The Cardinal's Angels (Red Ned Tudor Mysteries)

by Gregory House

  He was close enough to see the impact of the review. There was a passing tremor along Cromwell’s jaw as the muscles jumped distractedly. At a guess this was all news to the Lord Chancellor’s principal servant. Once more he made a leisurely perusal of the damning documents comparing each one. Both of them knew it was the Cardinal’s hand. With that unique sense that one must acquire to survive at court, Ned could feel the balance tipping one way then another as Secretary Cromwell weighed up the causes and effects of these letters. It was almost as if a giant scale stood behind him, each word and cipher steadying or dipping depending on its merits and the shift in alliances and factions that its use would imply.

  It could have gone on for hours, a lifetime even for Ned, as he saw decisions flicker across the eyes of the Cromwell. If he had any doubt as to the importance and validity of these letters, it withered in the bright furnace of Secretary Cromwell’s assessment.

  Finally Cromwell looked up from the rescued letters straight at Ned and in that instant he saw the cold, ruthless calculation that ticked and spanned this man’s very being. In that frozen instant Ned saw their fate and then it was masked and shifted.

  The sound of a slamming door drew his relieved attention. A lady had made her entrance. Both guards snapped to attention, as straight as possible without actually being a measuring rod, as she glided over the polished timber floor. It was said that she had trained at the French court, the source and fount of all the imported culture that the English nobility aspired too. From her dress and poise it was plain to see that she left most other ladies of the court back at the village fair in tawdry comparison. Today she was imperious.

  It was Mistress Black who started the ripple with a more graceful curtsy than Ned had ever considered her capable. The rest of the company which came down to just Rob and himself at this moment, followed suit more or less in keeping with Mistress Black. Even Cromwell stood and gave as good a bow as any courtier.

  It was easy to see why the King was besotted with her, from the wisps of auburn hair that escaped her hood to the delicate white skin at her throat. Ned found his breathing very difficult. It was her eyes that did it. Amber was one description but that was somehow inadequate.

  “Secretary Cromwell, I have been told you have delayed some messengers for me?” This was said in a commanding tone, one that only allowed so much but also made plain the not so hidden suggestion of steel.

  The Cardinal’s Secretary immediately got up from behind his table and walked over towards their visitor then went down on bended knee to Lady Anne Boleyn, the King’s intended wife and the reason for all Cardinal Wolsey’s current machinations. “Madam, these are my servants and at great risk they have brought these letters concerning treason in regard to the King’s Great Matter and yourself.”

  And in that instant the balance of the world shifted and Ned knew they were safe, though how safe in Cromwell’s service would be was another thing entirely. The Cardinal’s Secretary had made his choice and he handed over the dangerous missives, all of them, and presented his servants starting with Ned, the valued nephew of his friend Richard Rich, a gentleman he stated who could do much in the King’s service.

  Ned thought that was interesting—looked like he’d just gained his uncle a promotion. He wondered if he’d gain any gratitude for it. His daemon suggested probably not. Rather Uncle Richard was now his watchdog. It was said Cromwell believed in precautions in the same way a repentant sinner believed in salvation. In the end it wasn’t so surprising—Cromwell was not a man who’d allow valuable knowledge to run around unsupervised.

  When the introductions came to Mistress Black Ned received his greatest shock. He had naturally assumed that her famous contact was the scullery boy or a junior attendant, fiftieth down the ladder for access or cast–offs. Instead Lady Anne thanked her personally for the latest shipment of ‘herbs and unguents’ from Bruges. Damn him if Mistress Black hadn’t trumped him—again!

  At a certain stage they were eased out of any further discussions by bowing minions, who seemed impressed by the respect they were accorded by both Lady Anne and Thomas Cromwell. These were accomplished functionaries who could read a factional shift in a delayed courtesy. So to Ned and the rest of the company’s delight, they were given a small set of rooms that would usually have been reserved for an Earl.

  For Ned, all he craved was some quiet and a rest. He was worn out by the rides, fights and most recent of all, the mental duel with the Cardinal’s Secretary. For a brief instant he’d been granted the rarest and most dangerous of gifts, being able to peer into the inner workings of an opponent’s mind, and what he saw there had chilled his soul. Cromwell would continue to rise and this incident had turned from a near fatal disaster to a convenient stepping stone. The Secretary’s support had come at a price and Ned had an inkling that in time they would learn its true cost. For now, whether they liked it or not, they were involved in the deadliest of games, the envy, deceit and intrigue of the Court of His Sovereign Majesty, King Henry VIII.

  Chapter Twenty Six–A New Master, A Loyal Servant

  Ned awoke with start—it had been the dream. If Dr Caerleon had been present no doubt he would have had an explanation for the imagery. Whether Ned wanted the twisted old man’s views was up for debate. The remembrance of the strange images had him shivering. It had been a great cathedral on fire and tumbling into ruins. He crossed himself to banish the nightmare which had been so vivid especially since it was Ned himself who’d hurled the flaming brands, setting alight the vestments and smashing the delicate rood screen with a mason’s hammer. It had been so extreme a sight, even his normally mischievous daemon kept silent and his better angel had hidden somewhere dark and safe.

  He lay under the coverlet and struggled to come back to himself. What in the name of all the saints had prompted that terrible portent of a nightmare? Had one of Satan’s demons been sent to plague him or was it a grim warning from an angel on high? His soul felt fragile and wavered hungering for the solace of prayer while his body trembled violently. Then as the light of dawn fell across his face, his eyes flickered open.

  All right, he was definitely awake now and the power the dreadful dream held over him fell away as if frightened by the morning light. Ned tried to push himself off the bed and woke up further when he found his left arm had been strapped to his body. What?

  In a rush the images of the last week slammed into him leaving him breathless and panting. Could it only have been over a week since the incident at the Cardinal’s Cap? It must be close to that. He slowly counted up the days or rather the nights, since those tended to be the most readily recalled. If all that was real then this must be the King’s manor at Grafton Regis.

  With one hand Ned pushed back the bed curtains and looked around the room. It was quite small but with everything a man could need including a chamber pot. That he utilized immediately, also one handed, which proved to be his first obstacle and luckily was overcome was successfully.

  Ned looked out the window and tried to estimate the time. Without the ringing of the city bells or the chime of St Paul’s clock it was a bit difficult. The sun was well enough up so it could have been the second hour. He made a slight effort to stretch his shoulder and whimpered. The wound had tightened up.

  This dressing and bandage, though no doubt useful for the wound, made dressing impossible and in the ranking scheme of the court only in his more imaginative fantasies was Ned Bedwell going to be important or wealthy enough to rate a servant. So first problem for the day was how could he get his shirt and doublet on unassisted? The second problem that occurred to him was how to get some food. To be honest he’d expected to awake back at the tavern or even in a barn or maybe having to sharing a bed with three others at least.

  Having a separate room screamed status and marked favour, and he didn’t mind the absence of snoring companions in the least. However having Rob in here may have made his struggle with the shirt a less painful and futile experience. The battle lef
t Ned gasping with pain as he leant against the wall to recover. That was when he discovered a new disadvantage as the timber door swung open and smacked him into the wall. Shaking his head all he could be thankful for was at least it hit the good shoulder.

  “Oww! By the saints, watch what you’re doing!”

  Whether it was a plea or threat seemed to make no difference, as Mistress Black strode into the small chamber followed by three court servants carrying an array of clothes. Ned viewed their entrance with some trepidation. He didn’t care if they were the robes of the Grand Turk himself. All it meant was another struggle with shirts and such. He lost some of his smouldering discontent when a further servant arrived with a well–laden tray of provender and a jug of ale. It made negotiating the press in the room a bit difficult, but the smell of fresh bread had him salivating in anticipation. Now he thought about it, his stomach reminded him that it had been almost a day since he had last eaten.

  Perhaps Mistress Black had missed her calling in life, for within moments she’d marshalled the confusion, arranged the clothes on a narrow coffer chest, the tray on the bed and ushered out the last of the bewildered servants. All this was accomplished without either running into Ned or tripping over any of the servants, a feat that impressed him considering the limited space in the room.

  Ned was about to joyfully pounce on one of the loaves when Mistress Black’s commanding tone stopped his hand in mid grab. “Get your shirt off Ned!”

  That had him flummoxed. Here he was, dying from hunger, and now she wanted to strip him to his breeches. Both his daemon and angel emerged from hiding to point out that she had finally called him Ned, thought instinctively he did look around for any hot pokers or other implements of pain. No, only that dangerously innocuous satchel she always carried.

  “What for?” he asked suspiciously. After all the last two times she had got his shirt off had been distinctly painful experiences. Though she may have claimed necessity the agony was instantly recalled.

  Mistress Black shook her head and frowned while unpacking unguents and bandages. “Well Ned, I could describe to you the progress, according to the learned physicians, from laudable pus to green pus to wound rot and a painful death or you could experience all that. Your choice!”

  Well if only she’d explained matters to him in the first place. Ned removed the encumbering shirt very smartly with only a few winces and a barely suppressed whimper. Then the apprentice apothecary and sometimes practicing barber surgeon gave his wound a very close inspection then applied a further pungent salve from one of her many pots then rebandaged the wound. “By the way Ned, that was well done yesterday.”

  The unexpected compliment had him confused. A favour from the glowering Mistress Black, that was unusual!

  “What was?”

  “Well the ambush for a start…and later.”

  Ned could have sworn there was a grudging tone of compliment in that. “Rob and Roger did more in the fight.”

  She dismissed that with a brief shrug. “Maybe, but they know how to fight, though if you want I can recommend a friend of Master Robinsons who could train you in the arts of defence. Next time you won’t wear a dagger in your shoulder.”

  It was the sort of left–handed compliment he was beginning to expect from this very perceptive girl. Unused to compliments in general and this one in particular, he stammered out his worries. “The interview with Secretary Cromwell could have been better. I fear that we only escaped the direst fate by the opportune arrival of Lady Anne.”

  Meg Black tugged the bandage tighter and gave a very quiet smile. This was perplexing. Didn’t she understand the danger?

  “However I fear that we have swapped an immediate threat for a perilous bondage to Cromwell that’ll bring little recompense.”

  The intriguing smile of Mistress Black grew wider. She looked not so much like the cat who got the cream, but one that had hit on a year’s supply and then some. “Not so opportune or entirely without recompense.”

  “What? How can you say that? We have less than half of Smeaton’s gold left. We can get some money on the return of the horses and maybe a good price for that chestnut.”

  That last inclusion hurt. He really liked that horse, but there had to be a fair division of their gains since they could kiss farewell to the rest of the Cardinal’s Angels. By the time they got back to the city the shipment would be on its way to wherever.

  “Ahh Ned, I fear I have a confession to make.”

  What was this? Ned looked at Rob’s sister as if she’d sprouted wings. What was she talking about? Confession, he thought. Lutherans didn’t make confession?

  “The night of the ambush after I dosed you with Paracelsus’ laudanum I sent a message to my Lady Anne warning her of the letters and our need for help. So as you saw yesterday her arrival saved us.”

  Ned dropped his head. Oh well and he’d thought it had all been down to his negotiation with Cromwell. A part of him felt disappointed while his daemon hinted that it displayed a very useful link and regard from Mistress Black.

  Ned muzzled further thoughts as Meg continued. “It’s not so dark Ned.”

  Once more an enigmatic smile lit up her face, making her eyes sparkle with barely suppressed mischief. Her cryptic replies were making him angry and once more he spoke without thinking. “I suppose you can magic up the gold just like the Faerie Queen.” This was a said with a bitterly sarcastic tone and he immediately regretted his haste.

  That was until Meg Black gave her answer. “Well yes I can. I know exactly where it is.”

  Ned couldn’t have been more surprised but he was getting used to the seeming limitless abilities of Mistress Black, so he made an attempt at nonchalance. He leaned against the window sill, and would have tried to cross his arms but for having one arm strapped across his chest which made it awkward. “All right Mistress Clever Clogs. Where?”

  That damned annoying smile of hers continued. If anything it acquired a heavy tinge of smirk. “You had your head against it at the Steelyard. Those barrels behind you bore the Cardinal’s seal and my friend Albrecht owns the Halstall of Bremen.”

  “What!” The revelation had him spluttering. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  Mistress Black just laughed and shook her head. “What use would it have been other than a distraction? We couldn’t have done anything with it before solving the riddle of the letters anyway.”

  Ned just sat there on the coffer chest in the morning sunlight shaking his head. All this time and he had been inches away from a fortune. But he had to ruefully admit that Margaret Black was probably in the right. No matter how much it was, with a warrant for murder and treason hanging over them, it would have been of little use. But he did perk up at the sudden prospect of being very, very rich.

  He supposed this must have been pretty transparent for Mistress Black once more shook her head. “I wouldn’t get any ambitious ideas about the gold. I had to tell Lady Anne about it and she has placed a few restrictions on its use. Otherwise she will inform the King of its existence.”

  That was a bit of a crimp to Ned’s spiralling ambitions. Damn!

  “Oh by the way I am to be its executor and I report its use to her at the Epiphany feast every year.”

  That was perhaps worse news. With Mistress Margaret Black as Lady Anne’s agent, the chance of escaping the cramped quarters of the Inn of Court for palatial magnificence vanished. He must have looked really woeful for Meg let out a very mirthful chuckle, and gave him a playful thump. “Don’t look so downhearted. Lady Anne said each member of the company could have twenty pounds worth every year and a share of any profits if we accept her patronage. By the way Robert has already agreed and Roger will.”

  Ned had to smile. What else could he do? They were still alive, unhung, cleared of murder and treason, and in the space of a week had gained the protection of two of the rising powers at the court and the enough money annually to live like the gentry. Even so the daemon at his shoulder muttered tha
t they’d be earning every penny of that in times to come. He appeared to be accepted as part of a very select company.

  Ned poured the small ale into a couple of pewter cups and offered her one. “I give a toast to friendship and the Companie of the Cardinal’s Angels. May we all prosper!”

  The answering smile this received was extremely pleasing. Maybe the future held more promise than he could imagine, as his daemon and angel had whispered.

  Historical Note

  Red Ned and his companions are fictional characters, although the scene and setting is as accurate as research can make it, and as much as is possible in a novel the attitudes of the characters reflect the recorded passions and debates of the times. As for the real players of Tudor history, I have tried to give them a more human but less histrionic appearance based on my review of records, histories, letters and eyewitness accounts.

  The basis of the story does however revolve around a real series of events. A set of letters from King Henry VIII to Lady Anne Boleyn had been stolen, possibly by an agent of Cardinal Wolsey’s or Queen Catherine’s and they were transported by the son of Cardinal Campeggio to Rome. They now reside in the Vatican library and give us a fascinating insight into the love affair that helped transform England.