The Cardinal's Angels (21 page)

After a thoughtful sip of his ale Master Robinson continued. “Even the lowest beggar in London has heard that Suffolk insulted Wolsey at Blackfriars so to prosper his old patron must fall. Suffolk is the King’s closest companion. That’s how he survived the clandestine marriage, though paying back the King has left Brandon much poorer. He needs all the money he can lay his hands upon.”

“I’ve heard that Suffolk doesn’t support the Boleyns.”

Master Robinson slowly nodded his head in answer to Mistress Black’s latest interjection. Ned was curious to know how this news engaged her attention.

“You’re right. There is personal rivalry between Brandon and Sir Thomas Boleyn, though it goes deeper than that. Mary, the dowager queen of France, is jealous of her pre–eminence at court, and has made it very plain that she’ll brook no attempts to supplant her, especially since if the divorce goes through, she and her children become heirs to the throne.”

It sounded to Ned like the sort of personal bitterness and petty jealousies that were rife in many families and that had provided so much work for his brethren at the Inns of Court. Except there was one detail missing. “What about Princess Margaret who married the Scottish king—wouldn’t she be first?”

Master Robinson laughed at that question and shook his head. “Accept the children of some hairy kneed Scot? The kingdom would have to be in pretty desperate straits before that ever happened. The Parliament and Lords would acknowledge even a bastard before that.”

Ned was forced reluctantly to agree with the Senior Clerk of Ordinance. The people would accept almost anything rather than a foreign prince. But the rest of his assessment was chillingly realistic. They had been unwittingly drawn into a vicious vortex of colliding ambitions that could affect the very future of the kingdom. Ned felt a cold shiver run up his spine. These men would commit any sin or crime to achieve their ends. The deaths of a few commoners such as them wouldn’t even register as a minor distraction.

While his compliance had been reluctant before, certainly when it came to Mistress Black, now the whole issue came down to a simple truth—he had to trust someone. Master Robinson seemed very well respected by both the Black siblings and Ned suspected that he too shared their religious leanings. It was a bit of a struggle of conscience. His daemon was insisting that betrayal was at hand, while his angel counselled patience and Christian trust. At this point in the affair they were all bound together. If one fell all fell. To his surprise Ned slowly withdrew the letters and handed them to Master Robinson. “Sir I would appreciate your opinion on these.”

The Senior Clerk of Ordinance paused but a moment as he spied the Lord Chancellor’s seal, but despite the threat of the scaffold he took them all and began to closely examine the loose parchments. Ned and the others slowly released their pent up breath—companions in treason were hard to come by.

This scrutiny seemed to drag on forever as Master Robinson looked from one sheet to another, and Ned’s apprehension increased. What if he was wrong, if it was some foreign scheme to discredit the Court? A myriad of possibilities rose up to plague him. Finally the clerk gave a harrumphing cough and tapped the Cardinal’s letter with his finger. “I’ve no doubt this letter is original. Undoubtedly this is the Lord Chancellor’s seal.”

Ah well that judgement ruined the foreigner hypotheses. Ned was grimly relieved. To mix the French, Germans and others in this would see his head spinning.

Ben Robinson continued. “But the document itself prompts more than a few questions.”

Ned was very curious to see what problems the royal officer had discovered. His own suspicions about it where still too disjointed to pin down.

“This letter is in the Cardinal’s own hand. That’s very strange. Most documents are scribed by Cromwell or another of his secretaries and Wolsey signs them.”

Ned had to admit it did sound odd. The Lord Chancellor was a busy man and any lord’s staff would normally handle letters. This was the way most men of power worked unless it was a very personal missive. But having been drilled in that style by his uncle, Ned felt it bore none of those hallmarks. The Latin inflections and phrases were flawed, not the mistakes you’d expect from a man like Wolsey who claimed an excellent knowledge of canon law.

Master Robinson hadn’t finished and cleared his throat nervously. “However it’s this piece that I find the most irregular.” He held up the other bill of lading, the one without any mention of candles. To date they had dismissed it as lacking any golden promise. “This bill is written in the same hand as the Cardinal’s letter.”

That prompted a rush to check the veracity of the Senior Clerk’s claim, with Ned, Rob and Mistress Black all pushing to get a better view. It was with a sinking feeling that Ned held the two side by side. Yes there could be no doubt. The same hand had shaped both. The similarity of the lettering was too close.

“Why would the Cardinal write out a bill of lading?” Rob voiced what all the rest of the company were clearly thinking. A man like Wolsey didn’t write a common bill. That was for petty clerks far lower than men like Smeaton or Cromwell.

It should have been expected and was on the tip of Ned’s tongue but predictably it was Mistress Black who came up with a solution first. “It’s a cipher or code—the words or letters have been jumbled around to hide the true message.”

Yes, Ned thought sourly. She would know about ciphers with her dealings. He restrained himself from sharp words that trembled on the edge of his tongue instead he settled for a waspish reply “So mistress of all knowledge, what does it say?”

Mistress Black just glared back at him. “Do you have the cipher key?” she asked sweetly.

Damn, he had to learn when to hold silent. He looked towards their host who sadly shook his head. Well that was another piece of the Smeaton puzzle that would have to wait.

Rob Black had been mostly silent through all this sharp edged banter.
Until now.
Ned had been unsure whether his friend was one of those men who slowly digested a problem and chewed it over till in the fullness of time he came out with a pearl of wisdom, or less charitably was just a slow thinker. His answer now arrived. “The cipher key doesn’t matter.”

That got a reaction as everyone in the room looked in stunned surprise at the interjector. Mistress Black in particular was not impressed with the interruption to her developing argument. But Rob Black calmly continued. “The fact that Cardinal Wolsey is writing in code to someone along with a smuggled consignment of gold does matter. For us what’s important is whether these rivals are after the gold or what’s in the cipher? Which did they kill for?”

To Ned it was a very scary choice. What could be worth more than gold? He’d teased the edge of that morass earlier today but without deeper knowledge had sensibly shied away. Now they had more background and maybe more clues it was worth re–examining.

However before he could frame his thoughts Mistress Black once more charged in. It seemed that she would not willingly surrender the field to her brother or any man. “Alright then, tell me who Rodolpho is and why the package is for him?”

Rob didn’t get a chance to work his way through that conundrum. It was a quietly smiling Master Robinson who answered. “That’s easy considering the letter. It’s meant for Rodolpho Campeggio, private secretary and son of His Eminence, the Bishop of Salisbury and Cardinal Protector of England, Lorenzo Campeggio.”

Ned knew the rest. Papal Legate and co–commissioner, and the man responsible for the adjournment of the legatine commission into the King’s Great Matter, currently royally unpopular and somewhere in London.

It really was so obvious—why hadn’t Ned spotted it before? A good part of him quaked at the implications. Was the cardinal paying for the adjournment? If so why and wasn’t that treason? Or his daemon offered another suggestion—maybe the gold was to finally buy the Campeggio’s vote? No that was getting too labyrinthine, unless Smeaton was the go between and had decided to betray his lord. Ned halted before he lost himself in the twists of turns of possible commutations of court plots.

“What shall we do?” It was a voice that quavered with terror. Oops, he hadn’t meant that to come out. Luckily it was taken as a serious request.

Master Robinson tapped the letters and parchment thoughtfully and answered. “Firstly see what Rodolpho was after. If it helps you could present what you find to the King. That may save you from Wolsey. As to the destination of the package, I have heard that the Gryne Dragone is across the river, though it has a dark reputation according to some. One or two from the court have hinted that it is a hostel for magicks, sorcery and knowledge arcane.”

Great now he had to risk further taint to his soul in this venture, as if being beaten and hunted weren’t enough. The current peril and the knock to his head had set his wits adrift over the past few days. Ned’s mind wasn’t near as sharp as it should be. Now on the edge of his mostly reknit memory just tantalisingly out of reach lurked an interesting fact about the Gryne Dragone, though try as he might it remained too elusive to grasp.

Master Robinson then looked directly at Mistress Black. “But without patrons at the Court I doubt you could get to the King. My advice is to petition Lady Anne Boleyn—she is the only one who could protect you.”

Ned found himself wondering why Master Robinson had directed this statement particularly at Meg Black. What contacts could she have at court?

It was bitterly ironic. All that effort and now they had to head back across the river! Suddenly a fragment of Ned’s university education popped into his thoughts. Great, at last he was able to draw on the classics. Now he knew how Caesar felt when crossing that river in Italy against the orders of the Senate; bloody terrified!

Mistress Black seemed to take the dangerous advice very calmly and gave a very slight nod in acknowledgement.
“So back to Southwark.”

What could he do? Not the Liberties again! Oh no, and Ned just knew Canting Michael would be waiting for him!

It was with a nervously wary glance that Ned stepped off the wherry at Bermondsey stairs. He’d have preferred further along, but Rob and Gruesome Roger had spotted a number of tilt boats bearing the Cardinal’s banner plying the river. So rather than risk being halted it was straight across the river from the Tower. Damn, that meant the whole of Southwark shore to traverse, at least a mile. Ned had to hope that everyone and his dog would be watching the bridge and its more popular landing spots rather than this forsaken spot by the Benedictine abbey. If one wished for discretion, it was possible to take one of the small tracks south and cut down towards the far side of St Margaret’s Hill to Blackman Street, then walk back through the High street traffic. The problem was that you ended up trudging for miles down muddy lanes, then trying to push through the press of carters, farmers and herds of cattle. Mud, mounds of cattle turds and delay weren’t appealing.

Gruesome Roger, as seemed to be his custom, lead the way followed by Mistress Black who was trying to imply that her association with those behind was in the order of mistress to servant. Ned was getting used to her arrogant and impetuous manner, and right now couldn’t have cared less if she styled herself the Queen of Sheba, so long as she left him out of her schemes. The overheard conversation at the Steelyards still rankled. He’d have thought that after the talk with Master Robinson she’d realise that they all had to work together to get out of this scrape. As far as he could see, Ned Bedwell was still considered a chancy acquaintance
who
could be sacrificed at the first opportunity. It just wasn’t fair,
or
sensible! He had enough problems to sort through, like which of the great lords wanted them the most?

If Gruesome Roger was to be believed, and that was chancy proposition in itself, Suffolk’s men had burst into the Mont Jovis Inn yesterday, hot for heretics. That his present company had been prepared for a quick escape was…well, was curiously fortuitous now he had a chance to consider it. However if they’d been captured that was another matter. Charles Brandon may lack the same power as Wolsey or Norfolk, but that didn’t make him the ‘
parfit
knight’
as Chaucer had it. In the trip across the river Ned had mulled over Ben Robinson’s estimation of the Duke of Suffolk. It had been brief but correct. Brandon had been the King’s chosen commander for the last campaign in France and if the weather hadn’t foiled his efforts he would have taken Paris. Suffolk stood in a very special position as his majesty’s closest companion. They’d grown up together and Brandon was his royal master’s favoured jousting partner. In many ways the duke had the constant ear of the King—he was married to the King’s younger sister and he had fathered so far three of the four closest Tudor heirs after princess Mary, one of them the young Henry Brandon who, apart from King James of Scotland, was the only other legitimate male Tudor so far.

That simple fact bore further deep consideration if and when His Majesty’s annulment went through. He’d had this discussion with Geoff Sutton a few weeks back when they’d been gossiping about the interminable
Legatine
commission. Geoff had paid very close attention to the proceedings, even more than Will who’d been there. Geoff was seeking a position in a bishop’s household and so was keen on ecclesiastical law as a path for advancement. In his estimation, after an annulment was granted, the marriage was dissolved as if it had never been and any children were declared illegitimate. So the young Princess Mary would have to be declared bastard and removed from the line of succession.
Unless of course one then petitioned the Pope in Rome for a further bull granting legal status to any children.

As would be expected, both sets of documents would take time and be expensive. To get an idea how long and how costly you could always ask the Duke of Suffolk. Charles Brandon had been through the whole process, trying to dissolve two prior marriages and legitimate his Tudor children. Geoff had seen a copy of the bull at St Paul’s. It recognised the prior divorces and made legal all and any heirs of the said Duke and the Dowager Queen of France, Mary Tudor and pronounced ecclesiastical censures on all who called into question the Duke's subsequent marriages, granted on 12 May 1528, by the seal of Pope Clement VII and so forth. As everyone knew they were married thirteen years ago, and according to lawyers at the Inns, the only reason it was dealt with so expeditiously were the rich gifts and smooth work by Cardinal Wolsey.

That was all pretty simple when stripped of the extra complications such as foreign and factional politics as well as the battle for supremacy in the Royal Court. It did however leave one salient fact for the next few years. Before another royal wife was chosen or had any children, all the fruits of succession lay in the hand of Charles Brandon.

The other factor that struck Ned as worrying was that according to Will Coverdale, Suffolk had publicly railed against his erstwhile patron, Wolsey. Ben Robinson back at the Tower had confirmed that shift, and had hinted that to consolidate a better position at court Brandon would be eager to secure the Cardinal’s angels and the secret letters. Ned had a growing suspicion that no matter what the true secret of Smeaton’s satchel, any of the court factions would ‘wade through a river of blood’ to gain the advantage. That blood of course wouldn’t be theirs, which was the whole idea of having retainers.

This new avalanche of concerns left Ned feeling overwhelmed with the promised return of that nagging headache he’d been enduring for the past few days. Now he’d had time to review their situation, he felt that despite the advice of Master Robinson they were even more vulnerable than before and of course the secret complications of Mistress Black didn’t help. His daemon muttered that so far her efforts had dug them deeper into trouble. How true. That was why Ned felt very much alone as he walked next to Rob. Who
could
they trust?

He’d been round this problem several times today. Trust was a very valuable commodity in the modern world, worth more than gold according to some philosophers in their writings. It either aided your rise or guaranteed your fall. One of his acquaintances, Richard Stuckley, at the Inns of Court, had casually mentioned some recent work by an Italian who delved into the interplay of power, loyalty and ambition, and dedicated his work to Cesare Borgia captain of the
Bande Noir
in the Italian wars. Stuckley thought it was quite interesting, giving many tricks and stratagems. However the fellow claimed that since it was written in the Italian vernacular, Ned wouldn’t be able to comprehend it. Pity that. He could really do with some devious advice and as everyone knew the Italians were masters of deception and diplomacy. One piece came to mind from those corner chats—explore the minds of your allies so as you may know them better. Right!

“Ahh Rob, I don’t mean to pry, but who was that merchant who gave us shelter last night? Why’d he risk it?”

His large friend walked along in silence for a few more paces and while giving the back of his sister’s head a speculative look, he seemed to shrug off some burden and leant closer to Ned. “Meg wouldn’t approve. She still doesn’t fully trust you, but I feel you’re an honourable man in your own way Ned. You could’ve slipped off last night but chose to stay with us.”

Now that Rob had mentioned it, he hadn’t even considered disappearing in the early morning gloom before the rest of the party had awoken. He didn’t know whether to be proud of his chivalrous conduct or shocked at his sudden trusting naivety. Well no matter! That .option was closed and now he was trying his hardest to look both trustworthy and honest. It must have had some effect as Rob broke out into a broad grin and shook his head.

“Well Ned I’ve hardly known you a week an’ look at the trouble you’ve caused.
If you were a cozener or cony catcher tis the strangest game.
I’ll tell you what I can, but tis up to Meg whether she’ll give you the rest.”

Ned nodded his acceptance. Some background was better than none.

“As you know, our father an’ mother were taken last year, like so many others, by the Sweats.”

Ned made the obligatory sign of the cross. Luckily the Rich family had been spared the visitation. At the first hint of plague Uncle Richard moved the whole family out to the small manor in Essex. They then drenched everything including walls with vinegar, even mixing it with water to drink. Maybe it had preserved them. Others hadn’t been so lucky. Dozens of neighbours and friends in the parish had died. Even wealth and nobility had been no protection. The Angel of Death had scythed the royal court, taking servant and officer in equal measure. Two of the key figures in this affair had also been brushed by the wings of death, Cardinal Wolsey and Lady Anne. God, in his infinite mercy, had seen fit to restore them to health. It was no use questioning if it had been otherwise.

“Well, Uncle Williams the apothecary is our guardian and shares wardship with Albrecht Hagan, the Hanse merchant at the Steelyard who took us in. As for trust, he’s handled our family’s trade for over ten years and in all that time proved a true friend.”

So miracles still happened!
An honest merchant—well, well.
Ned had thought such things were only to be found in bible stories. “What’ll he do if the Cardinal’s men
come
calling?”

Rob Black rubbed his face and frowned. He seemed to be sorting through his reply. “Well Ned, I’ve no doubt Albrecht will point out that he hasn’t heard the parish warden call out our names for a summons, nor has the Steelyard been officially informed. Then if they push he’ll tell them that last he saw we took the long ferry down river heading for Gravesend.”

Ned had to admit that it a
very
practiced response, no doubt used before when dealing with Mistress Black’s heretical books trade. However he did wonder how well Master Hagan would stand up to intensive questioning. It was always difficult to tell how much coercion a man could take. That of course led him back to a more pressing question about this morning. “Ahh Rob, I don’t want this to come out the wrong way, but your sister, I don’t think she shares your trusting nature.”

That elicited a very loud laugh in response. Ned wasn’t sure what his friend found so funny. He wasn’t the one Mistress Black had considered removing. That long considered pause before her reluctant answer seemed to last an age.

“
Ohh
Ned you needn’t worry! She’ll not hand you over!”

Gruesome Roger gave a backwards glance at the echo of Rob’s laugh before making some side comment to his mistress. Rob Black was however too consumed with mirth to see any of this. He was laughing so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes.

Ned didn’t see any reason for this response and nudged his companion in the ribs.

“Sorry Ned, I couldn’t help it. Tell me, did she look after any of your injuries?”

Ned automatically rubbed his hand over the strapping around his ribs and recalled the ministrations in the apothecary’s garret. “Well yes.”

His friend smiled openly and nodded his head. “It’s a bit like the tale of the good Samaritan, or when someone takes in an injured bird or dog. Once Meg does that then she’ll fight any to keep you safe.”

That was kind of reassuring, though Ned forbore to mention that in some places he’d been in Southwark, taking in an injured animal only meant a meat stew that night
and
a fur trim tomorrow.

So far all was going well. They’d just crossed the bridge to Tooleys Lane and were walking through Bermondsey village. About a hundred yards ahead on the left was Bermondsey Street. They could cut down there and travel along the back lanes skirting most of Southwark—safe, easy and fast.

So with a lighter step now that basic issues of trust had been resolved, they turned into Bermondsey Street. Later Ned blamed the herd of cattle. Rob blamed the distraction of the lass driving the cattle, while Gruesome Roger reckoned it was the afternoon sun punching through the clouds. Meg Black ignored all that. She kept it simple and consistent and blamed Ned.

Immediately behind the press of cattle that blocked the road was a band of
non
descript men. In the city you’d usually not give them a second glance, that’s if you had your own retinue or several hefty friends. Ned started out in a cold sweat instantly pulled his cap down as they sauntered past, sending up a fervent prayer for concealment. They’d almost past the cattle driver, a busty lass with straw blonde hair and a winsome encouraging smile, at first glance Rob was smitten and grinned like a loon right until he bumped into the bands’ leader who also similarly taken by the swaying hips.

“Hoy. Watch a’where yea goin’ lad!” The distraught cry came from the crumpled figure on the ground. Rob Black was full of profuse apologies as he helped the smaller man to his feet. The victim of the collision was dressed in the slightly ragged finery of a ‘distressed’ gentleman who was temporarily down on his luck, you know the look, worn velvet, tattered silk and frayed mock silver braid and a heavy cloak that had the appearance of, at the same time, both too many repairs and simultaneously not enough. In Rob’s case smaller actually meant more common sized and this poor fellow was shaking his head after colliding with a giant. “Well damn me for a Turk! Where’s yea
headin
’ young Samson?”