The Cardinal's Angels (18 page)

While Ned continued to puzzle over the contents of the letter the others were examining everything else. Gruesome Roger was conducting his own investigation. He’d thoroughly searched the satchel, looking for any secret pockets or signs of new double stitching were none should be—a common trick for couriers. However it was Mistress Margaret who found the next surprise.

It was the package.

The others had ignored it in their search for secrets but not Meg. The slight fragrance of flowers drew her attention to it. She turned the package over noticing that it too was sealed with red wax like the letter in Ned’s hand. In the morning light it was also possible to make out the light tracing of two names and a brief cryptic instruction in a spidery scrawl. One possibly was familiar and that was enough to prompt her next move.

She opened the package revealing four candles. Each candle was about two hand–spans long, two or three fingers broad, and made from the finest beeswax. It was the kind used by the Church and then only in large cathedrals or a lord’s private chapel. The rich, aromatic scent of honey was still strong on them, as if they had only been made a couple of weeks before. But most telling of all, they were heavier than any candle this size had the right to be. Inquisitively she picked at the candle with a small knife that hung from her belt. The short white shavings fluttered down to the floor until she had revealed an inner core of white parchment.
Very strange.
You didn’t make candles like this—the centre should have been made of a fine twisted cord. Tapping it she found the core solid. It was probably suspicion that brought about the next revelation. Ned on his limited acquaintance with Mistress Black would have called it impetuous frustration. Her brother probably would have been prudently diplomatic and silent. With a mutter of impatience Meg Black raised what was left of the candle and brought it down hard against the top edge of the upturned barrel. What wax was left shattered and broke off in a shower of white flakes that resembled shards of ice.

Annoyed at the interruption of his thought processes, Ned looked up at the sound and found himself showered by a falling rain of gold coins that spun and glittered in the light. As if frozen in place, the rest of the company watched this golden spray until the sound of the coins landing broke the spell. Pandemonium broke out as all present rose as one and dove to the floor to retrieve them. It was not a fight over the possession of the coins so much as a vigorous struggle as they all collided on the floor. It took some time and a great deal of undignified scuffling under boxes, barrels and sacks, but eventually all the escaped gold was retrieved and piled on the barrelhead.

Minutes passed and no one spoke until Rob coughed and finally voiced the one question they’d all been thinking about the golden discs. “Are they real?”

There had been rumours, well actually more than rumours considering the dropping rate of exchange for Rhenish florins. The royal coinage had been adulterated. No one said it out loud, but it was part of the common knowledge that flowed through the streets like the sewerage. The gold coins of the realm were considerably less golden now than they’d been the previous year.

Mistress Black made the first definitive move and walked out of the room. Gruesome Roger, Rob Black and Ned all reached out tentatively, fingers stroking this unexpected treasure, before each picked up a single coin.

Ned gazed at the ‘angel’ now nestling in the palm of his hand. This was exactly how he liked his saintly images, embossed with royal authority. As he tilted it the sunlight highlighted the figure of St Michael spearing the dragon. Flipping it over
he
closely examined the reverse. The impressing was certainly very good. The ship bearing the royal shield stood out crisp and clean. It could almost have been struck yesterday. At an inch in diameter it was a reassuring presence in his palm. His lost fifty angels now looked like poor cousins in comparison, shabby and worn. But an important question still remained. These fallen angels, were they real?

Gruesome Roger had bitten his coin and seemed dubiously convinced, while Rob Black continued to thoughtfully rub his fingers over one as if they could gauge its purity.

His sister had finally returned and casually swept the pile to one side. Her precipitous action focused their attention especially as she proceeded to set up a small set of coin scales. All those in the room held their breath as she carefully balanced the delicate instrument and cautiously placed one of the golden angels on the waiting tray. The other held a Rhenish gold florin, commonly accepted as a standard for trading values. The drawn silence continued as the scales slowly swayed to one side then to the other, until slowly it came to a stop evenly balanced. The tension remained as Mistress Black randomly picked up another coin from the pile. It measured the same.

They could have cheered, jumped up and down, or just roared in celebration, but none of this happened. Four sets of eyes swivelled between the pile, the letters and the three remaining candles. Any Londoner could count—it was a fact of life. It would seem they acquired the ability as they suckled at their mother’s breast. So it was a simple matter for each to calculate that the broken candle had contained one hundred golden angels, and since there were four candles, only a complete lackwit could escape the conclusion that four hundred angels had nestled comfortably in Smeaton’s satchel. At the common rate of exchange that was six shillings and eight pence each, though with the debasing that may lower the value to a shade
under
six shillings, giving a total worth per candle as six hundred shillings. It was a thought that made the saliva dry up and their minds spin with promises and implications.

One of the first lessons Ned had learned on entering the Inns of Court was the value of gold and silver. It was a catechism of the legal fraternity though not quite so closely held as it was by doctors of medicine. They beat lawyers hands down when it came to charging. Students were taught to judge the estate of their potential clients from their dress, mannerisms, retinue and display. Six hundred
shillings, that
magical number, was equal to thirty pounds and that was the annual income of a gentleman on the lower rungs of country nobility. Before them was four times that value. It was a mind numbing experience.

Delightful as the sight may have been Ned was catapulted back into reality.

“Why hide the Angels in the candles?” That of course was Mistress Black who was tossing one of the coins in the air thoughtfully. It was a good question, why should they be so hidden?

“It’s simple–smuggling. Who’s going to suspect candles?” This logical explanation came from Gruesome Roger, a man who looked like he could well be acquainted with all the tricks of the smuggling trade. Ned saw the other two
start
at the mention of smuggling. Perhaps their retainer was being a shade too honest.

For him however it answered a few more questions. “Yes that could be so. But why is the Lord Chancellor smuggling gold?
And to whom and why?
Is this the reason Smeaton was killed?”

“A man can have his throat cut for a broken penny piece.” Gruesome Roger seemed to have a very bleak view of his fellow Londoners, but Ned had to admit the assessment was probably true.

Rob however shook his head. “No I don’t think that was it. The man who killed him didn’t look the sort who was short of money. His sword alone must have been worth twenty pounds and his dress was, if anything, finer than Smeaton’s.”

This measured reasoning was dismissed by a snort from the more cynical Roger. “That proves nothing. I know of several gentlemen who have over a hundred pounds worth on their backs with every stitch and penny of it still owed to the tailors.”

“No, Robert is right”. Supporting her brother and cutting through the discussion Mistress Black chimed in her professional opinion. “That one with the blue brocade doublet had gold thread and silk highlights and couching. No tailor is going to part with that sort of cloth with just a promissory note—they’ll only take coin. Anyway that supposes that the murderer knew what was in the candles.”

Ned had to concede it was a good point despite the fact that it came from Mistress Black who, no matter how attractive she looked in the morning, was not his most favoured companion at the moment. “So was Smeaton murdered for the angels or for the letters? By the way Master Bedwell, what’s in them?”

And with this one question Mistress Black drew everyone’s attention away from the question of the gold and back towards Ned. He’d have much preferred to stay on the topic of who slew Smeaton. With a decidedly nervous cough Ned endeavoured to seem both knowledgeable and honest, not the easiest of tasks first thing in the morning. “Ahh…ahh, the one with the seal is a missive from the Lord Chancellor to Cardinal Campeggio, with, you know, the usual things—‘hope you are well’ and the like. Except for one phrase—that has me puzzled. At a glance the other two letters are bills of lading for shipping I think.”

Rather than his sister, it was Rob Black who was next to give Ned’s memory a prod. “These bills of lading, what do they mention?”

Ned clapped his hand over his mouth to muffle a yelp,
then
whispered conspiratorially to his close–gathered companions. ‘By all the saints, it says twenty barrels of candles to be packed on the
Hartstat
of Bremen bound for Calais, then Rome.”

This sudden prospect of such vast wealth had some of the company giddy with euphoria, and the three men began to caper in their excitement, flinging each other around in an improvised jig. Once more it was Mistress Black who frowning at the antics brought the celebration to an abrupt halt. “You have as much sense between the three of you, as a loon at Bedlam. It may say that but it doesn’t mean it.”

“What?” There was a universal chorus of surprise as all the dreams of unlimited wealth crumbled under the lash of her sarcastic tone.

Mistress Black just shook her head at the stupidity of men and began to tick off her suspicions. “Firstly you addlepated fools, church candles are supplied by the gross—that is one hundred and twenty four candles per barrel. Secondly not all the barrels listed will contain the gold. Thirdly it would have to be spread amongst a number of barrels or the weight would be too heavy and too obvious. And finally we have the small matter of four gangs all after us and these letters to sort out, all before we hunt down the Cardinal’s Angels!”

Oh yes there was that problem. It farted in the face of any dreams about liberating smuggled gold. Ned felt more than a little peeved. This was the first piece of good news since, well, when he got hit on the head, and Mistress Black had just very logically and very thoroughly trampled on his new found dreams.

There was perhaps more than a touch of anger colouring his retort. “Alright Mistress, do you have any ideas on what we
should
do?”

As soon as he said it he realised what a mistake he’d just made. The image of her discussion with the Hanse merchant wafted back into view. Damn, he was going to have to learn when to just keep quiet, for Mistress Black smiled and looking exceedingly smug thrust forward the parchment candle wrapping.

“Yes. Find out who Rodolpho is, and why he has to go to the ‘Gryne Dragone, High Street for Dr Agryppa’.”

He looked at the proffered wrapping and the revealed script then kicked
himself
. His arrogant assumptions had tripped him up again! Of course the apothecary’s apprentice could read and he thought himself so clever with the Lord Chancellor’s letter. And his next comment didn’t help at all. “Really Mistress Black and how do we get there avoiding all the searchers? Fly on white swans?”

“No a wherry will do just as well, but first we’re going down river to see a friend.”

It was absolutely infuriating. Both Gruesome Roger and Rob agreed with that damned apothecary’s apprentice! How could they? Here they were with a veritable treasure at their fingertips, certainly enough to flee England and to live like lords, and now they were blithely agreeing to the imminent certainty of death. Were these people Bedlam mad? They had the key to the Cardinal’s secret shipment of golden angels in their hands. All they had to do was tour the docks along the river and find the assigned vessel. And after that it was even easier. Ned knew a couple of clerks who could arrange the right documents for a small fee. They could off load the barrels and be out of London before sunset. So easy, so simple and so much gold!

And did they go with that? No! Ned was reduced to pleading on bended knee. He even listed all the perils they could face and well, still no! Both men backed the cursed Mistress Black. He’d almost been tempted to reveal her clandestine machinations, but stopped just as the damning accusation reached his lips. His daemon had wrestled his tongue to a stalemate. If he let loose his treasured knowledge Gruesome Roger for one would relish carrying out the Hanse merchant’s suggestion. Instead Ned had subsided into sulky compliance as Mistress Black outlined the reasons for their boat trip ‘to seek advice from a friend’.

Next Ned had tried to object citing the risks of moving in daylight. Again no, he may as well be a dumb mute. Once more Mistress High and damned Mighty Black countered his reasonable suggestions regarding watchers at London Bridge.

Roger threw in his shilling’s worth. Apparently he’d overheard one of their pursuers at the Monte Jovis Inn. The surly sot had arrogantly claimed the writ of Suffolk as he’d slammed down a bag of silver, asking if any had seen an apprentice rogue who called himself ‘Red Ned’ or his
trull
named ‘Black Meg’. Ned wasn’t alone in bridling at the inference, but he did gain a certain wry pleasure in watching the deepening scowl of Mistress Black as Roger repeated the slurs. However on the marginally brighter side at least now one of their pursers was identified–Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, a man of formable reputation and close Court connections.

That revelation didn’t help Ned’s case and made the rest of his new found company more eager to chance their luck on a river journey. Since Gruesome Roger was still taking a keen cudgel–tapping interest in him, Ned reluctantly complied with the majority vote.

And so they came to the matter of the golden Angels. Decisions had been made but all the while their eyes kept on drifting back to the small pile of glittering discs. In many ways it was the current centre of the conversation, and whether Mistress Black denied it or not, the coins were a source of continuing speculation. Eventually Rob Black reached out and picked up a two of the golden coins, and after a questioning glance in Ned’s direction, placed them in his belt purse.

Ahh immediately all sorts of legal quibbles and niceties sprang up in his mind. Exactly who
did
own the gold? Legally that was a very good question. It couldn’t actually be said to be Smeaton’s even though it was in his possession when he died, and he doubted that the Cardinal would openly claim ownership. That would bring up too many difficult and dangerous questions, especially when put together with the letters to Cardinal Campeggio. Was the gold a gift to the Italian cardinal or intended for someone else? What exactly were they to pay for, a past favour or a future promise?

On the matter of gold leaving the country, Ned remembered the impact of a recent attempt to freight golden angels and sovereigns. A few years ago Wolsey had decided that one of his extravagant alliances needed sweetening so he planned to ship thousands of pounds worth of English gold out of the country. That had been a mistake, especially after the recent rise in taxes. Uncle Richard had been apoplectic and he wasn’t the only member of the gentry to be so. Parliament swore it would bring Wolsey down if ever he tried this again.

So here we had a secret shipment of maybe thousands of golden coins under the Cardinal’s seal right after the failed legatine commission. Ned had to wonder if they were connected and if so what did it mean?

The whole issue of the gold revolved around the issue of ownership. The coins themselves couldn’t speak, but they did reveal motive for Smeaton’s death. Ned had speculated on that earlier and still hadn’t come up an answer. Was the murderer aware of the angels’ shipment? If so he was unlikely to pop up and lay claim to it openly. When one considered the question rationally, Ned and his companions had just as good a right as anybody else, though like all the parties involved in this affair, they couldn’t stand up at an inquest. If it came to a matter of life or death, there was one final avenue left to them, but it was pretty desperate, and completely without any guarantees—
surrender
it to the King. But they would have to be completely out of options before contemplating that desperate move.

While Ned was musing over how to frame a claim for the angels, Mistress Black returned from her conference with the Hanse merchant. From the satisfied grin on her face Ned knew he wouldn’t like her news. “Albrecht has found us a boatman.”

Ned gave the deepest sigh and swept the rest of coins into the damning satchel. None of the company complained though Gruesome Roger instinctively twitched. Ned gave him a return glare in challenge, but for once Gruesome Roger just smiled that evil grin of his and turned away humming. Why was it Ned felt even more like a hunted cony ready for the trap? Maybe the thoughts of the gold would balance the dragging weight of the letters? Damn that purse! Mistress Black had taken the safer option and retained the all–important bill of lading. Well he supposed she had discovered its secret so that was fair enough anyway. It may be a sufficient compensation to keep her from reflecting on the offer from her Hanse associate.

The race through the byways of London by night had been a gruelling experience. That trauma paled in comparison as he tried to casually walk towards the river. Ned could have sworn every eye on the riverside was watching his progress, calculating the right time to strike. Prompted by his daemon, imagination ran riot and Ned paled as he foresaw an awful glimpse of a watery, unshriven grave with fishes nibbling at what little remained of his body. Or worse his diverse parts impaled on spikes above the city gates. Locked between the looming bulk of Rob and the rangy stride of Roger and preceded by the swishing step of Mistress Black, he felt like a prisoner on his last walk. Ned took a nervous gulp and straightened up as they strolled out into the Steelyard compound. It was a few hours now since the gates had been opened so it was a bustling hive of activity with merchants, carters, customers and men off ship engaged in the usual business of the port. In the scrum they were able to pass along the arched stone colonnade without comment or notice. Every step Ned knew with a grim certainty that their anonymity couldn’t last. Any minute now some fool would cry out and the hunt would be on again.

Reaching the dock nothing still had happened, no shouts, call or any sign of pursuit. Ned felt strangely disappointed. Then he saw the boat and boatman, and almost turned around and sprinted for the shelter of the city. Instinct took over and half–turning he met the encouraging and expressive features of Gruesome Roger, once more patiently tapping on the handle of the cudgel and grinning. That was all Ned needed. It looked like his fate was on the water after all. Within the hour he’d be sleeping with the fishes.

Ned would have been livid, but he was too terrified for such an active emotion. He stood there and shook his head ruefully in denial. It couldn’t be happening—fate just didn’t work like that. The boatman for one! Where did these miscreants spring from? He would swear before any justice that the fellow was the twin of his dwarf jailor at the Clink. Was there some secret clan that, via arcane means, had infiltrated the lower denizens of the city, and if there was, why? Unfortunately Gruesome Roger had a firm hold of his shoulder so Ned stepped forward into the vessel with all the zest of a condemned man on his way to the gallows.

As he took his seat in what was laughingly considered the boat, Ned noticed that Rob paid the man two gold angels. By all the saints, that much would buy three boats of both better size and condition than this one! Did he have no understanding at all of value? After a satisfied sampling of the coin the dwarf boatman pushed off from the bank. And Ned lost his last shred of confidence.

What was this? The boatman was lacking a hand! Where fingers should have been, a rounded claw fixed to a leather cap grasped the oar. Ned really would have taken his chances on the street but for the fact that they were now gliding out into the river. Unless he wanted to swim the shore was not an option. In a struggle for distraction Ned asked the boatman a question. “Ahh ferryman how’d you lose your hand?”

“This ‘
ook
?
Only ‘ad it a year or so.
Lost God’s good gift to that damn watermill on
tuther
side o’ the bridge.
Shot straight through the race but left me ‘and
ahind
.” He gave a grim cackle and spat into the passing ripples of the river just missing the floating corpse of a dog.

That was the wrong answer. Ned’s daemon demanded they jump ship while his angel had frantically started praying. They were in the hands, or rather hand, of an inmate of St Mary’s of Bethlehem, a Bedlamite, a loon, a man with fewer wits than a Scot! According to his own account he took the race between the giant water wheels that drove the mill on the bridge. Quietly Ned mouthed the words of the ‘Pater Noster’, thinking longingly of all the sins that he probably would now never have the chance to commit.

London Bridge was a wonder of the modern age. No other city in Europe could claim an equal to this splendour of design or construction. The bridge had been built over three hundred years ago, and except for some minor repairs after flood, fire and storm, it was still essentially the same structure so the wardens claimed. It stood on nineteen great stone arches that themselves where embedded in built–up footings of piled rocks, held in place from storm surge, flood and tide by a circle of great oaken stakes driven deep into the muddy floor of the river. It was these starlings as they were named that created the ominous reputation of the London Bridge race, and in one part powered the great mill’s water wheels. As the tide ebbed and flowed twice daily, the waters of the great river were forced through the varying gaps between the starlings, some only fifteen feet, others broader than thirty. The races of London Bridge were legendary or rather infamous—the surging torrents of water all trying to pass through these narrow passages at once frequently meant there could be as much as a ten foot drop from one side of the passages to the other. There was a local saying in the city—wise men choose the bridge to cross the river, fools passed under it. During the slack tide this wasn’t a problem since the flow was in equilibrium and that was when most of the freight passed up river or to places such as the Steelyard from the docks down river.

For Ned, looking grimly ahead at the white spray dashing off the aged oak piers, the safety of the slack tide passage wasn’t happening. That was still hours away and for all he knew their pursers were not that far off. He knew the usual procedure. Everyone did who was anywhere near sensible
or
sober. You disembarked at the Bear Inn on one side of the bridge, and then engaged another boat on the other. It was safe and easy though he had heard that the Innkeeper usually derived a great deal of custom from salvaging those too imprudent to follow the common practice. But he also knew that Gruesome Roger was right—it would be the perfect place to ambush them. So the race it was.

Despite the lack of a hand and his diminutive stature their boatman navigated them towards the bridge with deft strokes as he manoeuvred into position. Ned thought he would aim for one of the larger gaps—they had the dubious reputation for being marginally safer. That however wasn’t the case. Instead the dwarfish boatman sculled directly for the narrowest gap. It was with a rapidly increasing sense of dread that Ned watched their accelerating approach to the raging torrent compressed between the blunt wooden teeth of the starling. His prayers increased correspondingly.

Ned really didn’t cherish the idea of a sudden watery death and looked to his companions for desperate reassurance.
Or not.
The Black clan, brother and sister, were holding onto a rope traversing the vessel and with broad grins across their faces, looked expectantly at the maelstrom that beckoned the small boat onwards. By all the saints he was in the company of madmen! This was not at all how he had expected to reach the hereafter. Maybe he could still convince Gruesome Roger. The thought died unformed on his lips as he turned towards the man. The retainer threw his head up to the sky and howled with unsuppressed excitement. Ned gripped the gunwales with his hands until he could feel the rough splinters driving into his skin and closed his eyes imploring all and any saint for divine intercession.