The Cardinal's Angels (23 page)

Gulping gave a polite nod and polished it off like the last then made to claim his kiss. Meg easily intercepted his hand and eased it down. Gulping seemed to have a puzzled look on his face as he watched his hand flop on the table. Then he began to slide ever so slowly sideways and his still grinning face collided with Meg’s shoulder.

Ned leant closer. Gulping was here in the flesh. That was true enough. His eyes however were unfocused and the body as limp as a boned fish. “What did you put in his drink?”

“Just a little apothecary’s remedy I got out of a book.” Meg Black sounded so pleased. She eased Gulping Jemmy’s head carefully onto his crossed arms. It looked just like he was slumbering.

Ned quickly glanced around to see how his band had taken their leader’s collapse. He needn’t have worried. They’d joined Gulping in the arms of Morpheus and were draped over various benches in the tavern. Ned was deeply impressed. He hadn’t hoped for anything so soon, or so successful. “What’s it called?”

“Paracelsus names it Laudanum, and believes it a strong physick for illness.”

Looking at its victims, Ned had a few doubts about whether it would cure illness or just push you into that pleasant plateau where having a leg sawn off was given no more credence than flea bite. He prodded Gulping a few times. Nothing happened and the smile remained.

“Can he hear me?”

Meg Black gave a shrug and moved around the room, emptying out the other jugs of spirit.

Ned put his mouth close to Gulping and did his best to imitate the speech of Canting. “Gulping Jemmy where’s I off to ‘cross the river?” Then he gave the body a shove.

Gulping gave a grumble and a lazy shrug before mumbling a reply. “
Minste
’,
Canting
yea recall.

“Aye Jemmy ‘at where the place. Who was I
ta
see?” The smile quirked slightly as the words slurred out.

“Why’s
ta
see
Suff’lk’s
m’n
ab’ut
me friend, Ned.”

Ned’s blood turned to ice. He hated it when his imaginings were right. He grabbed Gulping’s cloak and gave a shake of his head. “I think the sooner we make the Gryne Dragone the safer we’ll be.”

Ned left three angels with the innkeeper and strict instructions to ‘mind’ Gulping and his lads. It may not have been necessary since only a bedlam loon would harm one of Canting’s men this side of Southwark. But Ned did believe poor Gulping Jemmy would have stood up for him and any loyalty, even so slight, needed reward. Strangely enough once they hit the road Meg Black let him lead them all the way to High Street. His daemon had a ready answer. After their last collision maybe she wanted him to be the Forlorn Hope!

It was less than a mile to the High Street at Southwark, and if it hadn’t been for their meeting with Gulping Jemmy it should have been an easy walk. Leaving Canting’s gang captaine and his lads to snooze off the combined effects of Brandywine, ale and laudanum in the tavern they continued their progress towards the centre of Southwark. Ned was at a loss to understand Mistress Black’s ready compliance. She only made a few minor derogatory comments as they walked along and generally cooperated with his directions. Had a kindly saint smitten her with sweet reason? His daemon quietly expressed its doubts, though his angel for once didn’t venture even the shadow of a charitable opinion. So under Ned’s direction they dodged from one piece of cover to another, using the driven herds of cattle, geese and sheep or the lumbering carts and wagons. The last gave the best protection, despite the profane curses of the wagoneers and the suspicious glares of the clusters of gossips by the wells.

Afternoon was pushing on. As shielding, Ned thought his method was particularly brilliant. No one would be able pick them out of this congestion, though it did have some drawbacks. The progress was slow and the aroma of the farmyard tended to be cloying, and it took more than an hour to progress less than a mile. They finally came to the relatively open space where
Tooley
Street hit High Street by the entrance to London Bridge, and the chaos increased. The flow out from the city forced them along High Street towards St Margaret’s Hill, and with the rest of the press, they came to a shuddering halt by the Pillory. Ned wasn’t the only one to feel nervous. They’d all caught sight of the long rank of steel tipped halberds glittering in the bursts of afternoon light as they cut through the grey clouds. It was far too great a display for the punishment of thieves or transgressing bakers.

In the midst of High Street there was a prominent island, well placed for public view. It was the same in all towns and villages in the realm. Commonly it was the site of proclamations and punishment, where the delivery of justice could be seen by all as a warning against breaches of the law, both local and those of the King’s Majesty. Tower Hill was by far the most popular where thousands could watch the punishment of traitors and murderers bearing public witness to the proper ordering of the realm.

Here in Southwark the administration of the law was no less visible, or any more merciful. Common misdemeanours received a sentence of pillorying or being locked in a pair of stocks for a given period ranging from a day to a week. The miscreant provided an endless source of amusement for the community and served as an impromptu target for children, either for taunts or missiles, depending on their humour. The cage swinging nearby was another matter. It was meant for the incarceration of highwaymen and outlaws captured on the Surrey roads on the way to London.

The cage wasn’t empty. It was difficult to see if the emaciated figure was still alive or not, but how a soul that wasted still survived was either a miracle or a curse.

At the market square it wasn’t the rotted figure that gained Ned’s wide eyed attention, but rather the man on the horse next to it. He was in his late twenties and of middling height and solid build. His fleshy face was dominated by a trimmed light brown beard and watery grey eyes, and to Ned he was very familiar. George Cavendish, a gentleman of the household of Cardinal Wolsey. The Lord Chancellor’s servant frequently delivered messages from his master to the Inns of Court and was currently scowling at a portly figure in the gown and fur collar of a lawyer, a man esteemed in the title of Commissioner and Justice of Peace for the township of Southwark, Master William Overton. He was a gentleman renowned throughout Surrey for three particular attributes, firstly an amazing shortness of sight, secondly a rigid obedience to common rights and privileges, and lastly a reputation for being the most venal judge in the entire County. Right now he was puffed up in all his legal dignity and Cavendish wasn’t happy.

“Sirrah, I tell ye, unless yea have a warrant from the Lord Chancellor, I’ll not allow yea to disturb the good folk of Southwark with yea hubbub and mischief!”

“And
I
tell you Justice Overton, it is essential for the safety of the Realm that you obey the Lord Chancellor’s commands!”

From that choleric demand and the reddish colour of Cavendish, Ned got the impression this discussion had been under way for some time.

“So yea said four times already, but apart from mutterings of treason, yea have said naught of any legal writ and the good folk of Southwark will nay suffer any expense on the say so of some court waiter, no matter how fancy his dress!”

Cavendish bent lower off his saddle and shouted back into the face of Overton. “My master is the Lord Chancellor, you paunchy beef witted measle! I’ll have you in the Tower so fast your
feet ’
ll
still be on this side of the river!”

After that dread insult the crowd collectively held its breath in anticipation. Justice Overton wiped the sprayed spittle from his face and focused his squint eyed glare on the Cardinal’s servant. “Your master may be Lord of the Star Chamber and an archbishop to boot, but after all the ‘amicable grants’ and taxes he’s levied on us, I’ll not call out the Watch just so as you gets to trawl the stews for your missing rent boy or a stray
trull
!”

Ned smiled and relaxed. There was no doubt about it, Overton was good at leverage. For Cavendish the message behind the defiance slowly tricked past his suffused exterior and he visibly calmed down before giving a stilted reply. “My lord is generous to those deserving of his favour.”

Ned pushed closer. He wanted to hear this. The rest of the puzzled band followed creating a ripple of complaints through the crowd, though none compared with the vile mutters of Mistress Black.

“How generous?”
came
Overton’s quick response.

Cavendish was seen to struggle with some inner demon. Ned thought he was trying to figure out how little he could get away with when it was out of his own purse.
“Five angels and ten more when you bring the miscreant to me.”

“Ten angels now an’ twenty when we find the one yea want.”

Ned shook his head in disgust. Not even a yeoman from the shires was so easy to cozen. Cavendish was plainly unaccustomed to bargaining. He named too high a figure to begin with and signalled his desperate need. He’d have been better to start at several shillings and offer beer money as well.

Cavendish hesitated a moment and gave a reluctant nod. Overton may be as blind as a bat, but he had a canny nose able to scent the collapse of an opponent. In an instant the Commissioner of Peace was all smiles and compliance before turning to his left and bellowing out a ringing command. “Dewberry, where art yea, y’ tosspotting malt worm? Get yea lads here!”

The crowd parted and a large stout figure slowly lumbered into view. If he’d been a foot or so taller he would have been formidably impressive, that’s if the barrel like shape didn’t also wobble alarmingly at each heavy step. Eventually the figure came to a quivering halt before Overton and delivered an irregular salute that wavered beside a large red florid nose.
“Constable Dewberry as
requ’sted
!”

From Cavendish’s bulging eyes and open jaw, Ned surmised that the cardinal’s servant mustn’t have visited Southwark before. Constable Dewberry was a legend here. His slow ponderous pace was much appreciated by the nips and foisters who stole purses and pilfered from stalls while his loudly ringing tones calling the ‘all’s well’ at night could also guarantee the lack of any sneak thief or lurking ambush along which ever lane he made his stately progress, since it gave them sufficient warning to settle their business and be elsewhere. Then just as a precaution if you didn’t hear him, he was easily identified by an old style helm with enormous plumes, left over from as he claimed his days serving the King’s father in his fight for the throne.

“Constable, have yea summoned yea stout lads an’ honest yeoman, the Southwark Watch?” Overton made the question ring with potent promise.

The redoubtable constable gave another trembling salute before his bass roar shook the crowd. “Southwark Watch, rally!”

With a command like that, one would expect a smart lot to strut out through the crowd, trained and drilled to the perfection portrayed by the London Ward Musters, all glittering armour and polished pikes. Or perhaps they might imitate the precision step and matching uniforms of the yeoman of the King’s Guards. After that summons you could tell that’s what Cavendish was expecting. He was craning his head this way and that seeking out the ‘stout fellows and honest yeoman’ of this borough.

Ned gave a quick glance around the crowd. He could tell what they were waiting for. All of them were watching the Lord Chancellor’s servant with a keen anticipation, the sort that gathers to enjoy the street theatre of a London brawl.

Eventually a collection of men pushed their way through and Cavendish, in the fine tradition of the gulled yokel, switched his even more wide eyed startled glare betwixt the motley band and their proud as punch commander. “What is…
this
?”

“This
be
the Watch sir! A fine body o’ men if’n I may says so!”

It was plain that Cavendish was bursting to say otherwise as the keepers of the peace of Southwark shuffled into a very irregular rank. “Is…is this
all
of them?” You could hear the incredulity turning Cavendish’s manly bellow into a shrill plea.

“Nay sir, o’ course
n’t
.”
Constable Dewberry lifted up a large hand and began to tick off absent watchmen. “Watkins is off
buryin
’ his dear old gran.
Fielder ’s
havin
’ a tooth pulled by the barber at Groat Street. Thompson’s been pressed for the King’s service. Burton’s got a dose o’ the French pox. Clarke got knifed in the brawl yesterday eve. Aitken’s in the Clink for debt, and Fenton’s leg aches in the damp so he only comes out in the summer m’lord!”

Cavendish made a quick mental calculation but still seemed most unsatisfied. He scowled and clenched his fist. “By your muster roll you are paid for twenty. With the ones here you’re still several men short. Where are they?”

That clever bit of deduction had old Constable Dewberry sweating for a moment,
then
he snapped off another wavering salute and shot back as fast as anything. “The others m’lord, are down south a
lookin
’ for Black Will the highwayman, a dreadful murderer an’ felon. Justice Overton ‘as the writ an’ warrant m’lord!”

The justice of Southwark nodded furiously in agreement, while Cavendish had the look of a man who’d sucked a particularly sour plum. Giving a pained sigh he rode over to inspect his new troops. “This man has only one arm!”

“Aye m’lord but he fights wit’ the
tuther
.”

The aforementioned ‘good limb’ looked barely strong enough to lift a firkin. The High Street audience began to chuckle.

“Constable what about that one?
He’s…he’s…sweet Jesu…scratching his cods!”

The fellow singled out by the wavering finger wasn’t so much giving his codpiece a friendly contemplative scratch as most common fellows do to dislodge the fleas. Not so, his hand was buried up to the wrist within the said apparel, where he appeared to be engaged in a life and death struggle with a ferret…oh yes
and
drooling.

Cavendish grimaced and forbore to mention this latter particular to the attentive audience.

“Oh don’t yea mind Dylan. Only happens when’s the sheep come into town m’lord.”

The crowd howled with laughter at that, though the Lord Chancellor’s servant looked rather more distressed at the answer. Instead he rallied and pushed onto the next watchman. “What about this fellow Constable? Isn’t he blind?”

“Only during the day m’lord.
At night he sees like an owl.”

Ned smiled. He didn’t think Sightless Sam saw past his nose except when a tankard was at his lips.

As for Cavendish, he just shook his head continuing along the line. “And this lopped fellow? How in the name of the blessed Jesus can
he
serve?”

The stout yeoman in question could see and possessed both arms, though only one hand. The other terminated in an iron hook. If only it was so small an affliction then maybe his inclusion wouldn’t be quite so questionable. However he also lacked
both ears
, a nose and a leg from the knee. As Ned knew, the thumping echo of the wooden stump and crutch at night told any potential foister that he needn’t speed his escape to more than a casual saunter.