To Ned’s practiced eye, this motley body fulfilled most of those requirements though for a couple it would be best not to inquire too closely regarding how close they’d come to missing the mark. They did, however, compare favourably with the his old friends the Southwark Watch under Constable Dewberry, though his daemon sneering reminded him that a pack of blind, starving beggars could out present those unshakable bastions of law and order in the Southwark Liberties. The Aldgate sergeant though, was a man of considerable experience as well as girth, and he stood listening to the preacher for a few minutes with his hands resting lazily on his broad paunch until the friar had said one word too many. Then, with an abrupt wave, he signalled his band to grab the offender. Considering their many afflictions and deficiencies the Watch were really quite efficient. Within moments the screaming friar was gagged, trussed and bundled off, leaving a muttering crowd in their wake.
Satisfied, Ned pushed himself off the bench and left several small coins and low voiced instructions to the pot boy, and limping, made his way west towards Greyfriars. That was one matter dealt with. The friar would probably be dumped in the Bread Street Compter for several days as a warning. Since the Church courts had lately refused to deal with clerical offenders this was the best that could be expected. Ned had seen that the Watch got a reward for its duty. On their return to Aldgate they would find several quarts of the Bee Skep’s best double ale waiting for them. Right now he wished he could join them. However obligation had its own demands.
Usually a walk from Aldgate to Greyfriars could be accomplished within an easy half hour at a leisurely pace. Today the bruising limited him to a more time consuming limp. He supposed it was to be endured and it gave him a chance to take in the atmosphere of the streets and alleys. While the city in this ward was still shrouded by its usual wood smoke and stinking wastes, there was another scent that undercut all this. It added a sharper tone to the street cries, and a worried edged to the conversation of the gossips clustered at the public wells and fountains.
It was the taste of fear, and the city was ripe with the bitter tang. Parliament had ended with much achieved, and there were constant rumours that it would be called again very soon, next month some said, to complete its vengeance against the bishops. But in the meantime, the lord bishops still had a stranglehold on power, despite the loss by Wolsey of his long accustomed perch. And in the recent competition for the highest position, a Londoner rather than a lord had won out, one Sir Thomas More. Both he and his family were well known in the city. His father had been a judge, while the famous son had, like Ned’s uncle, Richard Rich, served his time as the Commissioner of Sewers. But Master More had gone on from that humble position, climbing the dizzy and perilous heights of the King’s service. Whereas once he had been His Majesty’s secretary and sometime ambassador, now Sir Thomas had acquired the lofty rank of Lord Chancellor from the King’s hand.
He had wasted no time in letting his friends and rivals know were he stood on matters of import and past friendships. At the opening of Parliament he had savagely attacked his former patron, Cardinal Wolsey, by delivering the Bill of Attainder. It listed forty four offences committed by the Cardinal against the King’s Majesty and included one classic that gave Ned wry amusement every time he thought of it.
“That knowing he had the foul and contagious disease of the Great Pox broken out upon him in divers places of his body, came daily into Your Graces presence and blowing on Your most noble Grace with his perilous and infective breath.”
That was ironic for a priest. Even a child knew how you caught the Spaniard’s Pox.
After this list of treasonous offences had been read out and cheered, another member of Parliament had then stood up in the House, and defended the disgraced Cardinal—Thomas Cromwell, previously Wolsey’s secretary, now known to be in the King’s service. It was a considerable risk, but it did signal the limits of His Sovereign Majesty’s displeasure.
Ned was in a bit of a quandary over that. On the one hand he was pleased at the fall of the arrogant prelate, but he would have preferred someone else to launch the attack on Wolsey, since there was considerable bad feeling between his uncle’s family and Sir Thomas More, while Cromwell’s defence created its own paradox, especially since Ned was now bound to him as a retainer due to a very convoluted escapade last year.
For Ned and the city, the last session of Parliament had been an incomplete victory. The clerical faction had been wounded in the affray but according to his uncle, the Privy Council had slipped up. While More was undoubtedly clever and held the confidence of the King, the new Lord Chancellor, in Master Richard Rich’s opinion, was more unpredictable and slippery than a greased weasel. Ned still recalled the violent rage of his uncle when he heard of the appointment. He’d sworn loudly and complained that ‘Lord Chancellor’ More knew the city as well as any Cheapside foister or punk. Then he’d made it plain, that to the Rich clan this elevation was to be viewed as more a curse than a blessing. All the while during this tirade his uncle had been glaring ominously in Ned’s direction. His demon had meekly suggested the perhaps Uncle Richard doubted Ned’s ability to stay out of trouble. It was not a reminder he needed.
For the Mayor and Aldermen of the city, the appointment was greeted with mild good cheer. They, no doubt, felt that Sir Thomas could be expected to have an excellent understanding of the complex problems and difficulties that beset the city and its inhabitants, treating them with the respect and compassion expected from the famous author of Utopia. Ahh, maybe not. In Ned’s jaundiced view that was the problem. He’d read the work at university. The fantasy of Utopia was not a land where any Englishman would feel at ease. Apart from that ominous imprint, Sir Thomas More also had gained a reputation for ruthlessly pursuing and destroying of any who differed in the slightest from his rigid interpretation of the Christian faith. If the suspected person was found to be tainted by Lutheran or other heretical sympathies, or even a lack of respect for the Church, then it could very dangerous indeed.
This ingrained attitude of the new Lord Chancellor created further complications, for the people of London where renowned as the most anticlerical in the kingdom. Thus the mood of Sir Thomas More was a difficult thing to gauge, and his recent series of raids across the city had spawned a fear and apprehension far beyond their limited targets. The Church’s Lollard towers for heretics were full, and there had been talk of using one of the older compters or prisons like the Fleete for the overflow. But whether it was ambition or delusion, the passions of the Lord Chancellor now held sway over the city streets, and tainted the flavours of daily intercourse.
In his passage through the city parishes, Ned took as careful a note of the street’s pulse as would any barber–surgeon for a patient, since he’d been awarded the useful but dangerous post as intelligencer and pursuivant to Thomas Cromwell—a sniffer out of secrets and listener to keyholes, a spy some sneeringly labelled it. Ned ignored the slander and considered his task as more a searcher out of inconvenient truths. In that duty he’d gained some measure of success and standing last year, with the mystery of the Cardinal’s Angels as well as one or two other minor matters since of unpaid debts and doubtful wills. He preferred not to remember the long running and contentious Dellingham incident at Christmas and he definitely didn’t want his uncle to discover his solution to the grain shortages during the crisis in February. While those were dangerous, messy and complicated, they were minor affairs for his patron who was steadily ascending in Royal regard at Court. However, as any man knew, the Wheel of Fortuna was fickle, and advantages could change with the whim of the King or a shift in foreign alliance. These were higher affairs of lords and princes and it was the here and now that concerned Ned the most. As an apprentice law student at Gray’s Inn he still had little in the way of security, and his uncle’s family was nowhere near connected enough for him to be taken on by one of the more prominent lawyers. Not that Uncle Richard would stir himself much for a bastard nephew, so continued serv
ice under Master Richard Rich with his ‘borrowed’ use by Councillor Cromwell was his only option.
Having finally reached his destination, Ned stepped through the wreathing cloud of bitter scented smoke that shrouded the apothecary’s entrance, to find Meg’s twin cousins, Anne and Alison, dealing with a selection of customers. Since there was no sign of their father, Master Williams, the apothecary must be off again doing the rounds of the surrounding counties for herbs and remedies. Though having met Meg’s aunt, Goodwife Agnes, if he’d been so wedded he’d want to spend as much time elsewhere as possible as well. He’d never seen anyone so obsessed with the meaningless minutia of social position. Goodwife Agnes’s every waking moment was devoted to gaining minuscule advantages over her friends and relations. Ned had been unfortunate enough to collide with the woman on a prior visit to her niece, Meg. It was purely concerning business of course. Instead Ned found himself dragged in by the rest of the family for an Easter feast, as a potential shield to deflect the goodwife’s endless fussing and interference, while they dealt with the preparations. It was the worst three hours of his young life, as the goodwife poked and pried to find out every detail of his social prospects and that of his family. By the end she had a list of twenty eligible girls who would jump at the chance of marriage. Ned also heard an intriguing list of each candidate’s foibles and assets, probably down to the value of a clipped groat.
After that gruelling experience, he could see why the family frequently suggested that the old parish priest needed her assistance with the myriad affairs that only a devoted parishioner could provide. He only wondered what the poor priest had done to deserve such an affliction.
After dealing with the last customer, one of the girls sauntered over. Ned had assumed a vaguely injured expression and was leaning meaningfully against one of the pillars, trying to portray an air of suffering stoicism. From the red ribbon in her hair he thought it was Anne. He still found it very difficult to tell them apart. The only way to tell the difference between the two was their red and blue ribbons, and Ned had often thought about how easy it would be for them to pull a switch.
“If you are looking for sympathy from your lady love, she’s not here Ned.”
That cut the ground right out from his proposed sorrowful declamation. Instead he straightened up and suppressing a wince, whispered a reply. “Alison, I’ve told you before that Meg is not my lady love. I have eyes only for you.”
At that witty retort she just shrugged and twitched a disbelieving eyebrow while her sister came over to join the baiting. The other one, Anne he hoped, put her hands together and sighed deeply. “If only Jonathon would learn to fight for me. It would be so romantic and courtly.”
Ned suppressed a chuckle at that suggestion. He’d met Anne’s intended, a young lad who was training to be a draper’s clerk. Not meaning to disparage the fellow, but he’d have to put on a bit more meat before he could pick up a sword without falling over. What Meg’s young cousin saw in her scrawny boyfriend—well they say love is blind. Ned just hoped the fellow had other ‘hidden’ compensations.
“So fair damsels, where is the sought for maiden?”
That at least elicited a matched pair of giggles before Alison pushed her sister away and adopted a more businesslike demeanour. “A couple of hours ago she got an urgent summons from the Steelyards, around the time of the Nones chimes.”
Ah that was the reason for the suddenly, serious expression—the unofficial part of Meg Black’s duties, the ‘secret’ that had kept the noose from around their necks and their innards unroasted during the Cardinal’s crisis last year. Ned had found out that sweet innocent Mistress Margaret Black, apprentice apothecary and keen amateur surgeon, a lass of no more than seventeen, was deeply involved in the smuggling of heretical writings. Now London was no stranger to bizarre happenings or circumstance. The surprising revelation was that one of her key patrons was Lady Anne Boleyn. The woman, it was said by some, steered the King’s complex manoeuvring over the annulment of his present wife, Katherine of Aragon. That little fact had left Ned gratefully flabbergasted, though it was the kind of exasperating one–upmanship he was beginning to expect from the resourceful Mistress Black.
So whatever the summons meant, he’d have to see Meg another time. He briefly considered asking Alison, if she knew of a remedy for his bruises. But if such a request was taken the wrong way, he might find himself with another very long and convoluted interview with Goodwife Agnes. So instead he suffered the whispers and twitters as he made as dignified an exit as possible. Maybe his aunt had a decent cure—she seemed to come up with all sorts of treatments for the bumps and scrapes of his cousins.
Before he had made his halting way to the end of the street, Ned found his passage barred by a large, sneering fellow who strode purposefully towards him, idly swinging a cudgel. Almost automatically, hand to sword, Ned sank into a half crouch at a speed that Master Sylver would definitely approve. It took a moment to recognise the scarred face of Gruesome Roger Hawkins, Mistress Black’s menacing shadow. While the man had proven his worth and more last year, that didn’t mean his arrival was welcomed or wanted. It irked Ned that the retainer still regarded ‘his’ presence with the grudging acceptance usually reserved for impecunious relations with unsavoury habits regarding sheep, especially since the ‘Liberties of London’ escapade with young lamb Walter Dellingham. ‘Hawks’ lacked a certain credibility in claiming any moral superiority after that little chase.
“About time Bedwell!” growled out the rough voice. “At least I don’t have to tramp through all y’r sordid haunts in the city. Mistress Black wants y’ down at Smarts Key wharf!”
Ned dropped his hand from the sword hilt and adopting a more dignified pose snarled out a reply to the peremptory summons. “Despite what some may claim, I do not come and go at Meg Black’s say so!”
Gruesome Roger seemed amused by Ned’s stand and shook his head with a grim chuckle. “Y’ will this time. There’s a death involved.”
It was simple statement but it immediately brought back memories of last year’s affray. Death had figured prominently in that affair, well murder to be precise. More deaths came later. Ned felt a chill march up his spine. If Margaret Black sought his assistance, then it must be serious. He really didn’t feel like another limping tramp across the city, but the presence of her impatient retainer left little choice. With a resigned wave of acceptance he followed on.
***
Chapter 2. Surprise at Smart Key Wharf Afternoon 5th June
Gruesome Roger had given little away in the painful journey to the riverside. That the retainer was tight lipped could have been considered an understatement. Ned had rarely heard him utter more than a couple of short comments, though they’d usually been in a dryly sardonic tone and almost always concerned Ned’s shortcomings. Only the infamous Christmas confession had seen Hawk’s even approach a measly measure of loquacity. So Ned now stood at the wharf in a foul mood with his leg berating him for the added abuses as he cautiously tried to massage some feeling back into the stricken limb. Ned also could have sworn that once Roger had noticed his limp the black hearted fiend had increased the pace. So having been peremptorily summoned here to the riverside, what did he see? A boat! One of several, stacking the length of the wharf.
Anyone nautically proficient would have recognised it as a three masted carrack of around two hundred tuns burden capacity, not really a small vessel but in the lower end of the middle range shipping that packed this part of the Thames. Craft like this were commonly used for the trade route that shuttled between the Low Countries and the coasts of England. It had the bluff bows and sturdy shape that would see it through the unpredictable storms that swept the North Sea, but still maintain a good speed between ports with its large square sails. All that however was irrelevant to Ned. As far as he was concerned it looked like a large barrel with bits cut off, topped by a couple of tree trunks held up by a mystical network of ropes.
What did hold h
is interest was the performance on the dock next to the vessel. Mistress Black, his summoner, was standing on a plank that led to the deck of the carrack. He supposed the angle helped, for it gave her diminutive five foot height an extra boost so that the two fellows before her had to look up. He’d seen young Meg Black in many moods and even been on the infrequent end of a painful display of temper for the odd incautious comment. Those reprimands were love pats compared to the tempest he now watched from a safe distance. Ned could’ve sworn that her eyes sparked with fury as she berated those trembling before her. As an aspiring professional he noted her comprehensive knowledge of law, and marrying that with the invective used by the London boatmen, he could well understand why the two officials were nervously backing away. It would take a very brave or foolish man to stand before that assault. The recipients of her wrath eventually broke and fled past him. The taller of the two was as white as a sheet, distractedly mopped his brow with a crumpled cap and muttered to his companion that the fee for this post wasn’t worth the bribes if a man had to put up with this kind of intimidation. Well that at least gave Ned his first clue as to what was happening. Somehow this death involved officials from the Customs House.
Ned didn’t claim to have an intimate knowledge of the ins and outs of the city’s trading practices, but he did know that all cargo was supposed to be made available for inspection by the customs officials before being loaded, to check it for import and export taxes. He’d heard that it could be a very lucrative sinecure, with all sorts of incentives offered by merchants to ensure that the ‘correct’ quantity or weight was assessed. Usually it paid to keep those officers receptive to your interests. He failed to see how Meg Black terrifying two of them could fit into those sensible business practices. Having restored a measure of life to his leg, Ned hobbled over to the guarded gang plank.
The Queen's Oranges Page 3