The Cardinal's Angels (2 page)

Henry VIII
—King of England, Ireland and in theory France. Desperately needs an annulment so that he can marry again and hopefully father a son to be his heir.

Katherine of Aragon
—Queen of England, and aunt to Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor. She could only provide one living daughter for the English throne. By 1528 she was past child bearing age.

Anne Boleyn
—beloved mistress of Henry and the reason for the annulment commission.

Thomas Wolsey
—Cardinal legate, Archbishop of York and the Lord Chancellor of England, the right hand of Henry as well as the solver of all the King’s problems. Despite being a member of the clergy, he is also the richest man in the kingdom.

Thomas Howard
—Duke of Norfolk.
An old campaigner and conservative faction leader.
Loathes new men like Wolsey and Suffolk.
The uncle of Anne Boleyn.

Charles Brandon
—Duke of Suffolk.
A childhood friend and jousting companion of the King.
Secretly married the King’s sister, Mary Tudor, widowed Queen of France.

Francis I
—King of France and a Valois.
Monarch of the strongest kingdom in Europe, and bitter rival to the Hapsburgs in Italy.

Charles V
—Holy Roman Emperor, and a Hapsburg.
Lord of the largest domain in the western world, stretching from Germany to Mexico in the New World.

Thomas Cromwell
—Secretary to Cardinal Wolsey.
Has served his master in Parliament and by dissolving religious houses for their assets.

Richard Rich
—Commissioner of Sewers, London.
Friend of Thomas Cromwell and uncle to Ned.

During the reign of Henry VIII, the value of coins varied wildly since coins were frequently recalled and re issued with a lower precious metal content, to aid the financing of Henry’s expenditure on war and domestic building programs. It got to such a state that the gold sovereign coins stamped with the portrait of the King were nicknamed old copper noses since frequent handling gave them a red gold colour. Rhenish florins, Thalers and Venetian florins were the period’s equivalent of US dollars and accepted all over Europe. All other coins were evaluated to their standard.

farthing
= quarter of a penny (0.25d)

halfpenny
(0.5d)

1 penny silver coin

Half groat silver coin worth 2 pence

Groat silver coin worth 4 pence

1 shilling silver coin worth 12d

1 noble a gold coin worth 6s 8d.
(
80p,
or 1/3 of a pound)

1 Angel a gold coin worth 7 shillings and 6 pence

1 pound or a sovereign gold coin worth 20 shillings,
i.e.
240 pence

1 mark was the value of 8 ounces of gold or silver; 123 4d

For more information see the following books;

Pleasures and Pastimes in Tudor England Eur
ope by Alison Sim

Walking Shakespeare’s London
by Nicholas Robins

Elizabeth’s London
by Liza Picard

Food and Feast in Tudor England
by Alison Sim

To all my readers as a writer of historical fiction, I strive to bring forth a contemporary understandable view of the Tudor Age, during the reign of Henry VIII. The English of the Tudor period is both maddeningly close and frustratingly different to our modern usages. For instance a number of placenames, titles and phrases may appear different since they’ve been written in their earlier Tudor forms. To aid the story flow and provide a period flavour I’ve made some efforts to render dialects and phrasing into more modern standards to take account of the many regional and class differences in accent and pronunciation. Hopefully this will give the reader a taste of Tudor English without sounding like a player at a Ren Fair. At this time there was nothing like
standard
English in speech or spelling which only gained prominence in the 1800’s after universal education and dictionaries. For any one who would like to look a little deeper into where our language came from I can highly recommend Bill Bryson’s
The Mother Tongue
, an extremely amusing account of accent, eccentricity and English. Finally apart from a good tale of adventure, as a historian and researcher I’m trying to give the reader as accurate portrayal of Tudor life, culture and attitudes as possible based on the surviving records and accounts.

Regards Gregory House
- Terra Australis

Tudor Blogging at
http://rednedtudormysteries.blogspot.com/

Blogging at
http://prognosticationsandpouting.blogspot.com

Look out for the rest of the series of the Red Ned ‘adventures’ at Amazon

Ale house:
Lower in social scale and quality than a tavern. Usually a room with a few benches and a brew house out the back. In theory, they had to be licensed. These were considered by the city officials as the breeding ground of mischief and crime.

Tavern:
Equivalent to a modern British Pub or American Bar usually serving reasonable quality food and ale.

Inn:
These establishments were the Sheratons or Hiltons of their age, large buildings with a courtyard and stables used to catering to gentry and nobility.

Stew:
A brothel or a region of disreputable activities.

Sack:
A sweet fortified wine similar to sherry drunk at any occasion sometimes further sweetened with sugar.

Cony catching
: A common term for any manner of con trick or swindle.

Cozener or cross biter:
Swindlers,
fraudsters
tricksters
etc.

Nip:
A young pickpocket.

Foister:
One of the nicknames of a fraudster or pickpocket, commonly a cozener’s
offsider
.

Punk:
A common name for a part time prostitute.

Justice:
The local judge or Royal official charged with keeping the peace.

The Common Watch:
Sort of acted as a police force and occasional fire brigade.
Regarded by the Tudor citizens as next to useless and dumber than a bag of hammers.

Constables:
These are the usual law enforcement officers for the city of London and its wards and parishes. While in some places they were competent, most of them were considered worse than the Common Watch.

Ward Muster Company:
Citizen
militia
of reasonable quality and equipment, usually recruited from the better classes of Londoners.

The Liberties:
Areas of the city of London and Southwark under the jurisdiction of the Church and exempt from interference by city or county officials.
Usually swarming with punks, cony catchers, thieves, murderers and forgers.

Manchet loaf:
Best quality white bread usually for the well off.

Ravel loaf:
Coarser quality bread usually eaten by tradesmen and others.

Wherry:
A small boat with one to four rowers, used for transport on the Thames, the taxi of its day.

The changing colour of the trees, from shading green to red and finally a crumpled brown, was enough of a hint of the passing of summer’s bounty for any to heed, in this the year of Our Lord, fifteen hundred and twenty nine, the twentieth year of the reign of Our Sovereign Lord, King Henry VIII. Now that the colder winds of autumn were at hand, forewarning of winter’s chill and dearth, crossroad prophets warned of the nearing edge of Death’s dark scythe and railed for the repenting of sins. Considering the recent fickleness of the seasons and poor harvests, the prudent farmer or goodwife would look to the state of their stores and give a heartfelt prayer for a short winter and perhaps an offering at their parish church, to avert the ill omens. The cannier of them would, in the dark of the lengthening nights, also slip off to secretly consult the local hedge witch on their predictions for the season. As an added precaution, maybe also procuring a talisman to avert the dreaded ‘sweats’ that had recently ravaged the country, carrying off thousands in its grim tally. Others, clustered around the crackling tavern fires and made reckless by strong ale, growled of the exorbitant tithes demanded by the clergy, and shared dangerous complaints. The most common of these was that the damned priests and bishops had no God–given right to the rewards of men’s labour. The bolder amongst them stood up and with tankard held high, pledged to the coming day, when the mightiest of the church prelates, bloated by greed and with his Cardinal’s robes dyed red with the blood of murdered yeoman, would fall to the hand of a commoner. At that cry the tavern audience would cautiously nod agreement, while keeping a suspicious watch for the church’s pursuivants, sniffers of sedition and heresy. So far it was just a whisper amongst the market crowds, elusive, secret and deadly.

Treason was the usual charge for overheard slanderous public utterances regarding Cardinal Wolsey, the Lord Chancellor of the England, the excuse being that such claims defamed the sovereignty of His Majesty, Henry VIII. So as a precaution against unnatural pretensions the punishment was harsh, bloody and public. It was a long painful death by hanging, drawing and quartering on Tower Hill—spectacle, entertainment and warning for the commons, Parliament and gentry of London. For the past twenty years it had served as a useful choke on wayward treasonous tongues—that was until this season. Now it was openly spoken that the Cardinal’s power was wilting as fast as the fading leaves. Last week, according to a rumour sweeping the Spitalfield Market, the Abbot of Wigmore threw out Wolsey’s pursuivant, telling the retainer to go hang. The abbot, according to a friar who claimed to have seen it, had stood at his gate as the Cardinal’s servant was thrown into the mire of the road and screamed out he needn’t bend knee to some grasping upstart butcher’s brat from Ipswich. An indrawn gasp of shock and glee greeted the tale and the folk of London gathered around the parish wells and fountains gossiping and betting as to the probable rewards for the abbot’s impudence.

In Hertfordshire at the former royal estate of Manor of the Moor, by the village of Rickmansworth, one man was wracked by the recent waning of respect. Thomas Wolsey, Archbishop of York was deeply worried. His position and power should be unassailable. He was the King’s right hand, holding the royal seal as Lord Chancellor, as well as the unique position of a lifetime legatine commission of Cardinal, trumping the usual head of the English church, the Archbishop of Canterbury. Across the realms of western Christendom, monarchs and princes were accustomed to placing all matters of peace and war into his skilled hands for counsel and deliberation. Wasn’t he called the ‘Great Arbiter of Europe’ by Emperor Charles V, the master of half of the Christian world as well as the new lands across the Atlantic? Francis, the King of France, also held him in high esteem, hosting sumptuous banquets in his honour and clasping him by the hand and proclaiming him a loyal friend, rewarding him with a bishopric for his favour. Then his own sovereign, Henry Tudor, had also been unstinting, bestowing unlimited favours and wealth, entrusting him with the high affairs of the kingdom. As for the Holy Father in Rome, Clement’s retention of the papal throne was owed to Wolsey’s own blend of bargaining, negotiation, and threats.

So why should he be worried this night? What was the arrogant braying of a minor cleric to him?
A gadfly bite
, no more. However, as the yapping of a mastiff gave warning of the sneak thief, this open insult presaged dark moves by those who were jealous of the King’s favour and was not just the least insult, but rather the latest. Last week the King’s good friend and close brother–in–law, the Duke of Suffolk, stood up at the Blackfriars Court and swore before all the assembly, “that it was never merry in England whilst we had Cardinals amongst us”. The Court had cheered this vile insult.

He could have trumped that smear from Sir Charles Brandon with a flick of his hand, easily bringing the snarling cur to heel. Brandon was hot headed and vain, and without Wolsey’s intercession the strutting jousting companion to the King wouldn’t have survived his secret marriage to the King’s sister. Henry was touchy about his royal honour and that action had strayed too close to treason. That being so, after the cheers from the rabble, the Court had settled down. His Sovereign Majesty had sat on his throne watching, and said nothing.

How could this be? A few months ago Brandon was all smiles and scraping bows for his beloved patron. Now he displayed all the ingratitude of a treacherous heart. This betrayal wounded deeply, but of more concern was why? For all his bluff and swagger, Brandon was as cunning as a rat in sniffing the political winds of the Court. That one so formerly loyal should turn was an ominous portent and the King had watched, and said nothing. Nothing!

Cardinal Wolsey wearily rubbed his heavy jowls and considered the latest problem, his latest
burden, that
damned commission on the annulment of His Sovereign’s marriage to Queen Katherine. He snorted in provoked anger at the memory. Why couldn’t the Spanish harpy just leave it be? As well wish for the moon. That stiff necked woman hadn’t budged an inch and he’d even humbled himself on bended knee pleading for her to yield, promising lands and status as befitted her station. All that effort wasted! Even his personal solemn oath that she’d gain untold sympathy and guarantee a later return when His Majesty’s need for Imperial aid was stronger hadn’t altered her stubbornness. Finally during the commission her scheming and tricks had ruined the open hearing at Blackfriars. It was going so well, smoothly and rehearsed, and then the queen burst in, all tears and entreaties to her ‘loving husband’ and in a single act demolished years of work. The plan was too cunning to be Katherine’s work. He suspected Father Juan Luis
Vives
. It had taken but a few well placed and judicious threats to scare that learned scholar back to Spain.
And what of that recent arrival, Don Alva?
The Spaniard was young, clever and ambitious, a dangerous combination.

It was revenge, pure and simple, delivered with all the vicious calculation of a spurned wife. Wolsey had turned pale at the scene. Henry Tudor, his lord and master, did not forgive humiliation. Still it could have been saved and the royal ire deflected, if it wasn’t for the actions of one
of his own,
an English bishop even, that damned sanctimonious interfering fool, Fisher! Ignoring the hints of royal disfavour and legatine reward, he defended Queen Katherine. Of course the baleful glare of his outraged monarch alighted upon his most loyal chancellor and long–time solver of church problems, and the King said nothing! That was the culminating ruin of the commission.

Wolsey was almost tempted into profanity at the recollection. A muttered prayer pushed him past the sinfulness of anger into a moment’s blessed peace. It was all too brief. He turned to the work at hand, and putting quill to parchment, wrote out the salutations to Thomas Boleyn, Lord Rochford, and father of Anne, the new beloved of His Sovereign and the reason for his mounting calamities. After decades in royal service he knew how the play of power functioned. He’d expected the manoeuvrings of Rochford and the Boleyn faction. That was just the common practice at Court, as was so much of his business recently. It was another in a long succession of ‘gifts’, the coin of patronage. This one, by the King’s command, was a patent assigning the rents of the vacant see of Durham, worth two thousand four hundred pounds per annum, to Lord Rochford. One more favour drawn from his suddenly waning stock. At the memory of loss, Wolsey’s thoughts once more spiralled back to the last hour of the Blackfriars Court, and His Majesty’s ominous silence. Even now his requests for an audience were refused and His Majesty was not ten miles away!

Damn that feckless Abbot! Wolsey frowned as one wrong dredged up another. His servant, Cromwell, had determined that dissolving Wigmore monastery brought him enough to fund his work through to next spring. The man was a veritable hound for sniffing out disposable abbeys. It was not as if they were doing anything—gaining the remittance of sin for a smattering of rural yokels didn’t compare in any way to his two glorious colleges at Ipswich and Oxford. The quill trembled in his spasmed hand and punched through the stiff parchment. It had been several days, and His Majesty was still silent!

Wolsey thumped the table with his ringed hand and pushed up from his labours. He’d handled His Sovereign’s amours and problems before—Mary
Blout
and Mary Boleyn were the two most prominent. Henry was a lusty man, full of all the vigour expected of a monarch, but to cuddle his paramour before all, and treat Anne Boleyn as if she was already Queen—that was just too much to endure. This whole situation with the disaster of the annulment was the fault of that meddling Frenchified punk! It didn’t take a university scholar to see that My Lady Anne Boleyn was the drafter of all his problems, scheming, conspiring and plotting to pull him down as the King’s trusted servant. It was her hand behind that affair with secretary Knight last year and the ‘secret mission’ to the Pope. Damn, that had been close. A day’s delay in messages from his intelligencers would have seen the decretals wing their way straight into the King’s hands without ‘careful appraisal and editing’. That little surprise had the stiff necked Boleyns and their snarling pack deflated, taking the wind right out of their sails.

Until now, and the King’s silence and distance continued to grow.

Wolsey flexed his fingers and cracked his sore knuckles in irritation. Which problem first? Should he play down or use the Royal indiscretions? Imperial eyes watched every loving caress and mark of favour. It was a deliberate provocation on her part. The woman was so sure—may as well call her Queen Anne for the bitch was that in all but name! Why couldn’t His Majesty have asked for a French princess as Wolsey had been working towards? The prestige of the Christian world would have been his, not to mention the benefits of a firm French alliance against the shifting factions of Europe. This infatuation with that Boleyn temptress had thrown the complex game of crowns and lands into confusion. Wolsey clenched his left hand in frustration. Now to favour Henry’s passion, the path to
a French
crown receded, and England risked the wrath of Emperor Charles V for slighting his Aunt Katherine, and for no gain. And his hold on power, now not nearly so firm, cracked and crumbled away like old plaster.

And it wasn’t just the Boleyn curs baying. Now the court jackals scented blood as well, snarling and snapping away at his ankles. Brandon’s insult and
Wigmore’s
insolence were merely the first signs. And like any rebellious pack of hounds, they needed a firm hand on the whip to bring them to heel. Wolsey frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose. Damn them all to the nethermost regions of Hell! He’d seen the warnings but due to the demands of the Legatine Commission for His Majesty, it had been left to slip for too long. Only last month he’d received a report from his agent secreted amongst the French Ambassador’s retainers, full to the brim with open conspiracy.

"These Lords intend, after he is dead or ruined, to impeach the State of the Church, and take all its goods; which it is hardly needful for me to write in cipher, for they proclaim it openly. I expect they will do fine miracles as well, I expect the priests will never have the great seal again; and that in this Parliament they will have terrible fright."

Of all the ambassadors in residence, Du Bellay was the cleverest. If this was in his report to Francis, then Wolsey’s enemies had already sounded out foreign allies. What unnatural arrogance! The casual expectation of his fall was an insult. What, was he
already
dead and buried? Had they sung the last rites over him? Wolsey hadn’t gained this hold over the Kingdom and been the right hand of the monarch all these years just to have foreigners and strutting nobles dismiss him so readily. No! There had to be a way out of this thicket, a way to regain Henry’s approval and to banish that distancing silence.

He pushed himself painfully up from the table, and stood before the fire. His gentleman usher, Cavendish, stepped forward and offered a goblet of Rhenish wine. With a brief nod of acknowledgement, he took a hefty draught and stared into the crackling logs.

He’d tried getting rid of the Boleyn girl—it hadn’t worked. She was much cannier than her older sister, Mary, and so Henry had set his mind to marriage, legal and lawful, to Anne.
So had begun the round of offer, bargain and threat between London and Rome.
The bitch had even survived a bout of the sweats so she was unlikely to succumb to a sniffle. It was time he lacked now. Three years this had played out as he swatted off the petty intrigues of the Boleyns. And now he was out of time. Damn Clement for the weak fool that he was!