Ned let out a suppressed whimper and a glare. During the tale Mistress Black, having discarded smithing, returned to her pretension of barber surgeoning, and was now packing the area of his wound with some sort of astringent herb poultice. By the saints, it stung! Then she roughly pushed his arm up and began to bind a cloth bandage tightly around his chest and shoulder.
Holding on to his manners and forbearance Ned gave a tight smile of thanks. How he was going to move if they got attacked was a question he thought best not to ask. Feeling like a swaddled infant Ned waved his friend to continue with his as yet uninjured hand. “Then what happened–how did you win out?”
Rob Black dropped his head and looked rather embarrassed, muttering some deprecating comment about the ‘providence of the lord’.
Mistress Black, however, was not so reticent. She gave her brother a fierce glower, then just to emphasis her evident disapproval, gave Ned’s dressing a last securing tug that had him gritting his teeth in discomfort. Then she stood up, and facing her brother with hands defiantly on hips, continued the tale. “What Robert hasn’t said is that once Skelton disappeared into the wood, the new ruffians were reluctant without his leadership. They did look worse for wear—probably most were drunk.”
Ned thought realised that now would a splendid time to hold his peace as Mistress Black snorted with disapproval before carrying on. “Then since both leaders had gone a few took the opportunity to run off. A final knot tried to take us on when Roger had been knocked out.” She made a waving motion in the general direction of a building across the courtyard. “He’s resting in the tavern—should be right in a day or so.”
Ned found himself sourly reflecting on the inequity of the situation—Gruesome Roger was tucked up in a bed while all he got was the floor of a blacksmithy and a steaming hot iron. There was some moral in there somewhere, but for the life of him he couldn’t see what it was.
Mistress Black, maintaining the glower in her brother’s direction, returned to the story. “Then my dear brother fell back into his wicked brawling ways and lost his temper! Robert screamed like one possessed and charged them swinging that chain of his.”
The story shuddered to an abrupt halt as Mistress Black delivered the most disapproving frown Ned had yet witnessed. Her brother visibly cringed, no mean feat for a lad well over six feet tall. “So they bolted and you know the rest.”
And here endeth the sermon, Ned thought wryly to himself. From Mistress Black’s choice of language Ned got the distinct impression that she was waxing wrathful at Rob for losing his temper. What a lack of sisterly deference and respect! But Ned supposed that was Mistress Black all over, a forward and contrary lass if there ever was one. In truth Rob Black’s defence far surpassed his cowering in the woods, though it would be best not to dwell too much on his part of the affair.
“Well done Rob! This would have been for naught without you!”
Despite the continuing frowning censure of his sister, Rob seemed to take the praise well and visibly swelled with pride.
“Where are we?”
That was the third time he’d asked and once more it was the efficient Mistress Black who answered while packing away various vials and flasks in a her small satchel. “At the Crown’s Hart in a village called Grafton Regis, half a mile south of the manor where the King is staying.”
“Well there’s no time like the present to see the King.” Ned strained to push himself up using the post behind him as support.
Rob came to his aid and without visible effort picked him up. According to the opinion of Mistress Black, Skelton and Don Sebastian were incapable of following, though that left two or more of their pursers still in the chase. As far as Ned was concerned that was two too many. They were running out of time. It was a half hour ride to the safety of the King’s presence, and they must try now.
Leaning on Rob and trailed by Mistress Black who was joined by two of Gryne’s Men as escort, Ned limped into the courtyard and over towards their horses. It was then that Ned beheld it and his mouth dropped open in surprise. It was just magnificent standing there in all its equine glory at about fifteen hands high, the most beautiful horse he had ever seen—Don Juan Sebastian’s chestnut stallion.
“H–how?” And that was about as far as he got. He limped over and let the beast sniff his hand before running it softly down the beautifully arched neck. He felt velvety suppleness with the suggestion of strong muscles underneath.
Rob lent across and checked the girth straps. “Meg suggested that it would serve as payment for her services and the affray. Don Sebastian readily agreed even signing a bill of exchange–to you.”
Ned reminded himself to keep a wary distance from Rob’s sister if ever he came into a modest bequest or else he’d find himself signed away to debtor’s prison. That thought didn’t stop him from running his hand down silky smooth coat of the horse’s neck to his massive shoulder. This was certainly some compensation. A horse like this must be worth two hundred or so angels, though considering the look of him, any lord would willingly part with four hundred.
It was then Ned thought of the elegancy of Mistress Black’s solution. It would be impossible for the Spaniard to claim that the beast had been stolen or he’d been cony–catched. To do so would make his part in the ambush common knowledge. Ned chuckled at the idea. Don Juan Sebastian would be down on two counts. Firstly there was attempted assault on the King’s road. That was a hanging offence all by itself, but the second truly was more damaging to him personally. Don Juan Sebastian had planned and then failed to pull off the perfect trap against a motley collection of the despised English. If that were to get about his reputation would be in tatters. Ned was really going to enjoy riding this horse. It would go well with the poniard the Spaniard had so thoughtfully provided him.
Rob returned his discarded belt, sword and the cursed satchel before kindly giving him a boost up into the saddle followed by their remaining party mounting the rest of their horses.
“Let get this over with.” Ned tried to sound brave and determined, but distinct overtones of pain and weariness spoiled the statement.
It had only been a single night in the village, but in that time Mistress Black had found out more details about the place than any spy. In the short distance to the manor Ned was given all the local tales including how it was the ancestral home of the Woodvilles, His Majesty’s mother’s family. Ned had to think for a moment to place that in context and realised that it must mean the home of Elizabeth Woodville who’d secretly married King Edward IV. There were quite a lot of tales about her. She was reputed to have been a beauty, but this was overshadowed by rumours of witchcraft. It was safer not to mention those tales here—the King’s majesty was very touchy about his ancestry.
Mistress Black had also gained a comprehensive report on the progress of the King’s rebuilding program. Damn, she was better than any spy. As befitting the expansive qualities of His Sovereign Majesty, the manor was being extended and the view from the lane verified this, with a mass of scaffolding and the rhythmic ringing of hammer on chisel from the stone masons.
Ned was tired, sore and his shoulder kept on throbbing. It should have been so simple–just ride up, announce that they bore a message for Lady Anne, wave the Cardinal’s seal if needed and that was it. Of course real life didn’t prove to be quite so simple.
As expected the royal guards stopped them at the gate. They relayed their business and one of the pair walked off to find someone in authority to dump it onto so he could go back to looking intimidating and scratching his bum.
It was a quarter of an hour or just under before they had an answer to their request. Twenty armed guards marched into view, ten at least equipped with the formidable war bow. Just to give meaning to their intension the bows were strung and arrows held at rest though ready for the draw. The captain stepped forward, and in tones that brooked no delay, commanded them to dismount and hand over their arms. After strolling into the Tower with narry a glance, t
his struck Ned as being more like the security he expected around the Monarch of England, though a sideways glance at Mistress Black gave him a fleeting moment of doubt. She looked worried.
Small groups of courtiers stood to one side loudly boasting of their kills during the morning’s hunt and turned to watch as they were escorted past them to the large manor house. Complaining servants carried tapestry rolls and clusters of workmen covered in fine stone dust were hammering in propping beams of timber. The royal progress was busier than the Tower. Ned was amazed. According to the tales of Will Coverdale, which he had often considered largely embroidered for their benefit, this should all be stately order and decorum.
Once inside they were made to wait in an antechamber outside the great hall. Ned could see why the place was being rebuilt—it must be too cramped to suit the proclaimed grandeur of the King. The wood panelling however was very attractive, still having that mid–golden sheen with the pale flecks providing the highlights. His uncle would really like to see this. It would give him ideas for the house at St Lawrence Jewry.
While they waited and in Ned’s case slumped against the wall between a pair of Gryne’s Men, there was frenzied flurry of to–ing and fro–ing by clerks who scurried past them eyes fixed on rolls of parchment, all too busy to spare a glance at the latest petitioners. The King may be on a royal progress but the management of the kingdom must continue. At the brief command of a guard liveried in Tudor white and green they were separated from Gryne’s men and escorted through a set of double doors into the great hall. At last!
Chapter Twenty Five–The Cardinal’s Good Servant, Grafton Regis Manor
The guard closed the doors while a further two escorted them the several paces to the centre of the hall. A royal functionary was holding court at the far end. Seated behind a long table he was the centre of the frenzied activity by the assortment of clerks, who continued to whisper quietly and present papers for approval. As they came closer Ned began to tremble. The gentleman that was the focus of attention was well–dressed in fur trimmed robes that emphasised his large shoulders and impressive bulk. It was said that his father had been a blacksmith and that when he was younger he had followed the French armies as they had marched across Italy fighting the Imperials. The official had a strong face that spoke of determination and thoroughness, and Ned knew those features well. And so he should, after all the man was a frequent visitor to his uncle’s house and in most respects could be even considered their ‘good lord’, more so than his true master, the Lord Chancellor.
Thomas Cromwell put down the piece of parchment he was studying and with a brief wave beckoned them forward. “Master Bedwell, I know you. Please do me the honour of introducing your companions.”
His voice was relaxed and even, but firm in its understanding of power. It had been said by some at the Inns of Court that Cromwell was a man to watch. He knew the currents of power like a fish knew the river’s flow, and as secretary to the Lord Chancellor, Cardinal Wolsey, he was close to the most powerful men in the land.
Despite the pain in his shoulder and ribs, Ned bowed low in a manner he hoped showed sufficient and proper deference. The introductions were simple and without embellishment and at each one Cromwell’s eyes flicked to a parchment on the table. Ned thought he saw a sight twitch of recognition when he came to Mistress Black but he may have been mistaken.
“So why do I have three suspects for murder standing before me? And why would you wish to see Lady Anne? An interesting question ehh, Master Bedwell? Do you have an interesting answer for me?”
At the last instant Secretary Cromwell switched his beacon–like stare from the parchment in hand to Ned, who suddenly found his mouth very dry. He desperately tried to recall all he had ever heard regarding the Cardinal’s right hand man, even dredging up the boring anecdotes of his uncle. The man was a brilliant administrator. It was said, but not too loudly, that he was the reason for the Cardinal’s continued high standing, especially by his novel method of disposing of a large number of religious houses, thus acquiring the money needed for Wolsey to build his two colleges. That Cromwell was ruthless and cunning went without saying. He had steadily advanced in rank and power since he joined Wolsey’s service, and so here he was in the royal court, acting on behalf of his master—eyes, ears and cunning calculation.
“Secretary Cromwell, I bring the kind regards of my uncle and I humbly petition on behalf of myself and my companions to hear us out. We carry information of great import to His Majesty concerning treason.” If his uncle knew he was claiming his good name the man would have had a fit and disown his nephew immediately. No matter, Ned was desperate for any clawed advantage.
The dangerous statement of treason created only the smallest tremor of a frown on Secretary Cromwell’s fleshy face, but he did pull one of the clerks closer with a peremptory wave. The man lent in and nodded in obsequious acquiescence. In a minute the great hall was empty except for two guards who stood prominently either side of the door. A further snap of the Secretary’s fingers brought Ned’s wary band closer. “Master Bedwell, the merest whisper of the word treason, and you have my fullest attention.”
It was spoken in a soft voice but it carried well enough for them all to hear. What didn’t need to be said was that if the Secretary’s attention wavered they’d regret it—but not for long.
Ned stepped forward. Well his daemon hinted at last he had a chance to prove his leadership. It was ironic since the whole matter revolved around Smeaton and the Cardinal’s machinations. However it was impossible to summon the dead to speak the truth or otherwise, so amongst the three of them in this company of the Cardinal’s Angels, Ned was the only one who had a chance of keeping Cromwell’s interest. “Master Cromwell I have been falsely accused of the murder of John Smeaton, as have my companions.”
That didn’t even register an acknowledgement. Ned knew that despite the proclaimed requirements of English law for a coroner’s inquiry, in reality this was their trial and so he pushed on. “There was a brawl outside a gaming house in Southwark and the Cardinal’s man called upon me to aid him which for my honour and duty I did. However after I was struck down, another stabbed him, one who was with him in the Gaming house, a man who can be identified by these two Londoners.”
Ned waved for Robert Black to step forward then his sister Meg. Both repeated the tale of the assault and its aftermath. Their judge and jury gave a brief nod and waved them back.
Ned continued with a carefully edited version that removed details of the Cardinal’s gold and substituted ‘a learned gentleman’ for Dr Caerleon. He’d no idea how much Wolsey had shared with his secretary, but somehow he’d an inkling that most of this tale was beyond the usual purview of Cromwell. Ned concluded with a very brief version of their journey and the ambush, carefully editing names until he knew more of their court associations.
Through all this Cromwell just sat there, impassive and omnipotent, flicking his gaze between a couple of sheets of parchment and the accused. Surprisingly the Black siblings stood up well to this ominous intimidation.
“Master Bedwell you have been extremely circumspect in this but I want names. You have so far avoided any and I commend your caution. In the end I want them and your reason for the claim of treason.”
Ned tried not to look at his friends. It was really up to him now to pull it all together. He drew a deep breath and started. “Skelton, a northerner, killed John Smeaton outside the Cardinal’s Cap. He was also at the White Lamb and he was part of the ambush. I have been told that he serves the Duke of Norfolk though I cannot prove that. The other is Don Juan Sebastian, a Spaniard. He claimed to be in the service of Her Majesty Queen Catherine or the Imperial ambassador. I believe he was to meet Smeaton, but once more I have no proof. He did, however, have excellent knowledge of the matter and also was at the White Lamb and a part of the ambush. He offered me a considerable sum to hand over the information we’d found.”
That received the briefest of nods. Ned
was sure the names had been noted and if required, Cromwell could come up with a complete profile on each within minutes.
“And why bring it here?”
This was going to be the difficult part. Ned squeezed up his courage, took a deep breath and spoke. “I may only have been at Gray’s Inn for this past year but I know enough of the law and practice to know when matters need to be passed on to others more qualified and experienced.”
A further cautious nod came from Cromwell. Daring all he plunged on. “I believe you should deal with this on behalf of His Sovereign Majesty and Lady Boleyn. I will never prejudge any man and I am not privy to the requirements of royal policy, and considering what we have seen so far, from the actions of others this is too dangerous for any to handle who do not have an intimate knowledge of the multifaceted affairs of state.”
Ned thought that had been pretty good, now for the flourish. He stepped carefully forward and slowly pulled out the battered satchel. The guards shifted. There was a loud metallic sound that sent shivers up his spine, but a short gesture from the Cromwell set them back to rest. The Cardinal’s secretary opened the wallet cautiously, and with a delicate touch that belied his bulk, examined the letters and the treasonous horoscope from the learned astrologer. Ned had removed the candles which were tucked in his doublet, just in case their secret contents were required for any last minute contingencies, like procuring an escape from prison.
The Cardinal's Angels (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries) Page 32
