The Cardinal's Angels (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries)

by Gregory House

  The day was getting darker as the black clouds crowded overhead. Any sensible man would be thinking of concluding their business and getting under shelter. With the Watch you could tell that thought was uppermost in their minds, well at least those who didn’t seem unhealthy obsessed with sheep.

  For form’s sake Ned poked into the first couple of alehouses and stews, using the many faceted skills of the Watch. He sent them in for the searches always with a few coins to ‘encourage’ the troops. Wisely he ensured the rest of them stayed outside to keep an eye on any pursuers, while all the time keeping the baleful Mistress Black at a reasonable distance.

  As luck would have it they’d gained enough space by the time they’d reached the Cardinal’s Cap. Ned really didn’t want any of his company to be seen here. It might prompt inconvenient recollections, so he pulled the lumbering Watch commander to one side. “Ahh Constable Dewberry, I believe we’d have better luck if we split up. Stay here and see what you can discover.”

  Ned dropped the small purse into the constable’s ready hand. “I’ve a mind to investigate the Gryne Dragone.”

  Practiced instinct carried the constable through the next few moments. One hand discretely shoved the purse into his expansive doublet while the other snapped up in a brisk salute. Then the import of Ned’s instruction percolated through and two emotions washed over the fleshy face. The first was a flush of cheery satisfaction at being paid to ‘investigate the gaming house’. The next wasn’t so pleasing. His ruddy features turned a deathly pale and he struggled for speech. “Sir, wouldn’t it be better if’n we all investigated the gamin’ ‘ouse? Tis a friendly place and welcoming girls if’n yea gets my drift.”

  The last place Ned wanted to go was back into the Cardinal’s Cap. He casually waved off the invitation. “No Constable. I believe your men are the best for this task. Local wisdom and all that.”

  Constable Dewberry stepped closer, and grabbing Ned by the arm, thrusting his waxen face in close. Ned tried to gain some distance from the fetid aroma of onions and ale but the Watch commander had a surprisingly firm grip for a tub of lard. “Nay lad. I beg thee come inside. Join me in an ale. I’ll even pays for it.”

  This was unusual behaviour. Ned dropped a hand to the sword Ben Robinson had pressed on him in clear threat. “Unhand me Constable or you’ll regret it!”

  Rob and Gruesome took a step closer overshadowing the clearly trembling Constable. Dewberry flicked his wide eyed gaze to the two larger men and licked his lips nervously. “Yea mistake me lad. Tis your own safety I’s thinking of. Yea don’t want to go there, not to the Gryne Dragone. Even we’s leave the place well alone!”

  As usual Mistress Black couldn’t keep out of any discussion and pushed her way forward between Ned’s rescuers and the constable. “Why not?”

  “Ahh mistress, surely yea have heard? Tis the haunt of Gryne’s men. You don’t wants to go there!”

  Meg Black just frowned at the answer but for Ned it had another effect. The slow chill of comprehension crept up his spine. “No Constable… surely not! Those tales must be over blown. Such things don’t happen in these enlightened times.” It was bravely said and may have banished the ill tales of memory, if not for the visible shaking of the redoubtable Constable Dewberry.

  “Nay sir. I saw what was left. A few months ago they cornered a fellow down by St Mary’s Overie an’ hacked his arms and legs off with a great butcher’s cleaver, then shoved the torso on a spike and paraded it down High Street calling out for Southwark to beware of breaking ‘Gryne’s Peace’. It even terrified ol’ Cantin’ Michael’s men. They still won’t cross High Street after dark, God’s holy truth sir!” To add verification the constable crossed his expansive girth.

  Well that put a different complexion on their visit to the Gryne Dragone. Ned tried to figure out what they could do. He for one didn’t want his parts paraded around Southwark.

  “Pack of weak kneed cowards! Stop dawdling.” Mistress Black obviously heeded no one or common sense for she strode down the alley towards the ominous district. Gruesome Roger watched her retreating back for a few moments before giving a resigned shrug and following after.

  At that hint a sheepish Rob joined them, leaving Ned with a sorely shaken constable. The old soldier gave him consoling pat on the shoulder. “Looks like your friends are for the Angels lad. I’ll light a few candles in yea memory.”

  Straightening his shoulders and with hand firmly on hilt, he strode after as if he owned the road. Well he really didn’t have a choice did he? Red Ned Bedwell, the ‘Scourge of Southwark’, wasn’t going to be shamed by a mere girl, and certainly not Mistress Black!

  Chapter Seventeen–The Gryne Dragone, Southwark

  Ned had to lengthen his stride to catch up with the rest of his company. As they entered the alley of ill repute, he did manage to notice a few signs of irregularity and strangeness. For one thing from the head of the street the road surface was clean, like really clean and cobbled and the cobbles actually shone and not with the usual green iridescence that betokened an overflowing cesspit. It look as though someone swept them very day. No that was impossible. No parish officials in the city could gain that sort of compliance, even for ready pence and free ale. What sort of fiends lived here that engendered such a thorough scourging by their neighbours?

  It wasn’t far until they caught up with the brazen Mistress Black. She was standing in the middle of the alley looking up at the slowly swinging sign. Yes there could be no doubt– it was definitely a carving of a green dragon. Meg was frowning in thought as if searching out a sore tooth.

  It was Ned’s turn to query her delay. “What is it? Gryne’s Men?”

  Mistress Black shook her head but continued to frown. “I know something about this place–it’s on the edge of my tongue.”

  Abruptly she waved it away as if it was an annoying fly and pushed the door open. The rest of the company hesitated only for a moment then followed. Ned considered Ben Robinson’s warning of an abode of dark magicks. He’d really prefer to be almost anywhere else, but as he was coming to expect Mistress Black’s headstrong nature to place them in peril, whether it was from pride, honour, friendship, or sheer contrariness. With eyes wide open and after a brief prayer Ned stepped across the threshold.

  And entered into another world. This was not the city they were used to. Even Ned hadn’t seen its like before, and he considered himself an expert on the city drinking houses. Most taverners made some attempt at improving their interiors, ranging from the simple white wash once a year to painted canvas tapestries, or the extreme opulence of wood panelling. This tavern had looked at all those possibilities and tossed them out as being the preserve of sodomites and French purveyors of rent boys. Real men, the décor shouted, liked sharp or pointy iron and the remnants of dead animals. Ned had never seen so many tools for maiming as he now beheld gracing the tavern’s walls. Well ‘gracing’ was perhaps the wrong term. They packed the space between the splendid skulls and antlers of stags. Considering that the only deer to be found around the region of the city were in the grounds of the King or important lords, it was a very provocative statement.

  Ned’s view automatically began cataloguing the wall furniture, while behind him his friend Rob whistled in appreciation. Every imagined implement of mayhem was here, from great swords meant for cleaving plate armour to ferocious looking halberds and poleaxes that could, when used by a determined man, bloodily pry a knight out of his protective shell. By all the saints, if the Ward Muster Companies ran out of equipment, this place could arm a company or so. And if the bands were short of bodies, the inhabitants of the tavern would provide an excellent Landsknecht Forlorn Hope.

  Like every young gentleman Ned had heard the tales of the most savage and professional soldiers of the Emperor’s armies who were assembled as the first wave in storming fortifications in a do or die effort. As a lad he’d thrilled to the stories of bravery and daring. However imagination paled when faced by the reality. Th
ese men were professionals. Mayhem and killing was their trade. Not a man present lacked scars or the hard eyed glare of mercenary calculation. No wonder Canting Michael’s men avoided this place. Ned tried not to swallow nervously as Constable Dewberry’s tales acquired a new measure of respect.

  Their entrance had the same effect as a mouse stumbling into a room full of hungry cats. Most of its denizens turned to survey the new comers with a speculative anticipation. Ned got the impression that the newcomers had been weighted and assessed both in value for ransom, roistering or martial ability. As expected they lingered appreciatively over Mistress Black. Ned may think her insufferable but she did fit a bodice well and those sparkling blue eyes of hers grabbed any ‘quick’ man by the throat. Then they checked out Rob and were impressed. His height and broad shoulders would gain attention in any gathering. For Gruesome Roger they reserved the brief nod of respect for a fellow professional in the trade of brutality. Finally as Ned, made his entrance, he was miffed to find that, for the majority of the crowd, he’d been dismissed as of little interest, or threat. At another time his pride and honour would have snarled a complaint. Right now they were strangled into silence by both his daemon and angel choosing survival and discretion.

  Once they’d taken several steps into the tavern one of the denizens stood up from his bench and sauntered over. By all the saints, he’d thought Rob Black imposing but this fellow towered over his friend. The giant must have topped six and a half feet easily with breadth of chest to match. It was difficult to discern much about the face as it was all but overwhelmed by an enormous beard, fiery red and split into two forks that flowed over the man’s chest.

  A low growl of a voice rumbled forth. “Wotcha want? You’re nay fram aroond here.”

  From the rough growl of his accent neither was he, but Ned wasn’t going to quibble. This was hopefully a question, rather than the threat it implied. Ned stood as tall as possible, which admittedly when compared to Redbeard wasn’t much. For a moment he considered implying that he came with the authority of the Lord Chancellor. Better sense quickly reasserted itself as he realised that this would probably only lead to his head becoming one more trophy adorning the walls along with all the dusty stag skulls.

  Mistress Black pushed in yet again. “We’re looking for Doctor Agryppa.”

  Redbeard tilted his head until it reached the lower level of Meg Black and gave her a measured regard. She certainly made an impact, almost two foot shorter, standing defiantly with hands on hips. “Aye an’ why would that be?”

  “It’s a private matter.”

  “So yea say. D’ye come fram any lord?”

  Ned was getting distinctly nervous. He could see the rest of the tavern’s inhabitants muttering and glancing at the ironware along the walls. Another of the ‘Forlorn Hope’ sidled up to Redbeard and held a brief whispered conversation. Redbeard nodded slowly and smiled, displaying a fine spread of broken teeth. As a friendly gesture it failed, putting Ned more in mind of a bear’s greeting to its dinner.

  “I’m recalled that yon doctor wer’ expectin’ ye’re.”

  With this unforeseen source of rescue, Redbeard stood to one side, eyes narrowed in wary interest. Mistress Black walked past, then an arm as thick as a tree trunk restrained the rest of them.

  “If’n I hear o’ trouble…” That grim warning was accompanied by a brief jerk of his head in the direction of the tavern audience. As if to emphasise the threat an infernal moaning and squealing began from the space near the tavern hearth. Ned quickly crossed himself–by all the saints they were murdering some poor soul already!

  Gruesome Roger gave a malicious grin. He must have been learning from Redbeard. “You’ve never meet any of the Gaels from across the Irish Sea?”

  “By St Michael, no. Nor do I want to—they’re wild cannibals who drink out of the skulls of their enemies.”

  The grin acquired a knowing leer. “Could be true, so I’d keep shut about that ‘ere, less yea wants to upset our hosts.”

  Ned gave the room another sweep. Well they didn’t look exactly English. Some looked more akin to bears or wolves so he clamped his mouth tight to prevent any further stupid slips. Weaving between the packed tables, they followed Redbeard’s messenger towards the back of the tavern to the cluster of tables under the flight of stairs that lead to the floor above. Now at some distance, Ned could both see and hear a man grappling with a strange instrument consisting of a large leather bag festooned with pipes, from which emerged the moaning drone that set his teeth on edge. He stilled his hand from making a cross. He was in the haunt of heathens and barbarians. It didn’t serve to make it worse.

  The messenger stopped at an alcove wedged under the stairs, and leaning down, shook a relaxed figure who lay with his head down over crossed arms on the table. Ned couldn’t see any face through the spill of snow white hair, though he instantly noticed the attractive girl sitting next to the old man, rather cute with green almond shaped eyes and a light dusting of freckles. She must have been some kind of servant for at their approach she bent over and spoke into the concealed ear and slowly the snowy headed elder straightened to an upright position.

  As the old man’s dark eyes found Meg Back he gave a tight lipped smile and nodded. She though gasped and went as pale as parchment then let out a savage cry. “Lewys Caerleon…I…I saw you burnt for Sorcery!”

  And then much to their surprise she lurched forward and slapped him across the face. The aged doctor’s head snapped back and would have thudded into one of the supporting posts for the stairs if his green eyed servant hadn’t caught him. Ned winced in sympathy. He knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of Mistress Black’s wrath. She would have lashed out again if her brother had not put out his hand, intercepting the next strike.

  Two things happened simultaneously. Rob Black was still trying to restrain his sister who’d instantly transformed into a maelstrom of fists and curses. Ned was amazed and a touch jealous at her descriptive use of language—a girl of her position shouldn’t be so fluent. The other more concerning phenomena was the abrupt halt to the squealing moan from the musician and the spreading ripple of angry faces turned in their direction. Damn, she might have gained them grudging admittance, but now the antics of Mistress Black could get them all killed!

  Her victim shook his head and with the aid of the young girl staggered upright. He was a lean straggly man of middle height. While Ned’s estimation of his age pushed it up past the fifties or older, the thick shock of snow–white hair and long flowing beard gave him the appearance of one of King Arthur’s sacred hermits like Myrrdin of the woods. There was about him a haunted air of sadness and melancholy, accentuated by the dark hollows under his eyes. To Ned if any man fitted the church’s description of those who daily trafficked with spirits and demons it was this fellow. As for the name, how could he be both Caerleon that Meg recalled so angrily and Agryppa that the Cardinal’s man knew?

  Lifting a single hand, the angry mutter in the tavern stilled as Caerleon/Agryppa spoke. “Peace. They are my guests.”

  Then ignoring the spitting fury of Mistress Black wrapped in her brother’s grip, the old man slipped out of his seat and slowly made his way up the stairs leaning on the steadying shoulder of his young attendant. Half way up he leant precariously over the rail and called to them. “Margaret Black, if you would know truth, follow, but I warn you, peril and loss dog your every footstep.”

  Mistress Black pried herself out of her brother’s restraining arms and glared at her victim. “Oh I will have truth, Doctor Caerleon. Be sure of that!”

  Ned watched the by–play. He’d never seen Margaret Black so infuriated even when he’d grabbed her at Bermondsey–the sparks of her anger could almost kindle the dry rushes underfoot. Ned hung back and let the Blacks go first. He noticed that Rob had relaxed his grip but still didn’t trust his spitfire of a sister. A large hand was circled around her arm. As for Gruesome Roger, Mistress Black’s menacing shadow, during the affr
ay he’d stepped back. To Ned that displayed uncommon good sense. Roger must have been used to the ‘play of robust discussion’ betwixt the Black siblings and had come to the understanding that letting things subside was the safest course.

  Just to be sure of distance, Ned played the gallant and formed the tail of their small procession, following their saviour up to a small doorway. It was set about half way along the balcony that overlooked the tavern. In the meantime the normal tavern hubbub resumed along with the squealing of the infernal instrument.

  As the drone set his teeth on edge Ned stood straighter refusing to flinch and gave the tavern pit a measured glance. His daemon screamed this was his worst idea yet, while his angel sorrowfully noted that he hadn’t been shriven recently or made confession. Ned ignored both his critics. He could see that their progress was being scrutinised. His analogy of the cats and mice sprang back to mind. It was plain they’d been accorded a status marginally above the mouse, but with a heavy hint this could be speedily revoked. Experience said show no fear and walk tall, an effect only a little spoilt by having to duck his head under the low lintel. Ned said a silent prayer as he turned his back on the ominous audience and entered the waiting lair of both Drs Agryppa and Caerleon, sternly reminding himself that it wasn’t as if he was walking into a demon’s abode. The smell of mould and sharp tang of sulphur must come from somewhere else, maybe a privy?