained a great deal of resentment by using his well–armed retinue of three hundred to intimidate Parliament at the time of the Amicable Grant. His uncle had been disgusted that the Speaker of Parliament, Thomas More, had allowed the naked threat but then he had always said More grovelled to any man in vestments.

  The Black social arrangement however was extraordinary. While men of Roger’s rank were accorded a modicum of respect, Gruesome here was treated just like a member of the family. Mistress Black even served him as if she were the servant! To emphasise this irregularity, rather than playing the lord as he had seen a few uppish retainers do, Roger deferred to the young girl despite the fact that she was, well, young and a girl. Even more amazing was the attitude of her older brother. By rights Rob should have been head of this small household, but in most actions he had surrendered leadership to his younger sister. It was by any account a very unusual family.

  Ned fastidiously brushed the crumbs of his feast from his doublet. While his appearance was that of a vagrant at this moment, at the very least he could try to maintain a semblance of manners expected of his station in life. With his companions absorbed in eating Ned figured it was a good moment to steal a march upon the mischievous Mistress Black and seize the direction of this motley company. So he reached into his doublet and pulled out the heavy satchel, then weighed it thoughtfully in his hand. “Rob, you said this purse was dropped by the man who killed Smeaton?”

  As Rob Black was still occupied chewing his way through one of the loaves, this received only a nod in reply.

  “Well it’s not mine. It’s Smeaton’s, and I think it may be why he was murdered.”

  There, he had said it, and was rewarded for his honesty with first a spray of crumbs, and then a chorus of exclamations.

  “What!” Gruesome Roger leapt to his feet automatically, clutching for his cudgel while Meg Black regarded him once more with the same cool calculation he’d seen in the merchant’s room.

  “Sorry. With all the running about last night, I hadn’t a chance to tell you earlier!”

  Anyway cowering in the alleys by piles of refuse had neither been the time nor the place to investigate a dead man’s possessions. Not that he was superstitious, but somehow opening it in the full light of day seemed to banish any lingering associations with the vengeful spirit of the slain. Mistress Black however continued to look sceptically at him, as if he was about to ask them to play the shell game.

  Clearing his mouth of breadcrumbs Rob Black lent closer to examine the offending satchel. “You’re sure it was his?” As a
question, it was asked with part dread, part hope and part disappointment—he’d been so proud of its rescue.

  Ned pointed to the scarring slash disfiguring the satchel and positioned it where it would have hung. Rob Black’s finger traced the tell–tale slash and terminated at Ned’s uninjured side. He pulled at an ear distractedly and looked dejected. “I’m sorry Ned. I thought that it was yours, that’s why I chased him.”

  Ned gave the large lad a consoling pat on the shoulder. Well he’d tried his best and a friend had to be thankful for that. But it was still damned hard to forgo those fifty angels. He’d had them for so little time and they’d barely become acquainted.

  Before he’d had time to push on, another voice rudely interrupted. “Well what’s in it then?” Predictably that was Mistress Black who was currently trying very hard not to look too curious, even though she was attempting to push past the obstructing shoulder of her brother at the same time.

  “I’ve no idea. I haven’t opened it yet.” With the air previously rank with suspicion, Ned needed witnesses for what he was now about to do, and at this particular point in time he could hope for none better than the Blacks and Gruesome Roger.

  Ned unbuckled the strap tipping the contents onto the flat space of a nearby barrel head. It was a curious set of objects including three folded letters, one bearing the seal of the Lord Chancellor, and a package wrapped in parchment. It was a distinctly odd collection. Ned picked up one of the letters, opened it up and peered at the cramped script. It was difficult to make out the writing in the shadow of their room, but it looked like a bill for shipping of freight. He picked up the next one to find it was more of the same, and giving a shrug he dropped them.

  The sealed letter was another matter. The fatal blade had punctured the folded parchment and the outside still bore dark, dried traces of Smeaton’s death. However the assault had missed the Cardinal’s seal. It sat there boldly impressed into the red wax and seemed to ooze menace and implications into the morning light. As Ned held it in his hands all the authority of the King and his Privy Council manifested itself in this innocuous missive, and Ned was caught in a quandary. Despite his arrogance and unpopular decrees, Cardinal Wolsey was the King’s highest official. Any insult or action taken against him could be construed as being taken against the King and would be considered treasonous.

  Having been a year at the Inns of Court he knew what the charge of treason meant in all its terrible detail. The first problem would be the possibility of arrest and incarceration in the Tower, the place where the power, majesty and terror of the Crown was made manifest in England’s premiere city. As a consequence of this incarceration the accused could look forward to ‘being put to the question’ by royal officials. While the unnatural practices of the Turks might have being forbidden, the use of the rack, the boot and a few other choice implements of ‘persuasion’ could be employed to divine the root of the treasonous act.

  After this would be the trial. It was said that as an Englishman one had certain rights guaranteed by the law, and therefore must be tried before a jury of one’s peers. However according to some of the senior sergeants at law at the Inns, they couldn’t recall anyone coming before the courts on a charge of treason, and being found not guilty. When the almost assured verdict of ‘guilty’ was handed down, the gut–churning sentence was pronounced to all. The punishment for treason was to be hung, drawn and quartered. Only Lords and peers were granted the more speedy mercy of the axe.

  For commoners such as this disparate band there would be no mercy. First the guilty were dragged through the streets on a hurdle to either Tower Hill or to Tyburn, getting a battering from thrown rocks, dung and anything else that came to hand along the way. Londoners appreciated free entertainment so a good crowd was always guaranteed. Then it was up onto the scaffold where those condemned were hung by the neck until almost unconscious. Next came the part of the punishment that brought cold sweat to Ned’s forehead—the executioner cut off the hanged man’s privates and then, slitting the abdomen, pulled out the entrails and burned them in front of him. Ned could almost feel the press of the executioner’s blade upon his flesh. Finally after an hour or so, alive or not, the body was cut into four quarters and the remains placed prominently on display at the gates around the city. The head would be boiled in tar and saved for the spikes on London Bridge, as visible reminder of what fate awaited any found guilty of the heinous charge of treason. A sobering thought indeed.

  At this moment Ned didn’t feel very treasonous at all. He felt afraid, in fact almost terrified, and would like nothing better than pass this problem onto someone else. However underlying this veneer of fear was a deep smouldering anger. He’d done nothing wrong and yet found himself being unjustly pursued, and now forced to choose between being hung for murder or that of the ignoble and gut–wrenching punishment reserved for traitors.

  Ned tilted the letter in the meagre light. Below the seal was a simple script in Latin:

  Salutem tibi do in nomine Christum meum praecipuum salvatores amico tuo Laurentius Campegius Thomas Volsaeus amiculi praebebit hanc manum ad servum tuum Rodolfo.

  That was the easy part, a standard salutation. Silently he mouthed the words, and thinking back over his training in the Latin of the legal fraternity, made a quick translation.

  I give you greetings in Christ our saviour’s name mine especial friend Lorenzo Campeggio from your loving friend Thomas Wolsey given by this hand to your servant Rodolfo

  As if they needed any dread warning! So Smeaton was carrying a missive between the two cardinal legates. Ned pulled out his poniard and paused to gaze at the crest emblazoned on the seal. His daemon was beside itself with terror, counselling flight and evasion, while his angel only provided a whisper of reluctant encouragement. Then carefully with the edge of his blade he broke the seal in half. May as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb he thought. The room had gone quiet, a hushed moment of indrawn breath, as all his companions watched him commit treason. If his uncle knew what was happening now, the Commissioner of Sewers would have wished he’d left his worthless nephew in the Clink.

  The parchment cracked open and all lent closer, perusing the fine Latin script. It must have been curiosity as Ned doubted that any of the others could read the classical language it contained. He slowly worked his way through the letter, whispering the Latin phrases and translating them in his head. In his concentration he failed to notice that at least one of his fellow traitors was also absorbed in the same task.

  As Ned read on inconsistencies began to emerge. He was used to reading through classically framed letters and musty tomes of law. Each had their own style of phrasing. Letters for instance tended to mimic the style of Cicero the Roman, and were packed full of elegant Latin allusions, the better to display one’s learning or the fact that you could easily afford to retain someone with that learning. Meanwhile law texts laboured under the weight of the attempt to spell out exact statements that had often been added to or subtracted from over the years in a polyglot mix of French, Latin and older English.

  This writ which could almost be for their execution seemed not to fit—the words differed. Overall once you stripped it of all the titles and superfluous wordage, it was actually a very simple letter. In essence it was as the front piece said, a letter of correspondence between Cardinal Wolsey and the Papal envoy, Cardinal Campeggio. It started with the usual phases expressing hopes for the continuing good health of the recipient, promises of continuing and loving friendship, and such like. But still as his eyes traced its ornate lines he seemed to be able to make little sense of seemingly discordant phrases. One referred to a gift or could that actually be a noble offering –‘Noblis donum’. But then there was the mention of ‘portare’, to carry, and that seemed to make no sense at all. If it was referring to the letter, then possibly it should refer to ‘taballarius’, the letter–bearer, and if Smeaton was supposed to have carried something else then what was it, and come to that, where was it? Whatever
it was, it couldn’t have been very large and the Cardinal had dated the letter a few days before Smeaton’s murder. Did he have this ‘gift’ on him when he was murdered? Or had he been on his way to fetch it? And what did this have to do with his death? Despite its discovery and Ned’s risk opening it, this letter was disappointing. The cursed scrap raised more questions than it answered.

  While Ned continued to puzzle over the contents of the letter the others were examining everything else. Gruesome Roger was conducting his own investigation. He’d thoroughly searched the satchel, looking for any secret pockets or signs of new double stitching were none should be—a common trick for couriers. However it was Mistress Margaret who found the next surprise.

  It was the package.

  The others had ignored it in their search for secrets but not Meg. The slight fragrance of flowers drew her attention to it. She turned the package over noticing that it too was sealed with red wax like the letter in Ned’s hand. In the morning light it was also possible to make out the light tracing of two names and a brief cryptic instruction in a spidery scrawl. One possibly was familiar and that was enough to prompt her next move.

  She opened the package revealing four candles. Each candle was about two hand–spans long, two or three fingers broad, and made from the finest beeswax. It was the kind used by the Church and then only in large cathedrals or a lord’s private chapel. The rich, aromatic scent of honey was still strong on them, as if they had only been made a couple of weeks before. But most telling of all, they were heavier than any candle this size had the right to be. Inquisitively she picked at the candle with a small knife that hung from her belt. The short white shavings fluttered down to the floor until she had revealed an inner core of white parchment. Very strange. You didn’t make candles like this—the centre should have been made of a fine twisted cord. Tapping it she found the core solid. It was probably suspicion that brought about the next revelation. Ned on his limited acquaintance with Mistress Black would have called it impetuous frustration. Her brother probably would have been prudently diplomatic and silent. With a mutter of impatience Meg Black raised what was left of the candle and brought it down hard against the top edge of the upturned barrel. What wax was left shattered and broke off in a shower of white flakes that resembled shards of ice.