The Cardinal's Angels (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries)

by Gregory House

  Chapter Twenty–The Fields of London

  It was a familiar thump on the shoulder that stirred Ned from his sleep. Muzzily he cursed the mischievous early morning spirit of Mistress Black. As he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, Ned tried to figure out how he was going to tell his companions about the revelations of the night. Instinctively he yawned and stretched, only to be brought up short by the painful reminder of his sore ribs. As he massaged the brawl’s bruises Ned realised that unknowingly he’d crossed the first hurdle. He was going to share last night’s gleanings with both of the Black siblings and he hadn’t even flipped one of the Cardinal’s angels! Despite the moans of his shoulder daemon, Ned felt satisfied with that recognition of trust, even if it included the ever ungrateful Mistress Black.

  However his bane finally did him a good turn, since she’d awoken him in time to witness the entry of the lithesome Nerys and another tempting redhead bearing trays of bread and jugs of the morning small beer. This was more like it. The sight of her swaying form was most refreshing and her smile, well a man could easily awake up to that as opposed to the morning glower of the apothecaries’ apprentice. His better angel chastised him for sinful thoughts while his shoulder daemon joined in with a pointed remark regarding the size and reputation of her father.

  While they sat and munched away Ned passed around the two letters and gave a brief and ‘edited’ version of his conversation with Dr Caerleon. The conclusions came as no surprise, though he did notice that he received more than his share of speculative glares from Mistress Black during the retelling. That was fine. He was curious about her visit too.

  Since the news took some digesting it was Rob Black who spoke up first. “So we have proof of treason three times over. What do we do with it?”

  Ned wasn’t sure whether that was a question, or if his friend was just mulling over an idea out loud. In the end it didn’t matter for his sister leapt into the debate before it had barely begun. “Why are we even asking? It’s simple Christian duty. They should be given to the person threatened. Any fool can see it!”

  That judgement was given with a universal glare of approbation that encompassed all three males. Both Gruesome Roger and Rob looked away finding sudden interest in a small window or a crack in the wall. Ned just shook his head, disappointed. He expected some solidarity from those two. Meg Black, the arch fiend, must have them cowed by long association. Thus Lady Fortuna bestowed the mantle of leadership upon his shoulders. Good guidance of their company was now his responsibility, so Ned folded his arms and spoke with all the firm command and assurance he’d learnt at the Inns of Court. “It’s not quite so easy. We’ve no idea who’s the best faction to deal with!”

  His first sally gained Mistress Black’s full attention as she swung her frown towards him. “How can you say that? The path of loyalty and duty is so clear! I thought you, Red Ned Bedwell, claimed to be a gentleman?”

  Ned’s eyes narrowed at the slur from Mistress Black. However despite her assertion he took the path of reasoned argument, a path that his daemon assured him was impossible for a mere girl. “Because mistress, I don’t want my parts waving from the spikes on the city gates, which will happen to all of us with no ‘Good Lord’ for protection.”

  Clearly common sense had fled from her wits, for quicker than he’d have thought, she launched a scurrilous attack. “For the love of blessed Christ, how can anyone expect honour or decency from a tavern brawler who’s so debased in his morals that he’s training to be a lawyer? A meddler in strife and gutter arguments! A loathsome jackal and robber preying upon widows and orphans!”

  Ned could feel himself turn red and his hand instinctively clenched, driving his fingernails into the palms of his hand. If she were a man he’d have struck and challenged for a duel. His better angel soothed the violent temper, reminding him once more that she was just a girl, and as everyone knew, females were subject to wild flights and fancies. Instead of a blow he dropped his voice and replied in a tone dripping with disdain. “Why should we listen to a grubbing hedge herb dabbler? This is a man’s business not a weak and feeble minded girl!”

  With that appropriate rejoinder Mistress Black halted her raving. Her colour turned redder than beetroot and Rob Black performed what could be considered his bravest act to date. He leapt up and intercepted the attack launched by his sister.

  Ned fell back on his pallet stunned and bruised. Damn she was fast. He hadn’t even seen that coming! Her brother must have been more used to her tantrums, for it only took a minor struggle to seat her on the other side of the room. In the meantime Gruesome Roger had wisely continued his intense inspection of a crack in the wall. Ned gave a shuddering gasp, she’d barely touched him and his ribs ached like they’d been thumped by a horse. Lady Fortuna must have shielded him. If Rob hadn’t moved… No don’t go there. Being knocked on his arse twice by a girl wasn’t something he was going to mention.

  “This arguing isn’t going to help us.” Unlike the other two, Rob Black spoke very quietly and urgently, admonishing their rancour. His sister had retired to sit sulkily across the room and once more subjected them to a beetle eyed scowl. Ned gave a straightening tug to his doublet and returned to his friend a curt nod of acknowledgement. He at least could show some decorum.

  Rob Black watched his sister for a minute or so satisfied she wasn’t going to try for another attack, turned back to Ned. “All right Ned, we’re all in this. What can we do?”

  Ned’s temper cooled. It was a good question since their scope for action had changed at the Steelyard, again at the Tower and finally here at the Gryne Dragone, as each piece of the puzzle of Smeaton’s death slowly clicked into place. Now standing before the Surrey justices for murder looked like the least of his worries. He put hesitation aside and stepped boldly into the future. “I think if we go to the Lord Chancellor, we’ll get short thrift.” There he’d finally said it.

  Rob crossed his arms and slowly nodded while a grim chuckle issued from Gruesome Roger who elucidated on the Lord Chancellor’s probable reward with a graphic finger across the throat. Ned had to, however reluctantly, admit Gruesome Roger had their recompense correct. They’d be embarrassing to have around, and could convey inconvenient snippets to the wrong people.

  This only left a few other powerful men and since to Ned’s way of thinking he was now leading this discussion he raised the obvious two. “If Wolsey’s out, then what about Norfolk or Suffolk?”

  From the refuge of a turned back, Mistress Black called out her opinion. “Master Robinson said not to trust either of them!”

  Ned pursed his lip and gave a very steady and polite correction. “No, that’s not quite right. He said both were ambitious and ruthless.”

  Mistress Black spun around and endowed them with the full force of her frown and her thoughts. “So, that doesn’t mean we wouldn’t end up floating down the Thames. Why not get it to Lady Anne as Ben Robinson suggested?”

  Ned shook his head perplexed. Why was it that her questions always sounded both so sensible and unreasonable at the same time? While shouting at Mistress Black maybe satisfying it wasn’t going to get them anywhere and additionally just goad her into one more assault. Ned drew in a slow breath and calmly kept his temper in check. “Because Mistress Black, unless you have a very close contact in her household we’ll not get in, especially since one or more of her retainers is selling her letters to the Cardinal.”

  His response seemed to silence the vocal opposition. She ‘humphed’ quite loudly and turned around again showing them her stiffly set shoulders. Ned hoped that was the last effort to usurp his newfound leadership. The ploy with Norfolk and Suffolk appeared to work, drawing out her real connections to the Boleyn household. Now in normal times that link would prove very useful and profitable. However this week was as far from normal as possible without being in the land of Faerie. He’d got the firm impression from Cavendish that his master the Cardinal was pulling on all the levers of power, and as Lord Chancellor only
the King could countermand him. Their one chance was, as far as he could see, gain the royal ear. If Will Coverdale was correct in his assessment of Wolsey’s position, his ‘loving master’ the King was cooling in his ardour and respect for his first minister. So their choices narrowed to one and he couldn’t see any other way.

  Ned loathed what he was about to do, but then nothing else offered a chance, so he spoke up. “I have a way into the royal household.”

  An instant later Ned had gained their complete attention. Even Mistress Black unbent to scowl curiously over her shoulder. “My uncle could get us in. He just needs convincing.”

  For some reason Ned’s revelation didn’t have the effect he’d expected. His companions stared at him as if he’d been dancing in the moonlight. Then the argument really started.

  The discussion continued though that was probably a mild term for the ‘robust’ debate that followed. For the next hour frequent intervention by Rob Black halted the escalation to blows, while Gruesome Roger sat back watching the performance with what was plainly an amused grin. The final grudging concession was mainly acquired through Rob’s calm negotiation. Ned was beginning to see him as the most sensible member of the Black clan, perhaps the only one.

  Anyway the consensus was that a message should to be sent to Master Richard Rich to meet his nephew at the White Lamb by dusk as per the prior arrangement. Five of the Cardinal’s angels were included, wrapped and sealed in a small folded package, as both an incentive and indication of the gravity of the matter. From sheer common sense, Ned had made the letter extremely brief and vague, while the messenger, one of Gryne’s men was impressed with the importance of his venture. Though Ned thought the fellow’s attention was more held by the promise of two angels for his service.

  After that hard won argument Ned felt it would be much safer if he waited in the tavern commons, away from the still seething Mistress Black who’d taken a grumpy set against the decision. So Ned took a seat at one of the tavern benches and slowly worked his way through bowl of pease pottage and a small jug of ale. Whoever the brew master was he should be commended. It was damned good, light in taste but full of a golden honey flavour with the aroma of new cut spring grass.

  While he was taking one more lingering pull at the firkin Redbeard sauntered over and pulled up a bench opposite. “Dr Agryppa reckon’d we sh’d talk.”

  Ned pulled up a spare tankard and poured a full measure of ale for his new bench companion. Redbeard’s broken smile flashed as he accepted the offering. In one long draught he casually emptied it without drawing breath. Ned hid a grin. Gulping Jimmy would have been impressed at that feat. Of all their party probably only Gruesome Roger understood the full implications of being sheltered here. Ned had seen it last night, when the Black’s retainer had relaxed his wary guard after the meeting with Caerleon. Ned, no stranger to Southwark, had a partial understanding of the undercurrents that dominated the south bank of the Thames. Since this area was split between the jurisdictions of several ecclesiastical lords, it was in effect subject to an ‘absence’ of law. Gryne’s Men filled that void and lapped out. Ned had heard rumours about a ‘tavern’ where a gentleman could hire men experienced in affray to bulk up a retinue or perform an unspecified ‘task’ involving menace like debt collection or to avenge an insult. The sight last night of the tavern’s clientele and their wall decorations confirmed for Ned that rumours fell far short of the truth. The Gryne Dragone was London’s version of a mercenary guild hall such as was to be had in the German lands. Now the Lord Chancellor may believe he retained these men for guards, possibly via Smeaton. However the truth was Wolsey’s gold didn’t count as much as the debts and respect. This companie held for Caerleon. That was a fact that Ned planned to use to his advantage.

  Redbeard dropped the empty firkin to the table with a satisfied sigh and wiped the froth from his great forked beard. Now that Ned wasn’t convulsed with fright he could see the similarities between father and daughter, same eyes for one. His daemon sagely suggested flirting with Nerys might not be a good idea. He tended to agree. Her lithe figure and long hair wasn’t worth a pounding by Captaine Gryne. Caerleon hadn’t mentioned the name of his protector—that was let slip by Nerys. Gryne was renowned as the commander of the mercenary companie, the ‘Krekers. In the past wars in France he’d saved Suffolk during an ambush by grabbing one of the duke’s assailants, had broken the Frenchman’s neck and swinging the body around him, had used the body as a weapon of convenience. Having met the real figure of legend he’d believe the man capable of that and more.

  “Thankee lad. Tis a fair draught, an’ a friendly act.” The voice came out once more as a rumble but it was less threatening in the morning. Captaine Gryne’s eyes glowed with a speculative humour. “Yo’ know lad? I’ve heard tell of yea, Red Ned, the master o’ the’ pit! Purr Mick Cantin’s in a rit’ stir ov’r yea feat.”

  Captaine Gryne tugged at the ends of his forked beard and his tone held a fair degree of inquisitiveness. “Noowr ,Cantin’ he’s nout a lad to cross. Best if’n yea kept away fro’ his parts o’ town. Since ye’r friends o’ the Doctor, yea hav’ the safety o’ my lads, the bond o’ Gryne on that.”

  For Ned that was much more reassuring to hear than the doom laden interpretations of Caerleon. Over his meal Ned had been considering this island refuge in the rowdy streets of Southwark and how it must worked. Curious he posed a question to his host. “You control the bull baiting past Dead Man’s Place don’t you?”

  Redbeard broke into a wide grin. Somehow it made his features even more disturbing. The jagged broken teeth lent an added menace. “Aye I do, fro’ there back ta Long Southwark an’ all o’ New Rents. The bishop o’ Winchester pays me ta guard his palace, while yon prelate o’er at Lambeth gives silver ta upset his neighbours, while that butcher’s brat, the Cardinal, is ever ready to hear o’ the mischief o’ his fellows.”

  No wonder Gryne was so relaxed. He was receiving payment from everyone as well as controlling a reasonable patch of the Liberties. Except for...“Canting Michael has the Bear Gardens next to the bull baiting and Paris Gardens. That’s odd, since he has the eastern part between Southwark Road and Gully Hole. Why?”

  Redbeard chuckled deeply and gave Ned a thump on his shoulder. “Doctor said you’re sharp. Tis simple lad! Came ta an understandin wit Mick. He’s can ‘ave those parts o’ the west, but he pays a toll.”

  Ned winced at the friendly blow and nodded in comprehension. That made a lot of sense. Captaine Gryne was clever. He had the lucrative paths of Southwark under his rule. Canting Michael cleared a generous amount of gilt at the Bear baiting, but to get back to his ‘domain’ on the other side of the ‘Liberties’, Gryne levied a fee for ‘protection’ and so kept a very close eye on his rival.

  “You look after all the taverns, inns and stews here don’t you?” It was more in the way of a confirmation than question. If Gryne controlled access to the Bear Garden then only a fool wouldn’t look after the other assets as well.

  “Aye the lads do.”

  “Do you know who owns the Cardinal’s Cap?”

  Gryne gave a short nod of assent, and Ned pulled out a few more of the Cardinal’s Angels and carefully placed them before his host. Gryne picked one up and scrutinized it closely. He then bit it, seemed pleasantly surprised, and slipped the coins into his purse. “Lord o’ Norfolk. His town palace is o’ by Lambeth ‘nd his strong arm gillie is Skelton. He’s the man who sees ta the weekly bite o’ gilt.”

  Ned had clasped his hands together. By the saints it was so simple. The answer lay in Southwark all the time! He spun another coin across the table and asked his most important question. “What’s he look like, this Skelton?”

  Master Gryne made a few stretching motions with his hand indicating a very decent breadth and height. That sizing twitched a couple of memories up for comparison. Was it familiar?

  “He’s a black beard thick enou’ for’ a beastie, an’ likes fancy blue worked doublets. A nort
herner I reckon fro’ his speech.”

  This definitely sounded like Blue Brocade. The link to Norfolk was conclusive and fitted in with the warning from their friend at the Tower. At last a name to a face, the seeker of Smeaton’s secrets. Ben Robinson was proving astute again. Ned idly spun across a few more of the Cardinal’s angels. He could get used to spending like this, and he’d thought of a way where the good Cardinal could assist them with the next stage in this venture. “Your lads, would they be up for a bit guarding if the pay was right?”

  Gryne grinned displaying a couple of his broken teeth, flipped one of the golden coins in the air and deftly caught it. “If’n there are more like this ‘un, yea’.”

  Ned had the stirrings of a plan and the addition of Gryne’s men would ensure they all lived long enough to complete it.

  The messenger returned from his errand a couple of hours later and happily received his reward. Despite the continued complaints and sniping of Mistress Black, the rest of the company prepared for their venture back across to the city. It had been a gratifying experience to Ned that both Rob and Gruesome Roger had deferred to his plan. Maybe his daemon hinted they’d suffered once too often from someone’s overweening hubris.

  As predicted the Cardinal’s Angels ensured a very safe journey to the wharf at St Mary Overie’s stairs. After securing a large two rower wherry, the company and their protectors headed upstream past the walls of the city to the wharf at Ivy Bridge Lane close by Savoy Palace. In Ned’s opinion it was time for a different tack so he led them via the Strand to Charing Cross in search of a stable. He was damned tired of running and hiding through the warrens and back lanes of the city. To do so again was a foolish invitation to ambush. So his plan was to skirt the northern edge of the city and ride through the surrounding countryside then enter at Moorgate which was about a hundred paces from the White Lamb Inn. Simple, fast and safe.