The Cardinal's Angels (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries)

by Gregory House

  As he took his seat in what was laughingly considered the boat, Ned noticed that Rob paid the man two gold angels. By all the saints, that much would buy three boats of both better size and condition than this one! Did he have no understanding at all of value? After a satisfied sampling of the coin the dwarf boatman pushed off from the bank. And Ned lost his last shred of confidence.

  What was this? The boatman was lacking a hand! Where fingers should have been, a rounded claw fixed to a leather cap grasped the oar. Ned really would have taken his chances on the street but for the fact that they were now gliding out into the river. Unless he wanted to swim the shore was not an option. In a struggle for distraction Ned asked the boatman a question. “Ahh ferryman how’d you lose your hand?”

  “This ‘ook? Only ‘ad it a year or so. Lost God’s good gift to that damn watermill on tuther side o’ the bridge. Shot straight through the race but left me ‘and ahind.” He gave a grim cackle and spat into the passing ripples of the river just missing the floating corpse of a dog.

  That was the wrong answer. Ned’s daemon demanded they jump ship while his angel had frantically started praying. They were in the hands, or rather hand, of an inmate of St Mary’s of Bethlehem, a Bedlamite, a loon, a man with fewer wits than a Scot! According to his own account he took the race between the giant water wheels that drove the mill on the bridge. Quietly Ned mouthed the words of the ‘Pater Noster’, thinking longingly of all the sins that he probably would now never have the chance to commit.

  London Bridge was a wonder of the modern age. No other city in Europe could claim an equal to this splendour of design or construction. The bridge had been built over three hundred years ago, and except for some minor repairs after flood, fire and storm, it was still essentially the same structure so the wardens claimed. It stood on nineteen great stone arches that themselves where embedded in built–up footings of piled rocks, held in place from storm surge, flood and tide by a circle of great oaken stakes driven deep into the muddy floor of the river. It was these starlings as they were named that created the ominous reputation of the London Bridge race, and in one part powered the great mill’s water wheels. As the tide ebbed and flowed twice daily, the waters of the great river were forced through the varying gaps between the starlings, some only fifteen feet, others broader than thirty. The races of London Bridge were legendary or rather infamous—the surging torrents of water all trying to pass through these narrow passages at once frequently meant there could be as much as a ten foot drop from one side of the passages to the other. There was a local saying in the city—wise men choose the bridge to cross the river, fools passed under it. During the slack tide this wasn’t a problem since the flow was in equilibrium and that was when most of the freight passed up river or to places such as the Steelyard from the docks down river.

  For Ned, looking grimly ahead at the white spray dashing off the aged oak piers, the safety of the slack tide passage wasn’t happening. That was still hours away and for all he knew their pursers were not that far off. He knew the usual procedure. Everyone did who was anywhere near sensible or sober. You disembarked at the Bear Inn on one side of the bridge, and then engaged another boat on the other. It was safe and easy though he had heard that the Innkeeper usually derived a great deal of custom from salvaging those too imprudent to follow the common practice. But he also knew that Gruesome Roger was right—it would be the perfect place to ambush them. So the race it was.

  Despite the lack of a hand and his diminutive stature their boatman navigated them towards the bridge with deft strokes as he manoeuvred into position. Ned thought he would aim for one of the larger gaps—they had the dubious reputation for being marginally safer. That however wasn’t the case. Instead the dwarfish boatman sculled directly for the narrowest gap. It was with a rapidly increasing sense of dread that Ned watched their accelerating approach to the raging torrent compressed between the blunt wooden teeth of the starling. His prayers increased correspondingly.

  Ned really didn’t cherish the idea of a sudden watery death and looked to his companions for desperate reassurance. Or not. The Black clan, brother and sister, were holding onto a rope traversing the vessel and with broad grins across their faces, looked expectantly at the maelstrom that beckoned the small boat onwards. By all the saints he was in the company of madmen! This was not at all how he had expected to reach the hereafter. Maybe he could still convince Gruesome Roger. The thought died unformed on his lips as he turned towards the man. The retainer threw his head up to the sky and howled with unsuppressed excitement. Ned gripped the gunwales with his hands until he could feel the rough splinters driving into his skin and closed his eyes imploring all and any saint for divine intercession.

  They hit the storm of water, and life for Ned stalled, spray splattering forcefully onto his face forcing open his eyes. He saw the race in all its majesty and terror, the slimy weed that streamed like banners from the age blackened piers, and the foamed wave that hovered over them as they slipped down the race into the waiting maw of the river. He felt the teeth of demons clutching at the vessel and heard their welcoming screams as the fragile timber bucked and swayed in the roiling waters until, only by the grace of the Almighty, the boat gave a final quiver and shot out into the calmer waters.

  Ned opened his eyes and couldn’t believe the sight that greeted him. Rob Black lent backward, a great grin plastered across his face. “What’d you think? Wasn’t that fun! Thanks John, that was better than last time!”

  Suddenly Ned felt an almost overwhelming desire to thump both of the Black siblings. For the love of God and all the saints, angels and denizens of the Heavenly sphere, they had done this before, and from their reactions they thought of such risks as enjoyable. He shook his head in bewilderment—there was no understanding some people, their secret trade must have corrupted their wits!

  The rest of the passage was calmer and they deftly glided between the usual traffic of the lower river, barges with freight from docked vessels and the ever present wherries like their own, ferrying passengers and goods across the river. If by some chance a watcher had been observant enough to see their passage through the race, they’d now be hard put to distinguish them from the rest of the crafts that thronged the waters. One handed or not, their boatman moved skilfully through the jostling vessels at good speed and with an economy of effort. They reached the first of the Tower wharves after Petty Wales by the ringing of the Terce bells and under the instruction of Mistress Black they docked.

  This meant that his understanding of the snatch of overhead conversation had been correct. The Tower was their destination. Well that was good news of a sort. At least ashore there would be more opportunities to bolt in need if the situation demanded. Though once he had staggered ashore, Ned forgot the need for calculation and instead felt an overwhelming urge to hug the muddy soil of the riverside. The journey down the river had been a revelation and one he would prefer not to repeat. He couldn’t believe his ears that the Black clan were already planning another wild excursion. They even tipped the grinning boatman another angel. The family must be insane!

  While they were engaged in this happy banter Ned surveyed their next port of call. The Tower was a large and impressive edifice. It was meant to be. He’d heard that it was originally built by the Norman conqueror, King William to overawe his newly taken capital. Since that time some four hundred years ago, the people of London had at best an ambivalent relationship with the pale stone walls and towers that overlooked the city. Depending on the monarch it was either a ready source of income or a deliberate symbol of menace. It had also served a dual function as royal palace and the traditional place of confinement for prisoners who required a close and special supervision such as traitors.

  Ned turned his gaze from the view of the cluster of round and octagonal towers of the Bulwark gate to one of the Black siblings. Right now, if the Hanse merchant could be believed, at least one of their friends was secured behind these stone walls, under the supe
rvision of the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, Sir Thomas More. What need could drive them to walk through the doors of this ominous place? More to the point why should he?

  Chapter Fourteen–The Tower

  Having concluded their arrangements for a further assignation next week with the wherry man, the Black’s, brother and sister, walked over to where Ned patiently waited under the watchful eye and firm grip of Gruesome Roger. So much for common trust! Well to be honest he didn’t trust Mistress Black who had maintained a stiff silence about the reason for being here. Only his regard for Rob bound him to this company and of course the prospect if they lived of being fabulously wealthy. For the twentieth time this day he cursed himself for acting the gallant and saving Mistress Black’s honour. But all that was now history and idle speculations. Ned now tried hard to project an air of relaxed nonchalance, as if visiting royal estates was an everyday event for him. It failed. The guard on the gate regarded him with a very unfriendly eye. Ned was beginning to sweat in apprehension. The rest of the troupe belied his concern and walked straight up to the grimacing fellow whom Ned couldn’t help noticing held a very sharp looking polearm. Mistress Black flashed the fellow a pretty smile in greeting. “Good morrow Harry. Master Robinson here today?”

  With a brief nod and a grimaced grin the guard let her pass while casually reaching out with his unoccupied hand to catch a tossed silver coin. “Aye, Mistress. e’s up with ‘is dearies.”

  And so the Black entourage sauntered past into what was supposed to be the most closely guarded fortress in England. Ned took a moment to stare in stunned surprise before hurrying after them with an abashed mutter of ‘I’m with them’ to the guard, who gave a brief sneer before hawking a yellow gob in his vague direction. He caught up the others at the bridge over the moat to Lion Tower where His Majesty kept the royal menagerie. The echoing cough of a beast made Ned start for a moment and the ever observant Gruesome Roger gave an amused snigger.

  Passing over the second bridge they walked through the gate at the base of Byward Tower. Once past the curtain wall and inner wall and through another tower they beheld the enclosed central space surrounding the White Tower. This scene wasn’t what Ned expected. Instead of the peace and repose of what he had fondly imagined in a royal establishment, the place was like any other part of the city, noisy and full of busy workers. The grounds were packed with the scaffolding for new building and repairs while a newish looking set of long sheds leaned against the north wall. In short it was pandemonium though one area towards the north–western corner seemed to have the least confusion, if an equal amount of activity.

  A swarm of men were hauling on a network of thick ropes leading up to a rigged tripod crane. The strange device was suspended over some engine or other and as Ned watched a huge snarling tubular snout hove into view above the struggling crew. By God, he almost crossed himself, it looked so menacing. The Blacks however continued to walk towards it.

  As they got closer Ned picked out further salient details. The monster in question was one of the King’s great Gonnes, about sixteen feet long, about as round as a man was broad and presently suspended a few feet above a solid wooden carriage. One figure stood out from the men labouring over the long beast of war. He was of middle height and lean with a magnificently prominent nose that sliced through the air as he encouraged his crew to greater effort. At the start of the labour he’d been dressed as a gentleman but had shrugged off his doublet and was leaning dangerously under the slow swaying bronze monster until he caught sight of the new arrivals.

  Then to Ned’s surprise, he straightened up and beckoning briskly, called to them. “Good day my friends. Rob come here. I have need of your opinion!”

  Rob Black immediately threw himself underneath the suspended monster and went into a hunched consultation over some piece of the arcane mechanical construction. Ned was horrified, for while his companion and the doublet–less gentleman investigated the heavy two–wheeled wooden carriage, the bronze beast continued to move slowly above them, held only by the straining muscles of the twenty men on the ropes. Mistress Black must have been used to such cavalier behaviour, for after a brief acknowledgement of the greeting, she walked off accompanied by Gruesome Roger to watch a brace of labourers moving a large stone lintel into place. Ned, standing beside the crane rig, was more concerned at the imminent threat to Rob especially as the ropes squealed and complained with the strain. He edged towards the pair of obsessed mechanics and kicked his companions protruding boot, pointing above to the hovering presence.

  “Ahhh Rob?”

  Rob Black reluctantly extracted himself from under the carriage and as if for the first time noticed the problem. He dove underneath again and pulling urgently on his companion in obsession, frantically waving towards the threatening heavens. Then began a frenetic chain reaction that included the now pressed Ned to drag forward the offending carriage of heavy oak and quickly deploy a series of braced timber stands onto which the beast to be cautiously lowered. This was not before time, according to the coarse complaints from the men crewing the ropes.

  Once secured the labourers eagerly dispersed to their prior occupations and Rob Black made to return to his inspection until a loud cough recalled him guiltily to Ned’s presence.

  “Ohh yes, Master Robinson. This is a friend of ours, Edward Bedwell, though he reckons he prefers Red Ned.” That was delivered with such a clap to the back that Ned staggered forwards a few paces.

  The other Gonne devotee gave Ned the once over and crinkled his brow in thought. That took a bit of doing. The gentleman had been granted a larger area than most since his hair had begun a precipitous retreat. However it gave him a contemplative and distinctive air almost that of a cleric, which didn’t quite match the stains on his shirt and hose. Under a piece of equipment was obviously this gentleman’s favourite abode.

  “Master Bedwell pleased to meet you. I’m Benjamin Robinson of Lincoln, Senior Clerk of the King’s Ordinance. I knew some Bedwells from Cheltenham. Any relation?”

  Damn the curse of his origins. Ned cleared his throat nervously. “Sir I am afraid I do not know. I am the nephew of Richard Rich.”

  Master Robinson rubbed his well–barbered face in contemplation and hemmed a little before he spoke. “Ahh, the Commissioner of Sewers?”

  Ned nodded forlornly. Why was it everyone in the city instantly recalled Lord Cesspool?

  Master Robinson however made no further comment but drew Rob Black into a complex discussion regarding the faults of the carriage. Ned didn’t claim any familiarity with those arcane skills and the most he knew of cannons was that they gave a loud roar when fired from the Tower walls on celebratory days. But his friend was proving amazingly familiar with all the facets of their construction, use and apparently breakages. Ned was fascinated to find out that this carriage for instance had been built from green unseasoned timber, and with use this past year had developed serious splits. Rob then proceeded to tick off a list of flaws, derisively pointing out the state of the ironwork with broken and cracked staples and restraining bands, indicating bad workmanship and brittle poor quality iron. For Ned it was an unexpected education in the mechanics of war.

  Tiring of the view of the repair work Mistress Black returned and with toe tapping impatience waited for the Gonne discourse to wind down under her concentrated glare. Even so it still took a little time and more than a few not so subtle ‘hints’ from his sister before Rob Black finally remembered the pressing reason for their visit.

  “Umm Ben, could we talk to you, ahh, somewhere private?” Rob shuffled his feet and looked rather sheepish as he asked.

  The gentleman in question had watched Mistress Black’s efforts at distraction with increasing amusement that twitched the left side of his face into a wicked smile as he played along. However before they left the broken carriage he scratched a few notes regarding Rob Black’s observations in a small book that magically appeared from a satchel at his belt along with a well–trimmed quil
l and capped horn ink pot.

  Ned had never been in the White Tower before, so it was revelation to find that this building was as much a polyglot as the space between the walls. They passed rooms stacked with armour and weapons while others held small workshops and a couple of clerk’s offices, full of men pouring over letters and parchment scratching away. It was to a room in the north–western corner on the ground floor that they adjourned.

  The Senior Clerk of the King’s Ordinance appeared to have a privileged position in the Tower hierarchy. He had a small room to himself containing a table and clerks counter, along with stacked books, slates and a pile of oil cloth wrapped objects stored in an open coffer chest. Ned wasn’t sure what to make of its statement of rank in the royal hierarchy since it appeared more a storeroom. His uncle would have been horrified at the casual lack of display or rich ostentation. With some awkward shuffling they spread themselves on various stools and chests filling up the small space.

  Master Robinson assumed an amused perch on his table after shoving back a precariously balanced pile of papers and drawings. He made his welcome quite plain by offering to pay for some provender to be brought from the tavern set within the walls. Rob Black forestalled this act of generosity and visibly tossed one of the gold angels to Gruesome Roger, who left with a knowing grin. With arched eyebrows Master Robinson noted the passage of the golden coin.

  Assuming her unnatural leadership Mistress Black related the tale of the murder of Smeaton and wound through all the complications until they had reached the Tower gate. Ned noted a few carefully edited areas, but on the whole it went well and he only cringed in a couple of parts of the tale. Master Robinson proved to be a most astute listener and the tale concluded with the handing over of one of the Cardinal’s angels. The Senior Clerk of the King’s Ordinance spent some time looking the golden coin over, and holding it to the light, peered closely at its details. He finished by placing it carefully on the table and sighed deeply. Gruesome Roger had returned as the story wound to its present conclusion and passed around the tavern’s speciality, salmon and date pies along with thick slices of smoked ham. It would seem that the inmates of the Tower ate very well. Ned thought it was the close proximity to the royal apartments that encouraged the quality, that and as his daemon slyly hinted unofficial access to the royal larder.