The Cardinal's Angels (8 page)

For as long as Ned had been alive, Cardinal Wolsey had been the man who ruled the kingdom, granting petitions, approving appointments and, of course, levying taxes, like his infamous ‘Amicable Grant’ of 1525. Everyone in England remembered that arrogant imposition and the riots and rebellions that it had caused. No gentleman or yeoman willingly paid either tithes or taxes at anytime. However that natural disposition had been ignored by the Cardinal, who had decided to charge four shillings for each pound of value for property and goods. Outrageous! Then to add to this insult, he blackmailed Parliament into increasing the tax by two shillings, and this was the part that really stung, backdating the increase to the previous year.

Did he think that they were wretched, humbled slaves to the
Musselman
Turk? This had been a serious miscalculation. Even his uncle had growled over the indignity of three different sets of tax collectors pouring over his property within the space of one year. At the time, Ned was uncertain whether Uncle Richard was angered over the gross abuse of law and rights, or that he had failed to get preferment as one of the assessors. After all a man could make a fortune by granting exemptions, or more usefully be encouraged to rigorously examine a rival’s estate.

But those grievances aside, and the rumours about the failed annulment, the Cardinal was still supreme in the kingdom. It was said that he retained over a thousand men, more than any earl or duke, and the rooms of his great London house at York Place next to Westminster, had to be seen to be believed. It was reputed to be the most splendid palace in the country, outshining Greenwich or Richmond. As with anything in this world, with privilege and power came rivals and greed. It was common knowledge that to gain his place as the Lord Chancellor, the Cardinal had pushed aside other nobles close to the King. As men of ambition and prickly honour, they didn’t take kindly to being displaced, and restricted in access to the honours and riches that were in His Majesty’s gift.

That most of London loathed Cardinal Wolsey was a simple fact of life, like the stench of the Shambles. Ask any citizens and they’d immediately make disparaging references to the Cardinal’s sumptuous display and excessive arrogance. It could be said that it was just the public grumblings of the commons against any lord. However in the taverns and at the parish wells, truth came more easily. Londoners were against Wolsey because he controlled the church courts and, under him, the increased charges and exactions had set a deep and abiding ranker, especially when it came to wills and probate. Now here was the interesting part. Despite his uncle’s current allegiance, even he had complained frequently to his friends at the Inns of Court about the loss of clients, as the Cardinal’s Council of the Star Chamber usurped more and more of the common law cases. As of this morning, that usurpation also worried Ned, since the Cardinal had recently decided to add incidents of riot along with forgery, perjury, and libel to his purview. If he didn’t find the real murderer then there was every chance he could be tried before Wolsey himself! So rather than face that ominous threat, he
really
had to find out who’d want to kill a servant of the most powerful lord in the land.

Ned slumped back against the wall in despair. When you looked at it like that, the list would have to be thousands long. In reality, who wouldn’t stick a knife into the man’s ribs for any one of a dozen reasons—greed, theft, revenge
or
lust. Well, in fact, anything was enough to see a man bleed out his life in the mud, even a careless mistake.

This was getting nowhere. He would have to find some sources of information on likely rivals and why it was seen as needful for Smeaton to die. How his daemon prompted. Ned shook himself out of this moment of doubt, and slung his satchel over his shoulder, as the rumpled notes of a horn sounded. It was time to chance all with Lady Fortuna.

Despite the ominous spectre of Canting Michael, for his life, liberty and urgent desire not to experience rancid French cooking, Ned had to cross the river. The master of Paris Bear Gardens had ears and eyes on every street and crooked by lane that wove through the Liberties. No matter, it had to be risked.

Battling the dawn surge across the bridge took over an hour, so the sun was well and truly up, punching shafts of autumn light through gaps in the cloud. Like most Londoners, Ned coped with the complaints, swearing and shoving as each person battled the counter flows caused by the inadequate breadth of the bridge. The flow had long been restricted by the flanking rows of houses, shops and even a small church dedicated to St Thomas a’ Beckett. He was a local lad who became Chancellor, then Archbishop of Canterbury. According to the histories, that had been in the time of Henry II. If Ned recalled correctly, the same old king had later regretted this elevation of a commoner and arranged a bloody removal. Beckett must have been popular in his day to have such a well–appointed chapel built in his memory. How ironic, considering the current circumstances. Ned couldn’t believe that any Londoner, no matter how pious, would propose such a memorial for their present Lord Chancellor, in his present state. Half those same Londoners though, would probably willingly donate to a fund to build one to Wolsey, if that meant that his state was to change to that of “late and very much unlamented”.

Ironically from what he had seen as he struggled past the chapel, the few early morning parishioners were praying for the blessed St Thomas to intercede on their behalf with the Cardinal’s henchmen. Ned crossed himself and quietly added his own prayer for assistance. After all you never knew when the workings of divine mercy may shift your way.

Crossing the bridge to Southwark had been his first hurdle, but now that he was on High Street another cropped up. He’d pulled his cap down over his face and hunched his gait into a semi crouch to look smaller than his usual six foot height. His present scruffy, battered appearance helped. Most passers by didn’t even give him a second glance as he slipped off the main thoroughfare into a side alley at the old church of St Mary’s Overie by the Bridge House. Once on this track, another worrying thought sidled up to add to his active sense of paranoia. By all that was holy, he should have thought about this sooner. If Smeaton’s slaying was anything other than just a casual act as part of a drunken brawl, then that implied the hand of one or more of Wolsey’s rivals was involved. Ned visibly blanched at the unpleasant implications this presented. Alright, he had used this as an excuse only to escape the threat of exile to France.
Until now though he hadn’t seriously considered it.
But what if it were true? Oh Lord, why hadn’t he seriously thought about this before now? If it didn’t prove to be a common cutpurse or brawler then he’d be working against men several degrees more threatening than Canting’s known rancour and spite.

Ned knew caution wasn’t one of his principle attributes. In fact, if he were kneeling in the confessional, and told to list his faults, then impatience and anger, not forgetting pride, would be pretty close to the top. As for lust, the obsession of all priests, well what did one expect—he was young and not a monk. However two nights in the Clink and this sudden realisation helped clarify the rewards of recklessness and he made an effort to blend into the morning pattern of the liberties. So far it had worked and with a sigh of relief, he settled down at a bench fronting a small cook shop just opposite the place Will had suggested as the site of the deadly affray, the Cardinal’s Cap tavern. He paid over a few small coins for a loaf of the common ravelled bread with a bowl of pottage and dove into a needed second meal. The loaf was coarse to chew, but fresh, and the steaming pottage was hot, filling and cheap. Even better, the cook had tossed in a good slab of salted bacon along with the usual onions, cabbage and beans, so it was full of flavour. After the third bowl he sat back and waited.

Good sense and caution had convinced him that walking into the tavern and gaming den would be a very bad idea, not to mention a danger to his continued good health. So if he couldn’t go in, then he would just have to watch the comings and goings from his present location. Ned knew the stew by reputation. He’d even been in a few times and could recognise a few of the girls, either punks who occasionally worked upstairs, or serving lasses who kept the customers plied with drink. Meeting Will this morning had been a real boon, as stray fragments of the missing night slowly drifted back. Last night’s song had been about Pleasant Anne, the redoubtable mistress of the establishment. She had a fine reputation,
a lass
of many talents, some of which served as the inspiration for the song’s lewder verses. Leaving a young man’s predilections aside, the rest of Southwark knew Pleasant Anne for the quality of her victuals. So at least one of her girls would be out soon to shop for supplies at the local market. In the meantime, after the rigour of the past few days he needed to rest up. His head still throbbed occasionally and the weight of his satchel had almost set his ribs screaming with pain in the short walk from the bridge to here.

Ned’s prediction proved pretty accurate. He saw several people exiting the gaming house and stew just before the
terce
bells. Most were clients wandering off to pursue whatever business or trades occupied their daylight hours, and were of little interest to him. Then after the first cluster, he spotted a familiar figure who strode out carrying an empty basket. Ned smiled in appreciation. How could he forget that lass? What a vision of beauty! She was pert and blond with a cleavage that would cramp a man’s cods, even more so when she stopped and adjusted her bodice to better display her natural advantages.

Ned slung his satchel over his shoulder and stepped out after his quarry, allowing her to get a good fifty paces or so distance from the stew before he sidled up beside her. “Good day Mistress Bethany. How do you this fair day?”

It was a tentative greeting to feel the way. At first the punk swung around with a suspicious glare that miraculously transformed into a generous smile of welcome with more than a hint of encouragement.
“Why tis Red Ned.
I hardly recognised y’ at first sight.
I took y’ for a common vagrant.
You look so bruised and torn. Whatever happened?”

Ah so that was how poor he looked. The bruises must lend his face an interesting halo of purple and black. No wonder most people had shied away from him. The populace of London were not generally known for their kindly regard for the beaten or otherwise downtrodden. It was a miracle that when he was unconscious he’d been ‘rescued’ by the Watch after the brawl, rather than some kindly soul from the Liberties stripping him naked and committing his corpse to the river. “Bethany, I beg your indulgence, oh beauteous nymph of the dawn.”

A raised eyebrow and coquettish laugh greeted this flowery request.
“Why Ned, Mistress Anne tis very strict about bringing back punters in the daytime.
I suppose for you, I’d make an exception,
iffin
’ y’ feel
y’ve
got the quicks for it.”

The bruises helped hide the red blush that spread quickly across his face. It didn’t hide enough and Bethany smiled wickedly at his response. Perhaps he should have thought longer on just how he had phrased his greeting. He cleared his throat with a cough of embarrassment. “
Aargh
, that’s not quite what I wanted.” Actually it was, but needs overrode wants this day.

“Well I ain’t a common strumpet! I want a proper bed and clean rushes on the floor. I’ll not hump against a wall, with my skirts pulled
high,
liken those sluts down at Dockside. Nor any lewd acts liken those foreigners at the Biddle!”

This was much more than Ned’s imagination could handle right now, though his physic was sending urgent indications that it was up for the game. His daemon idly pondered exactly what lewd acts one could pay for at the Biddle
that were
so offensive to Bethany.
Hmmm?
Reason won out over these baser urgings and he strangled out a reply through a suddenly constricted throat. “No.
Arghh
, not that! I mean, ahh, I want to talk to you about the other night.”

This didn’t bring the expected response, for Bethany harrumphed loudly and turned to walk away.
Damnit
! The brawl, the cell and his uncle had really befuddled his thinking. This was going all wrong! “Wait, I can pay!”

This was a bit too loud. A few stall holders took note of his cry and called out imprecations, while a couple of touts closed in, hollering out offers of sweet girls to bed.

But his outburst did halt the departing Bethany, who swung around with a sceptical expression.
“’
ow
much?”

Ned dug into his doublet and rattled the small purse meaningfully. “Two groats?” he managed to quickly squeak out. It was almost a fifth of his assets but a necessary sacrifice.

The spark of greed lit up her light blue eyes. However Bethany was a suspicious girl by occupation.
“I’ve said I’ll nay perform any strange acts, an’ I’ve got my honour t’ think of.”

Ned came up with a bow that he thought would shame a courtier and waved her over to the table by another food stall. Londoners loved to eat. At almost every available corner were collections of competing stalls or bakeries. As Bethany cautiously settled down on a trestle seat, Ned considered what a whore or punk would call honour. He’d never really thought about it before, but supposed, like everyone else, they must have their own rules to govern actions. That bore some further thinking at another time. Ned purchased a couple of hot pies. From the painted sign above, hopefully they were pigeon. Then he pulled out one of the promised groats, laying it on the table. His new companion eyed the small, silver coin, and quickly snatched it up, at the same time taking a sampling bite from the pie. The coin instantly disappeared into the depths of her bodice.

Ned swallowed dryly and suppressed the urge to dive in after the silver or take up the prior offer. Temptation was damned difficult to ignore. He supposed that’s why it was a sin. Bethany looked at him with an eagerness that set his cods a twitching but he ignored his impish daemon and drew a steady breath and nodded. “The other coin is yours when I have the information that I need, Mistress Bethany.”

That earned him a brief but sharp look then a resigned shrug. Only a fool, fresh from the country, would pay over first—too much chance of
her doing
a flit. Ned may have only been in the city a few years but he’d never been that innocent! So compliance for now assured
,
he pushed at the ragged wisps of the evening, searching for facts. “The last time I was at the Cardinals Cap, I remember you being there to help out with the serving.”

Well that was substantially true—Bethany did work there and she did ‘help’ the clients in a round about kind of way. As any sensible man knew, every gaming house either in the City or the Liberties had its own methods of playing the cony–catchers game, that of parting the gullible from their money. Some used loaded dice to alter the roll, while with others it was bait and switch. The game started with real dice till they had pulled the conies in, and then those innocent dice were palmed and replaced with the rigged set.

At the Cardinal’s Cap, however, they disdained the common moves of nip and foister, aspiring to higher plains of cleverness. They employed a combination of bait and switch, along with the insidious effects of double strength ale. In the unwary it created a heady mix of befuddlement and confusion. Once primed, the punks twitched their skirts and moved in. He knew how easy it was to succumb to the distraction and encouragement of girls such as Bethany. He knew how it worked—you were going well and the next roll might just win you enough silver to party like priest after Lent. Then up would sidle a helpful and well endowed lass, who while leaning over to whisper huskily in your ear, also gave you the chance to ogle to your hearts content at the glimpse of smoothly promising breast with just a hint of nipple trying their best to burst out of her bodice. And she would whisper huskily, so close that the feeling of her lips and breathe sent ripples all the way down to your codpiece. And what would those lovely lips whisper lovingly into your ear? “
Ooohhh
Ned, you can do it Ned.
Y’re
soo
clever” and while gently twisting a lock of your hair between her fingers, “then
we’s
can celebrate … upstairs.” Well, in such a drink befuddled state, what chance did you have?

It had taken Ned all of an hour and a half and several shillings to spot the tricks, but it was done with such craft and style that he’d returned afterwards just for the entertainment. Anyway once he understood it, the play gave him good warning of when to pull out of a game. The snap of those delightfully white teeth on the pie returned Ned to the immediate present. “Bethany, that night who else was there and what happened?”

The punk looked thoughtful, frowning hard in concentration. It was a short while before she answered. Perhaps it was also due to the pie that was rapidly disappearing, but eventually she licked the crumbs off her sweet red lips, and eased open the door to his past. “Twas was just on the Compline bell when y’ came in wit’ the rest
o’em
.”