The Cardinal's Angels (29 page)

“
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 northerner 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.

Anyway from what he’d heard from Gryne, Cavendish for one was still mired at Southwark’s High Street Cross, trying to find out where the Watch and one very helpful master Thomas Fischer of Rotherhithe had vanished to. The short missive he’d penned that morning and sent off probably muddied the waters. In the guise of the every helpful Master Thomas, he’d claimed to be searching the marshlands past Lambeth Palace after a suspicious report of the known rogue, Red Ned. In the meantime no doubt the Cardinal’s vessels still plied the lower Thames in their vain search. As for Canting, not even Suffolk could pay him enough to cross Captaine Gryne. Two foes down cheered his daemon!

Once they’d found a decent ostler Rob Black came into his own for he proved an excellent judge of horseflesh. Much to the stable master’s disgust, Rob failed to fall for the usual tricks of chivvying up a horse on their last legs or disguising the brands and features of a stolen beast. The fellow became even more disgruntled when he saw the gold coins being paid over. With loud mutters of “old copper noses”, he squinted to take a closer look. Then in sudden and startling act of generosity he offered them sets of good quality harness at a ‘reasonable’ price so long as it was paid with more of ‘those angels’. Ned’s happy mood took a turn upwards as he witnessed Master Black, the bane of market hucksters, set the stable master to right and routed out the hidden decent sets of harness. It must have almost broken the ostler’s heart to have the worn and decayed saddles thrown back in his face.

The first hurdle of his leadership had been passed, no pursuit and now an easy ride. Ned was satisfied he’d foreseen the pitfalls and so he could plan ahead with confidence. The Royal Court was on progress somewhere out in the country and he’d prefer to get horses now rather than during the desperate rush that tended to accompany their peregrinations.

The afternoon’s passage turned out to be a very pleasant ride via St Martin in the Fields then swinging around to the open land of St Giles. The autumn weather still had the lingering glow of summer’s warmth and the colours of the leaves, brown and golden, gave the copses and orchards a dappled appearance. Even Mistress Black had dropped her accustomed scowling glare towards him and occasionally laughed at some tale one of Gryne’s men was swapping with Gruesome Roger. However Ned in the main ignored her and she likewise returned the compliment. Despite the island of smouldering isolation, the journey around the city lifted Ned’s spirits. He felt that under his skilled direction the venture may have a chance after all. Thus buoyed up he rode with a jaunty air. He was proving his uncle amongst others mistaken and the satisfaction was exhilarating. The party had easily yielded to his natural superiority, as was his right and privilege as a man of learning and position. When this affair was concluded and they’d acquired the errant gold, he Edward Bedwell would have all the qualifications of a gentleman. Thus he could begin his rise according to the natural grace of Lady Fortuna.

In the meantime Ned took the opportunity and chatted with Rob Black as they trotted along the damp road. His judgment on that glorious day about young Samson had been correct, and now he was discovering the true value of Rob Black’s skills, one of which was his knowledge of the arcane arts of ‘Great Gonnes’.

As it happened, Robert Black was a journeyman artificer or smith who was apprenticed at the Gonne foundry at Houndsditch, past Aldergate, a mile east of Moorgate where they were heading. An uncle on his father’s side was the master there and they worked on the great ordinance at the Tower, as well as other weapons of war such as the new harquebus and hand weapons that Rob swore could punch through the best plate armour at about thirty paces. Ned also learnt in the next couple of hours all he had ever wanted to know about the more personal weapons of maiming, from daggers through to the latest advances in sword designs from Italy and France. His friend’s extensive knowledge of the implements of battle left him more than a bit stunned and overwhelmed. After all, like most other youths of his position, he had done the expected training with the longbow and sword and he’d heard the modern theories of combat discussed and weighed by some of the more militant members of the Inns of Court. But his friend’s natural understanding of the new technologies left them behind as bumbling amateurs.

It was a diverting trip and to a far measure had restored youthful optimism. The sun was dropping towards the west and approaching dusk by the time they dismounted at a small inn immediately outside Moorgate. With some relief Ned left Rob to engage in the usual complex negotiations for accommodation and stabling with the Innkeeper. As with other parts of the city, the demand for building had burst past the old walls, and houses now spread out into the soggy land of Moorfield along the road to the north. To Ned’s eye it wasn’t an inviting place and he wondered how long it would be before some enterprising Londoner figured out how to drain the marshy ground and divide the land for the city’s expansion. He pulled his doublet closer around his throat to ward off the spreading chill damp. For him the future was a step closer. The Cardinal’s Angels whispered to him, just follow our promise.

Ned gave an excited shiver and trailed by one of Gryne’s men stepped on to the road heading for the gate. As he approached the last of the day was washed with the reddish evening light, casting the worn and crumbled tower battlements into fractured shadows. Their long tendrils of dark steadily eroded the wan pool of light under the arched entrance. His daemon muttered of omens while his better angel waspishly commented on bargains with traffickers of the Dark Arts. Ned ignored it and stepped through with a swagger towards the White Lamb. Even the rude snubbing by Mistress Black at the Inn failed to shadow his day. Lady Fortuna was guiding his footsteps. This was his destiny and he just had to reach out a hand and seize it.

The
White Lamb
was a well–known landmark in the north of the city. It served both the locals of Moorgate and travellers from beyond the walls like the farmers and carters that daily flowed in and out of the gate. To fulfil this dual role the Inn had expanded in its recent past and swallowed up a couple of narrow dwellings either side, giving it a more organic lopsided look than the aged stone walls of
Mont Jovis Inn
. That wasn’t the only factor that set the two Inns apart. The
White Lamb
could boast more recent repairs than the converted monastery, with freshly white washed walls. When not splashed by the mud of traffic or the daubing of urchins, it gave the building an apparent unity despite the higgledy piggledy array of windows on each face.

Even a hundred yards down the road the structure caught the eye squatting like a resting giant on the corner with its four storey height and overhanging thatched roof.
A large painted sign of a lamb at rest hung from an iron bracket above the timber doorway and gave the establishment its name as well as alluding to its affinity with the wool trade. As Ned expected even at this hour the Inn was a hive of activity since it was across the road from the Armourer’s Guild Hall. For him that bustle made the Inn a perfect place to transact quiet business secreted in one of the many panelled cubbies that provided a valued measure of privacy in the crowded city.

The past few days had been an extremely steep learning curve for Ned, and had served to exaggerate his already high regard for caution, so before entering the Inn he gave the crossroads a quick sweep. Nothing unusual stood out. Still a few precautions with his escort wouldn’t hurt. Gryne’s man would enter first and take a position by the door. If any obviously threatening parties arrived he’d leg it back to Moorgate Inn for assistance. Ned just hoped that his guardian’s thinking ability was up to the task. The hired retainer certainly looked intimidating enough with a heavy blade at his side and scarred face that proclaimed his practice of violence. Captaine Gryne reckoned Tam was one of his best lads and Ned had to trust someone sometime. Anyway every now and then you just had to take a chance on Lady Fortuna’s grace.

He waited a few minutes giving the street one final lingering inspection before entering the
White Lamb
. It took a moment or two for his eyes to become used to the dimmer luminance of rush lights, and then spot his uncle over to the left, about half way down the common room with old Perkins as his retinue.

Ned weaved through the evening crowd towards Uncle Richard and found himself automatically looking for clues that might indicate moods. No such luck. Master Richard Rich had put on that bland smiling veneer he used with his legal petitioners.
Friendly and attentive, but promising nothing.
Ned slid onto the bench seat opposite and noted the slightest tense quiver of his uncles’ nostrils. Hmm, unhappy his daemon supplied querulously.

“Good day Uncle Richard. I hope you and the rest of the family are well.” Ned tried for a subservient tone, but the tremor of his uncle’s jaw indicated this may not have been a good start.

“Little you seem to care for your family Edward, you ungrateful whelp!”

Ned sighed. This was obviously going to be one of
those
arguments where they both ploughed along the same familiar well–worn furrows. He thumped the table suddenly, startling his uncle out of the beginning of a new tirade. “This is important. It concerns treason, Uncle!”

Uncle Richard stopped his expected outburst and glancing around surreptitiously lent closer and hissed angrily. “Not so loud you fool. Do you want the entire tavern to hear? You careless dolt what have you done? All manner of dangerous men are calling on me demanding to know where you are!”

Ned felt a painful twinge of remorse for his cousins and step mother. Someone had obviously divined the Bedwell connection. Well it had to happen sometime and only made this conversation more urgent, not less. “I’ve found Smeaton’s killer and it concerns treason to the King.”

This gained his uncle’s attention and for an instant his face lost that veneer of bland assurance revealing a touch of eager hunger before reverting to form. “Is that so… who is it then?”

A surge of warning instinct washed over Ned before he could answer. Both his daemon and angel screamed this was too simple. Uncle Richard was a skilled player in the cut throat game of advancement. Only a muckle brained fool would ask such a straight forward question or else they’d get dragged in for ‘questioning’. Was that a warning or a trap? Either way Ned chose his own version of baited answer. “It was the retainer of a noble. He murdered Smeaton for some court faction play. I suggest you warn your friend, Thomas Cromwell, and I must get to the King!”

Ned spoke low and urgently trying both to fix his attention on his uncle’s reaction and the crowded space of the Inn.

Uncle Richard paused and gave his smooth chin a reflective rub before giving out a short nod and his own question. “I see Edward, important
ehh
. Oh
well
its possible. Do you have what poor Smeaton was carrying?”

Carrying? Ned stifled his surprise. He’d yet to mention that little detail to his dear Uncle. So it was a trap. He shouldn’t have been so naive warned his daemon. Well Ned could deal with that and so he smiled innocently back. “No uncle, but I do have an idea what it was about, and where such things may be found.”

His uncle once more rubbed his smoothly barbered face as if in thought. “You believe Cromwell is under threat, you say?”

Ned maintained a demeanour of ardent concern, as his instinct began to demand action. “Yes the plot aims at Wolsey. Heads will roll for treason before tis finished.”

Uncle Richard nodded sagely as if considering the advice. Ned wasn’t fooled. He’d tried an oblique warning. Now other discrepancies cropped up. His uncle’s man, Perkins, had remained as silent as a stone with not even a twitch or shake. That was strange, not even a greeting. Perkins was a taciturn fellow by nature but he never skimmed on the common courtesies.

“It concerns the King, and you need to see him, you say?” The feigned concern of Uncle Richard was masterful. No wonder he was popular as a lawyer in the courts.

Ned continued his facade. “Yes, I believe it touches the very closest matters to his Majesty.”

Richard Rich, Commissioner of Sewers, gravely nodded his head then seemed to come to a decision. “Well my lad, you’re in luck. My good friend, Sir Gilbert Talbot is in the city today and he can get you an audience with his Majesty before the week is out. The King is supposed to be visiting one of his estates out west by then. If you wait here I will go and arrange matters. Have a few drinks on my account till I return.” With that Master Rich plonked down several groats and hustled off as fast as possible.

As soon as his uncle had disappeared out the door, Ned pulled himself opposite Perkins. “All right, what’s going on? Uncle Richard only insulted me once and shot out of here faster than an arrow from a bow.”

Perkins grimaced, worked his hands together and muttered a few choice words under his breath, then grasped Ned’s hand and pulled him close “I served this family
fo
’ forty years an’ Master Richard’s father
a’fore
him. I owe the master my loyalty.”

Ned had that distinct sinking feeling that he had gravely miscalculated the avarice and loyalty of his uncle. He’d thought a heavy hint of the golden angel’s promise would bring him to their side, but it wasn’t so. Fear had a nasty tendency to outweigh greed.

“Don’t judge ‘
im
poorly
fo
’ what he’s done. He’s the children
an
all to think of. Those swaggerers threatened to ‘
ave
him locked up in the Fleet.”

“Perkins, who’re these lords?”

“First were the Lord Chancellor’s man, Cavendish, then hot on his steps one fro’ the Duke of Norfolk—big
un
with a black beard, followed by two others. One claimed to have Sir Thomas More as their master.
That had your uncle fuming—never seen him so angered.
The last one was some frenchie or other. a\Arrogant swine he was.”

That was just what he needed thought Ned grimly. What a combination of threats!
A treacherous cardinal, ambitious nobles
, a family enemy and now a damned foreigner poking his nose in. With all those retinues jostling elbows in St Lawrence Poor Jewry it must have made his uncle wish Ned Bedwell had never been born. Ned’s daemon urged him to feel a sense of rancour and outrage, but he shrugged off the temptation. Uncle Richard hadn’t asked to be involved in this level of court intrigue. All he’d done was rescue his worthless nephew and that pushed the absolute limit of familial duty.

Time to leave.
Ned knew he’d been sacrificed and had been about to make a bolt for the nearest window when he realised it was too late. The tavern had gone quiet as everyone swivelled to watch a troop of hired men walk in

Their leader, a lean young man, sauntered up to the cubicle occupied by Perkins and Ned. He was closely followed by a couple of large, overbearing men who just screamed retainers, the sort that held you upside down by the ankles over the edge of a bridge while jogging your memory of the debt that their patron considered you owed him. The fact that the locals of the
White Lamb
assiduously turned away at their approach told Ned more than he really needed to know.

The young man stopped at Ned’s table. His spirit sunk—after everything else this was almost predictable. Bitterly Ned recalled the warning of that cursed astrologer. Which harbinger of doom was this? The gaudy lad struck a relaxed pose, his hand resting prominently on the hilt of a sword that would have had Rob Black drooling in unrestrained ecstasy. However the sword was to Ned a minor accoutrement of the rest of the attire. His daemon green with envy noted the visitor had enough satin, velvet and costly brocade to give any mercer palpations if he cared to grace such an establishment.

Master Overdressed lent forward and in the throat hawking accent of the Spanish, politely addressed him. “Master Bedwell, your peasant is leaving. Yes?”

This implied sneer had Ned instantly seething. That was all he needed, a cursed stiff necked Spaniard taking an interest in him! He’d learnt a bit in the past few days and gave Perkins a brief shake of his head. His uncle’s retainer was clearly angered at the deliberate offence. “My man sir, leaves at my pleasure, not yours.”

Ned knew it was a bluff and Sènor Spaniard probably suspected it. Still the claim was accepted. With an elegant courtly bow and a flick of his finger the Spaniard had his minions create a path for Perkins. Ned had no more excuse and bravely waved permission to depart. The old retainer took his time, staring long and hard into the face of Sènor Spaniard, and then gave a respectful nod towards Ned. Once the seat was clear the overdressed foreigner pulled out a linen cloth from his sleeve and dusted the bench before occupying Perkins’s seat. Then after removing his gloves, he gave a peremptory beckon to his retinue. One of the large looming fellows shuffled over, a rusty axe prominent in his belt. Rob Black would’ve growled at its condition.

“Tell the tavern keeper that he has the honour of serving one of the Queen’s men. I want a pitcher of his best Bordeaux, not the usual horse piss he serves to the peasants here.” It could’ve been construed as an insult given in that sneering accent. However it was delivered in so matter a fact a tone that it probably went well beyond insult. This man didn’t just despise Englishmen—he rated them as being somewhere below the level of cockroaches or weevils. “How you English can drink
zis
revolting fare escapes me, an’ as for what you usually call wine, back home we’d feed that to pigs.”

Ned remained silent at the provocation. Sènor Spaniard was just playing at insults to see how he responded. “You have the advantage of me sirrah.” It was delivered in an even drawl that Ned hoped showed none of the concern he was beginning to feel. He prayed that Gryne’s man had taken the hint and shot off for help, but the view to the door was obscured.

His new guest smiled displaying very fine white teeth. That and his dark eyes and light brown scented curls would have Bethany in raptures. “Forgive me. I am Don Juan Sebastian de Alva, and I serve her Majesty Queen Katherine in whatever humble capacity she requires.” He gave a short flashy bow that displayed not a shred of humility.