The Cardinal's Angels

by House, Gregory

  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.

  Humble was not a term Ned considered would have any part in Don Juan Sebastian’s normal lexicon, but the statement did answer one of his and Master Robinson’s questions. Katherine of Aragon, the spurned queen was involved in the Cardinal’s letters. That almost completed the set, along with the Dukes of Norfolk, Suffolk and the Lord Chancellor, though More’s involvement was still a puzzle. Not many of the great powers of the land were absent from this little affair that’d started with a dead man outside a gaming house in Southwark. Just about everyone seemed to know about Smeaton’s death, certainly more than he did, though what their interest was begged further questions.

  The wine arrived with startling promptness, complete with a pewter ewer and goblets delivered by the Innkeeper himself. The man was sweating profusely and looked nervously at the hovering assembly of retainers, while a few of the more prudent patrons slipped out the door. The rest, Ned noted wryly, stayed to watch the entertainment.

  “To what do I owe the visit of such a distinguished gentleman?” If they were going to play the game of courtly manners then Ned recalled some of the lessons of deportment from the Inns.

  Don Juan Sebastian gave a brief flutter of his fingers in acknowledgement. “It is a simple matter, but one that could reward you well for your loyalty to the Queen.”

  Here we go, the bargaining starts, Ned thought, taking a sip of the wine. Not bad, it would even pass his uncle’s taste. The tavern keeper must have been truly terrified. “How so…Sènor de Alva?”

  The Spaniard edged just a little bit closer and grimaced in distaste at the stains on the bench. “Those loyal to the Queen have discovered a threat, some letters exposing a treasonous plot in the Royal Court. The Cardinal’s servant Smeaton was to aid us in bringing the evidence before their Majesties though he died before it could be delivered.”

  Ned nodded politely and took another sample of the wine. The full flavour could grow on a man. But as for the Spaniard’s story, it was an interesting spin on the events, with the implication that Smeaton was to deliver the letters to Don Juan. Ned had a few doubts about that. He suspected that Smeaton had been ready to hand over his secrets to the highest bidder. The Spaniard and Norfolk’s retainer simply had a more direct and cheaper plan of acquisition.

  Regretfully Ned put down the wine and adopted a deeply concerned expression. “That is terrible news. I commend your loyalty Sènor de Alva. Such treachery should be presented to the Lord Chancellor or the King. But what has it to do with me?”

  Don Juan Sebastian wasn’t quite as polished as he projected, for at the mention of Wolsey and the King the corners of his mouth twitched in anxiety. “We have word Master Bedwell that you rescued poor Smeaton and were with him when he died.”

  That last was accompanied by the brief flick of finger in the form of a cross, as if at the loss of a dear friend. The Spaniard’s eyes however betrayed him. Resentment and frustration were hard to mask. Well there was no use denying it—the assault in the lane was the Spaniard’s men, and his ire had been raised by being cheated of his prize by Norfolk’s man and Ned’s interference. An overview of the scheme came to Ned in a flash of inspiration. Since both rivals had moved so openly they had full knowledge of the true extent of the letters. The precipitous assault also gave him a clue that this plot was limited in timing, all the players had been too eager and too open, and so he gave the Spaniard a simple nod of assent. This was the first play for his own cony–catch.

  His new host smiled in satisfaction as if he was a cat contemplating a bowl of cream. “Well Master Bedwell, if Smeaton had any letters or other items their Majesties would reward the finder of such items were they to be given into their custody.”

  And what would happen to Ned if it were handed over? Dead in a ditch just like Smeaton was most likely. However he was continuing his own game, for one Ned wanted to push it along and see where else the discussion would lead. “Why Sènor…”

  The Spaniard raised a hand to interrupt then lent forward with a pleasant smile. “A loyal friend of the Queen’s may address me as Don Juan Sebastian, Master Bedwell.”

  Ned found it difficult to credit that this foreigner actually believed his play at smooth courtesy was working. How easy did he think the English were to gull? Ned returned a simpering smile he’d learnt off Will and spread his hand in an open display of respect. “Don Sebastian, it’d be only loyal duty to render any treasonous articles to my Sovereign Majesty. Tis a pity matters are not that simple. All manner of difficulties and obstacles could arise. How could you assist a smooth passage?”

  Ned wasn’t a fool–if you didn’t ask for a gift or bribe the objects under negotiation weren’t valued, and thus you were regarded as a man of little consideration. Perhaps Smeaton had made that error.

  Don Juan Sebastian lovingly stroked his short pointed beard. It was extremely well barbered, crisp of line and from the aroma, scented with lavender. The man must spend the best part of an hour getting dressed each morning, not the quick splash and scrape with a dull knife that Ned had to endure every morn. It was also pretty obvious that Don Juan Sebastian was trying to decided just how little to offer so that he would still have a hefty cut left over for his own efforts. Within his dark eyes lurked a hint of another darker motive, maybe shielded contempt overlaid by haughty honour. So Ned’s estimation was proving correct. The Spaniard thought all English were beneath honourable dealing. He suddenly gained one more flash of inspiration. Smeaton had bargained with the Spaniard first, then later tried to use that as leverage with Norfolk’s man. It was so obvious! The fool had tried two faced treachery—it was only circumstance that had him fall to an English blade first.

  Don Juan Sebastian gave a delicate cough and fluttered his linen cloth in a lazy wave before resuming his smiling bargaining. “Their Majesties would consider the reward of say, a hundred pounds, and the benefice of St Lawrence Letchlade, worth twenty English pounds a year.”

  The Spaniard’s accent mangled the names considerably. However it was a very impressive offer and confirmed to Ned a degree of desperation on which he’d previously only speculated. That was a hefty sum, especially when one considered the Spaniard’s prior cut of say two thirds of the total value. It proved that despite this foreigner’s loathing of the English, he’d dealt in the murky waters of English patronage before. Don Sebastian was quite aware of the value of his offer to a penniless aspirant such as apprentice lawyer Ned Bedwell. It may have been a sore temptation to Ned, if he didn’t already suspect a similarly upgraded offer had been made to Smeaton. Trust may be on the bargaining table in the White Lamb. However it was also lying in the Southwark mortuary.

  Ned adopted a more relaxed seat on the bench and took another appreciative sip of wine then gave his first counter offer. “What of the charge of murder?”

  Don Juan waved his fingers dismissively. “English justices are so easy to persuade.”

  He hated to admit it, but the foreigner was right. The offer came down to the influence of the Queen’s faction. According to Will it had stalled the annulment commission—all year. Could it reach further?

  Ned was considering how far he could stretch this, when a disturbance at the tavern entrance drew his attention. Suddenly Ned felt a shiver of apprehension. In fact, terror could be a better description, for strutting through the doorway was the nemesis of Smeaton, Master Blue Brocade, followed by several men, all conspicuously large and prominently armed. The Spaniard frowned at Ned’s loss of interest and turned around to see what had drawn it away. Ned found out two things in that instant—his two pursuers knew each other and it was not an amicable relationship. Beneath a suddenly stiff smile Don Sebastian muttered what could
only have been curses from the sheer vindictive cadence.

  A loud bellow cut through the tavern hubbub. “Ned Bedwell, I’ve been looking for yea!” The voice was heavy with the burr of a northerner. The last time Ned had heard it was just before Smeaton’s death, raised in friendly banter. The murderer of Smeaton was a large gentleman with a big thick black beard that dominated his features and seemed to crawl up the sides of his face and seek refuge under a gaudy red velvet trimmed cap. A fool would have laughed and called it incongruous, but Blue Brocade’s beefy hand rested on a weighty looking backsword. Rob Black would have described it as useful for decapitating large animals like boar or bear, and Ned already knew Blue Brocade could use a dagger.

  The overshadowing eyebrows finally seemed to notice Ned’s guest and pulled down in visible disapproval before grunting out a greeting. “Yea here too y’ scented Spanish Popinjay. Shove o’er an let a man sit down!”

  Ned saw the mutual twitching of hands and for an instant it was in the balance whether each would draw blade on the other. You could see that their retainers were of the same thought, since there was none too subtle shifting and pronounced fingering of weapons. But the moment passed, and Don Juan Sebastian sneeringly gave ground. They made a very ill–matched pair and kept just enough distance for edged opportunities.

  Blue Brocade thumped down on the bench with none of the Spaniards affectations, and without being invited grabbed the pewter ewer and poured himself a generous goblet of wine which he promptly tossed off with appreciative smack of the lips. Having quenched his thirst the northerner leant a brawny arm on the table and fixed Ned in his sights growling out a rough welcome. “Ahh Bedwell yea lead a man on a damned good chase, but here yea are! I’s glad to see yea alive after I saved yea from Smeaton’s blade. Hope yea have nah listened to the blandishments of yon pricked louse here?”

  Blue Brocade was trying the bluff, hearty approach and surprisingly was claiming to be Ned’s saviour in the brawl. After days of paucity of knowledge now he was overwhelmed with witnesses, each claiming to have rescued him. Now Ned was already certain that Smeaton wanted him dead as too risky a witness of his nefarious bargains. According to Rob though, the northerner was about to finish him off along with Smeaton, so his trustworthiness was nil. Treachery it seemed had its own rewards.

  Ned kept up his blandly interested smile and watched the interplay between the two. If Caerleon was to be believed somewhere in this he could gain an advantage.

  Don Juan Sebastian may have been forced by circumstance to accept the presence of Blue Brocade but his feeling towards the black bearded Englishman were not so neutral. If his demeanour was any indication, the Spaniard held his temper by a thread. His colour was high and eyes were glazed by anger. If his nostrils flared any more you could use him as a chimney. Even a blind man could sense he was longing to thrust his blade through the northerner. Perhaps with a bit of inventiveness Ned’s daemon hinted this could be useful.

  “Well ‘ere we are lad. Hae this peacock been promising yea the moon an’ stars cos I’d nay believe him. My puir friend Smeaton did an yea see where he ended up.”

  Was that a threat or a promise? Ned just shrugged.

  “Good sir, Don Juan Sebastian and I have just been having a philosophical debate about the future.”

  Blue Brocade’s eyebrows shot up and down like a set of signalling flags. “Nah doubt the velvet trimmed cutpurse forgot ta tell yea o’ the treason he’s engaged in?”

  That set the Spaniard spluttering like a kettle. “I serve her Majesty, not like you Skelton, a worthless minion of that petty marsh lord Howard.”

  Captaine Gryne had warned him about the rent collector at the Cardinal’s cap. So this was him. Those clues snapped into place and jolted Ned’s memory. Dr Caerleon’s predictions now made more sense. Ned was caught between Queen Katherine’s adherent and the servant of Norfolk. One wanted to hold on to power, the other to resume a rightful place by the king. Ned and his friends didn’t count for much in that struggle. The webs of murder and treason drew closer.

  Skelton gulped down another goblet of wine, loudly smacking his lips and then belched prodigiously. He then lent closer, fixing Ned with the dark brown eyes of a menacing bear. “Lad, my lord‘ll see yea right. Swear ta serve him. He’s the one with the king’s trust. Hand o’ puir Smeaton’s pouch an I’ll see yea get enough land and coin to last out yea life.”

  It was an interesting offer and Ned nodded as if considering. He reckoned Skelton was being mostly honest. The light of it burned bright in his overshadowed eyes. However Ned also reckoned Norfolk’s man was a canny bargainer. He’d fooled Smeaton right up until the blade was driven home. As for the land awarded, it wouldn’t measure much more than six foot in length and coin enough for a shroud.

  The northerner must have thought he’d won out for he stretched an open hand towards Ned and in a loud staged whisper made his next pitch. “Yea can nay believe yon Spaniard. He’s more bent than a weasel and he’d hump his aunt if’n yea paid him. He does nay have the honour of us English.”

  Ned was amazed at Don Juan Sebastian’s forbearance. He had heard that the Spanish were a proud, hot tempered people. Why hadn’t the foreigner challenged Skelton by now? Not that he would have minded. He wasn’t sure that he felt so honoured by being called a fellow Englishman by some murdering brute who was probably a kissing cousin to the hairy kneed Scots.

  The Spaniard apparently didn’t have that much patience for he started growling at the intruding Skelton in what could have passed for French. Ned didn’t have a clue what he was saying, but some of it must have had an impact on the northerner for he began to turn red with anger and tried to draw his sword, roaring for his men. Norfolk’s man had obliviously forgotten where he was, for in trying to pull his blade free, Skelton slammed his elbow into the cubby panelling. Don Juan Sebastian, not one to let a chance go by, had his poniard out and was lunging forward, forcing the northerner to jump back before tripping over one of his men, and falling sprawled across another table.

  The sudden brawl could have been contained as the tavern regulars edged away, but just then ten more men burst in, armed with swords and staves. A loud voice called over the incipient brawl. “Yield your arms. I am here for a Spaniard and a northerner, suspected heretics by order and writ of the Chancellor of Lancaster, Sir Thomas More.”

  Ned swore as he was slammed into the table by a retainer’s backswing. If he thought trouble was a brewing before, that was nothing to the sheer chaos that followed the proclamation. All three rival groups now fell to brawling with the locals who either enthusiastically joined in, hid under the tables or tried to bolt for the door and windows, already surrounded by a panicked throng clambering over each other to get out.

  Since those ready exits were blocked Ned opted for escape ‘plan III’ and dropping to the floor, scurried back toward the beckoning safety of the kitchen. He had a few moments before all parties realised their mistakes and planned to make the most of this opportunity. It had worked—well almost. He made it through the doorway and was dodging past the cook, who to get into the feel of things, was yelling and brandishing a hefty meat axe. Ned had actually made it out the back door into a small stinking alley when a large paw seized the neck of his doublet bringing him up short, half–choking.

  “Got yer faggot food!”

  Damn, it was one of More’s pursuivants. He should have looked first, though how such a broad shouldered, helmeted knave could have hidden so well escaped him. Without changing his grip, Master Ape dragged him towards the end of the alley, all the while chuckling at the ease of his capture and describing in loving detail the ‘questioning’ that was to follow. Ned felt the unfairness of the situation deeply. He had managed to evade the other two with relative ease, and was now seized in some botched raid that was about something he had nothing to do with.

  Then just as Master Ape was regaling him with the many and varied uses of the ‘Boot’, Ned heard a sudden clang as is if someone
was beating a pot. He heard a grunting cough and large amounts of Master Ape dropped on him, crashing them both into a wattle wall. What in the name of the saints was going on? Suddenly, instead of being helpless in the grasp of More’s pursuivant, he now found himself sprawled on the ground with Master Ape making strange grunting sounds, collapsed over the top of him. An alarming thought barged into his consciousness—what if this fellow thought he was a rent boy and was after a bit of rough and tumble bitchery! Determined to fight it out, Ned smashed his elbow backwards and felt a jarring but satisfying thud, and then shooting pains right up his arm making his fingers spasm. Painful or not, this gained him some room and without pausing to see what might happen next, he scrambled out and made a bolt for the end of the alley.

  He made it two paces before coming to an abrupt halt. Mistress Black was standing behind the downed pursuivant, idly swinging Gruesome Roger’s cudgel while the weapon’s owner was a pace further back, leaning against the wall with fist shoved into his mouth in a vain attempt to muffle loud guffaws. Embarrassed didn’t seem to be an adequate word for how he felt. He wished the cobblestones would open up and swallow him.