The Cardinal's Angels (31 page)

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.

“When you’ve quite finished playing with that pursuivant we need to leave.”

What could you say? Silence was better than admitted shame, so Ned hastened after the fast moving girl and fell into step with her chuckling guard.

They retreated from the spreading brawl at the
White Lamb
and joining the rear guard of Gryne’s men, cut along the side alleys until they came to Moorgate. There was a momentary hold up as the price of exit was negotiated with the guard, but once more the Cardinal’s angels smoothed the way and they hurried back to the Inn.

Ned’s surprises for the evening hadn’t ended. All the horses were saddled complete with his small pack over the rump of one of them. Now that he was calming down from the events at the White Lamb, it took little urging for him to join the rest of the party. In the lingering flare of twilight they rode north out of the straggling fringes of the city.

He rode in sullen silence for the first hour. The rancour of the recent incident had stoked his temper almost to furnace bright. At least one of their number was openly amused at his discomfort, recounting with what he thought were overly dramatic embellishments his rescue to the rest of the band. That was another strike Ned had against Mistress Black. She needn’t be so openly gloating over his misfortune!

Ned was locked in a recurring loop of blame, recrimination and guilt, and a fair part of it was of his own making. He should have known that he couldn’t trust his uncle with something so risky. It was putting the man in an impossible situation, but then did he have a choice? Ned didn’t yet have any connections at court unless you counted Will Coverdale, who thought him dead and a ghost.

Referring to the knightly codes of loyalty and honour as recounted in the tales of chivalry should have seen him go to his uncle’s friend, Thomas Cromwell or petition their Good Lord, Cardinal Wolsey, but as events had just proved, even the slightest knowledge of this matter was too much. Anyway his daemon reminded him that after all the suffering he seen these last years, the Cardinal shouldn’t escape the coming retribution.

As for Uncle Richard he had to grudgingly admit that selling him out to everybody created the chaos he used to escape, and kept the canny lawyer square with the hungry pack of nobles.

Having sorted through that problem Ned moved on to consider the next stage of their venture. Three of their escort had lit small horn paned lanterns and spread out in front to watch for robbers and thieves. Though only an hour’s ride out of the city, it still paid to be cautious. Stopping for the latter part of the night at a wayside tavern would give a bit more time to figure out where the Royal Court was this week.

Ned kicked his horse into a faster trot and pulled up next to Rob Black. He found apologising difficult—it was his plan that had just collapsed and he’d put them all in greater danger. “Ah Rob, I’m sorry about that. I thought it would help.”

His friend waved it off and turned to him. Ned could see Rob’s smile in the dimming light. Unaccountably he looked amused and happy. “Don’t worry about it Ned. You got us out of the city and that’s no mean feat.”

Ned was puzzled—how could such a disaster be dismissed so easily? “That doesn’t matter. We can’t get to the Court. My uncle’s contacts could have got us in, but now…”

Black Rob lent across and gave him a hefty clap in the shoulder. “It’s all right. Meg knows how venal Lord Cesspool can be. Uncle Williams’ had a dispute with him a few months ago. She thought we should at least give you a chance. Anyway it forced my dear sister into a bit of honesty—she was the one who convinced More’s men to do the raid. Gave them all the details and twenty angels.”

This revelation had Ned whirling. Damn Margaret Black! She already knew Ned’s mission would fail. She let it happen and organised the rescue. Then it clicked. “What honesty?” he asked suspiciously.

“Why, Meg can get us into Lady Anne’s presence.” Then he coughed, embarrassed. “She…ahh she apparently supplies the Boleyn household with all manner of imported ahh…spices.”

This news flabbergasted Ned and he steamed away quietly. All this time and they could have just left the city and headed off with a guaranteed audience. This afternoon’s debacle never needed to have happened. “So where is Mistress Black leading us today.” That was said in bitter tones.

Rob Black though seemed to have missed the dripping sarcasm.
“Grafton Regis, near Towcester on the road to Oxford.
The King is staying at the royal demesne in Northamptonshire, hunting stags and bears or whatever
are
in those wild lands.”

To reinforce Ned’s feelings of ominous gloom, the ride over the past few days had been a damp and uncomfortable experience so he was glad of the break at village of Cosgrove. The road from London north along Watling Street had been a very bruising experience, and he swore by several saints that if he survived this journey he’d spend less time dicing and more in the proper pursuits of a gentleman. Not even three hours spent in front of blazing fire at the Inn did much to warm him up or lessen the hobbling affliction of his cramped thighs. Demurely Mistress Black had offered to mix him up a poultice if his pain was as considerable as his waddled stride indicated. Ned had given his tormentor a frosty glare, then straightening up as much as his muscles would allow gave his best courtly bow and politely refused. By all the saints that display hurt and afterwards his cods felt bruised beyond repair, but he wasn’t going to swallow his pride and admit it, especially after her stunt with More’s pursuivants.

To rub salt into the wounds of his pride, the tale of his rescue had been repeated at least four times by Mistress Black and at each occasion it had their escort of Gryne’s men almost falling out of their saddles with laughter. Ned gave a smile that was barely skin deep at each retelling. He found nothing amusing about the mix up at all. Silently he promised that at the appropriate time Rob’s sister would pay for her mirth. However this journey was neither the time nor the place and despite provocation, he’d bitten his tongue and not told his companions exactly how much he had knocked back to stand by them. Though each time he’d been tempted! Both his daemon and angel had made snide comments about the trustworthiness of their pursuers, stating that his reward would be akin to jumping off the tower of St Paul’s.

Ned in at least a semblance of leadership had quizzed the locals at every halt about fellow travellers and the condition of the road ahead. So according to the Cosgrove innkeeper, Grafton was some three or four hours ride to the north, over good countryside. Even better news, the shire officials had recently repaired several miles of road. Considering the pounding quality of the journey so far these repairs were a real boon. Ned had become very tired of having to test each wide pool of water on the road for its bottomless potential. That meant if all went well they’d hit the royal estate well before sunset, then with a degree of justified foreboding he looked forward to seeing how valid Mistress Black’s claims were.

Cosgrove wasn’t a large place, a decent sized inn, a market square opposite the church and all under the easy sight of the local lord’s manor.
That
plus twenty houses completed this fragment of urban life. Like many villages along the road it served travellers and droving flocks heading to fill the gaping maw of London in the south as well as the needs of the surrounding farmers. That it served as a handy stopping point along the great north western route may have been the reason it had been recommended by the carters they passed. That aside, the Inn’s ale and food was much better than the horse piss and scullery leavings they’d been offered several miles back. So it had been a universally acclaimed decision to stop for a few hours.

Even more so when Rob had advised that one or more of their mounts could founder under the strain. Over the past two days the horses had been worn down both by the pace they’d maintained as well as by the rain and mud. It may have been possible to push on to Grafton Regis but best not to chance it, so his friend had swapped them for a fresh set and then immediately taken these to the local blacksmith’s to have them re–shod. Ned was impressed by the quiet confidence Rob Black displayed in any practical matter. It made a pleasant change to the complaints and flights of fancy of his sister. Now several days into their association of the Cardinal’s Angels, Ned found it difficult to comprehend why he would have bothered to put himself at risk for the ungrateful girl. All he could do was claim the blow to his head had briefly distorted his wits.

At least he could rely on Rob. At this moment his companion was working at the Inn’s smithy. After supervising the shoeing, Rob Black was using the smith’s forge to his own advantage. While Ned was satisfied with the sword Master Robinson pressed upon him and Gruesome Roger had his personal arsenal of knife, cudgel and grim visage, Rob had felt out classed in the company of Gryne’s Men, who were a travelling display of the diversity of edged ironware. Maybe it was the walls of the Gryne Dragone that set him thinking. Anyway Rob had decided to create his own weaponry since the apprentice artificer had been largely unsatisfied with both the authority and presence of a dagger. At one of their first stops, he’d acquired a length of heavy chain from a smith and at every halt since then, he had continued to work on it. Ned supposed Rob knew what he was doing, but the flail that had emerged from that chain still looked pretty rustic to his eyes. He wasn’t sure how four section of chain joined to a short oak staff could make a weapon. However Rob seemed satisfied with it and carried it proudly slung from his saddle, giving their progress a merry jingle counterpoint as the horses trotted along.

As for the other two of their company, the insufferable Meg Black and Gruesome Roger, the last he’d seen of them the girl was being hustled off by the Innkeeper’s goodwife, no doubt on some matter of hedge witchery or other. He neither knew nor cared which it was, so long as she kept her distance. Ned in the meantime had more pressing business, a ‘privy matter’. Not just his thighs had been strained from the ride—the pain had moved upwards cramping his gut, which at this moment was demanding his urgent attention. One of the Inn’s servants said there was a jakes around the back and Ned needed to find it immediately.

It was a primitive affair made up of rotted scantling scraps that had already seen service for several other dubious constructions and no doubt been rejected as too poor to burn for a beggar’s fire. If he’d had a choice a ditch could have been safer. The wooden frame and sides seemed to balance precariously over the stinking trench and swayed violently when he brushed up against them. Without a doubt an overloud fart or belch would see it fall on the next poor soul who sought relief! The innkeeper would be well served to get it rebuild. If ever Ned saw a potential writ for damages this was it! He must remember to mention this potential case to master St Germaine’s apprentice at Middle Temple. The esteemed lawyer was said to be compiling a book on English legal customs. Ned was sure in such a dry tome a little light levity wouldn’t go amiss.

Having refastened his braes and adjusted his codpiece, Ned hobbled towards the front of the Inn. Coincidentally this put him in an excellent position to see the arrival of the latest group of travellers, which had Ned instantly diving behind a large hay cart. It was that damn Skelton and his minions! Norfolk’s man pulled hard on his reins and wrenched his horse to an abrupt halt in the courtyard. Skelton then leapt off the horse and strode over to one of the servants chopping firewood, and pulled him up by his jerkin until the poor fellow was nose to nose. Ned from his hiding spot could see the glare in Skelton’s eyes as he made his forceful demand. The Inn servant, his face whiter than a sheet, pointed a wavering finger in Ned’s direction. Abruptly Skelton dropped the servant hurried towards the hay cart, his heavy boots splashing through the puddles.

At that instant with Skelton’s footsteps getting closer Ned fervently started praying. Any saint would do since his chance of escape was nil! All he could hope was that Skelton didn’t find him on his first search then maybe he would be able to slip away and warn the others. Ned crouched behind the heavy wheel and watched between the heavy spokes as the dangerous northerner’s long leather boots paced closer. At the last instant Skelton swung right and broke into a hobbled run for the jakes. The door shivered splinters as he slammed it and Ned could soon hear imprecations to St Thomas for aid in what sounded like a very painful experience.

It was then that a very nasty thought came to Ned and urging his sore muscles into action he sprinted for the smithy. As expected the entire escort was lounged around the forge fire, watching Rob work on the sparking iron. Ned didn’t know what it was, but the fascination of a smith’s work seemed to draw everyone in the vicinity. Maybe it was the magic of the flames and glow of the metal or perhaps the fact that on a cool autumn day the forge was the warmest place in the village. Ned grabbed the closest man of their escort, a hulking fellow who went by the name of Tam Bourke.

“Skelton’s men have just ridden in. You two stay and delay them.”

That command received a very doubtfully speculative stare from the one called Tam, while his friend peered out the door towards the milling horsemen and then edged just a bit further back and freed his blade.

“Master Gryne said
we’s
were to protect yea.” This blanket statement by Tam gained a ready chorus as Gryne’s men checked their ironware.

Ned waved his hands in front of the incipient affray and pulling out his purse poured a dozen angels into the Tam’s hand. “No! No don’t fight them—buy them firkins of the local double. Tell them you’re celebrating the birth of a son or getting married. Get them drunker than a bishop. I’ll deal with their leader. Meet us at Grafton tomorrow.”

That received a very appreciative though bemused acceptance and Tam and his companion went off, smiling, to fulfil their task. The remaining members of their guard rose from their perches around the forge, and plainly expecting to be assigned similar duties, drew closer. Rob had now completed whatever part of the artificer’s craft he had been working on and with steaming iron in hand came over to join them.

Ned gathered his retinue and explained his inspiration. It gained a rousing chorus of yeas and a few rueful chuckles before they readily followed him out to the courtyard.

Ned stood back and surveyed his handy work. He’d never considered that helping out his uncle as Commissioner of Sewers could have proved so useful. Uncle Richard had battled all year to get the Londoners to deal with their wastes in the modern and approved methods and to clean out the festering sewers that had not been upgraded since King William had marched in. He had waxed lyrical particularly on the siting of middens and cesspits uphill from wells and called down God’s wrath on the foolish for placing the source of evil and pestilent miasmas so close. The Commissioner of Sewers would be so proud to see the site of the Cosgrove Ruse on Wye Inn privy. Although flimsy and precarious, it was carefully sited on the downhill slope, about ten paces from the Inn building, well away from anything else and built over a convenient noisome trench that flowed off into a nearby marsh. Such an excellent spot and the gradient gave the rolling hay wain a good turn of speed as it careened down hill gathering speed at every yard. It was such a satisfying crunch as the charging hay wagon impacted with the privy. Ned could clearly see he had been right—the structure had been in need of repair for it gave little resistance as shed, wagon and occupant all tumbled with a crash into the reeking trench. As a final malicious twist he had called out in Don Juan Sebastian’s accented speech inquiring if Skelton was pleased with his new abode. Then laughing with the rest of the company, he left to collect the horses and continue on to Grafton. The road was clear!