The Cardinal's Angels (4 page)

His own patron angel must be guiding his thoughts. It was so easy to see a path wrought by solicitude and inducements to bring the errant Cardinal onside. One member of Campeggio’s staff in particular had proved amenable as a conduit for influence, the Italian’s son and personal secretary, Rudolpho. For a “consideration” and “evidence of friendship” via the sweet reason of those tinkling “angels”, young Rudolpho could easily sway the old Cardinal to see the benefits of an ‘English’ point of view and the advantages of a
Clementless
future.

As for the King, this was perfect. It gave Henry a chance for public pomp and mourning at the sad demise of our Holy Father, and would additionally keep him distracted for a month or more. Largess and ceremony always played well with the grumbling Commons as well. Conveniently it opened up a need to summon his faithful Chancellor as diplomat and potential papal contender. Good, very good. However before that could happen, he needed certainty and leverage, both here and abroad. He had to break his enemies and ruin the pretensions of that cursed woman.

Like any man of sense and prudence, he had his spies spread through all the great households, usefully ferreting out secrets and treachery. One recently discovered gem of knowledge could solve this annulment impasse and bring Lord Rochford and his daughter around to a more submissively obedient frame of mind. He had to move fast—his pursuivants had warned of other stalkers in the household. Even better, it could be made to look as if he was aiding Katherine and thus, gain Hapsburg support. Then with those two knocked out, his hold on power would be firm enough to dangle a protégée before the King.

If only he had another sign. The sight of ‘golden angels’ wetted men’s appetites as evidence of an earthly reward, but to be more certain of success, he needed something more divinely sanctified than the coiner’s stamp, perhaps even metaphysical. Where could he gain that guarantee? Wolsey pondered this problem, idly twisting a ruby ring. Dare he risk it? It was said that there were more diviners of the future in the Holy City than clerics. Clement wasn’t the only one who wouldn’t set foot outside his door until the heavens had been scrutinised for portents.
So how to use that penchant?

Once more
his own
angel whispered inspiration. The fates were rallying to his aid. Didn’t he have his own bonded diviner, a scryer of the heavens, a fellow famed for his accuracy? Yes he did! But now was a dangerous time to utilise the fellow’s arcane services. Norfolk’s spies had sniffed too close before now.

And again his angelic inspiration revealed a path. The good doctor’s charts and books had proved vital in removing that annoying Buckingham with a charge of treason. Once more he could play on his knowledge of His Majesty’s “concerns”. Utilising those cunning implements, he’d have those twice damned Boleyns muzzled and brought to heel by fear. Yes! His growing certainty flashed firm resolution through his soul. Not even the quivering warnings of his daemon could halt it now. Wolsey shook his head to silence the seditious whispers.

With a new confidence, he returned to his pile of correspondence and pulled out the latest letter from his secretary, Thomas Cromwell. This was the second time today he had considered its import. The warnings were clear. Norfolk was snapping at his heels. Thomas Howard, the slippery as a snake Duke of Norfolk, had his clients spread throughout the court eroding Wolsey’s standing with every scurrilous whisper. Now with the Blackfriars debacle, Queen Katherine had raised her banner of war and when a Castilian swore dire revenge, it was best to believe it. His enemies were gathering, and not even his own household was safe. Cromwell wrote of treacherous rumours and advised swift action. Wolsey held the letter as if weighing its import on the scales of decision. Yes, his angel cried. Now was the time! Now for the tool!

Cromwell would have been perfect. He’d proven an astute and loyal retainer, though at this juncture, his many talents were better employed watching over the skulking rats at Court. Fortunately there was another servant, steadfast and true, a man also used to the darker side of statecraft, a sharp blade to match the alluring whisper of his Cardinal’s angels and, moreover, one who had experience in setting the traps of treason.

“Your eminence?”

Wolsey put down his quill and smiled at his kneeling servant. That familiar shock of grey, just like the coat of a badger, brought back an older memory. His eyes sparkled with a gloating satisfaction—yes it was the glowing hand of an angel guiding him.

“Ahh John. I have a task of some discretion for you. Tis time to return to London. Dr Agryppa has a new commission to fulfil. As well, there is another affair, an acquisition touching close to the King’s honour that requires
your
certain skills.”

“I am at your eminences’ command.” The lanky figure of Master Smeaton gave a low bow of respect, bending almost double.

Wolsey smiled at the obvious loyalty. With retainers such as Thomas Cromwell and John Smeaton as well as the deft deployment of his ‘angels’, the future was assured.

Thomas Wolsey, Lord Chancellor of England, would continue to ride the crest of Fortuna’s Wheel as it dashed his enemies to ruin!

The roar of the crowd startled the parcel of ravens perched on the overhang of the surrounding roof and they screamed cawing complaints as they launched into the afternoon sky. Below, amongst the cheering audience, little notice was taken of their undue eviction except by one. Ned Bedwell, momentarily distracted, looked up and followed their spiralling flight until they passed beyond the narrow oval of sky that illuminated the bear pit and its tiered galleries. His old nurse used to tell tales of the magic of the Corvus clan, how they’d served as harbingers of ill omen for death and battle. He gave a shiver and a quick flick of his finger in a rapid blessing to avert any misfortune then turned his attention back to the display in the pit two levels down.

Though most wouldn’t credit him the kindness, he’d be the first to admit that Canting Michael knew how to draw a crowd. The bills announcing the event had been posted up outside half of the city’s taverns, and criers had traversed the streets declaiming the promised clash for close to a week, rivalling the usual bedlam of market stalls. Canting must be pleased with the turnout. At tuppence each, the take must be closer to twenty pounds. Add a margin for cushions and the retention of private seating in the topmost galleries and you’d double the first figure, all here to see the fight of the season, ‘Terrible Tom
o’Taunton
’. The lure of entertainment had drawn him along with his friends, Will Coverdale and Geoffrey Sutton, from the dreary and boring benches of Gray’s Inn, where they suffered the common indignities inflicted on young law apprentices. The study of musty books or crabbed scribbling of archaic French–Latin really didn’t compare to an afternoon’s pleasure in the autumn sun, as well as the chance to win a purse full of gilt, with wagers on the baiting.

They’d elbowed a bit of space on the second gallery and lent over the hand smoothed rail to peer at the parade of beasts below in the sandy floored pit.

“Damn yea Ned, did yea have to get such a musty beaver’s pelt to strap on your face?” Will waved a kerchief in front of his pock scarred nose and leant as far away as the packed gallery permitted.

Ned self consciously stroked his furry attachment and frowned at the jibe. True, the false beard was a bit stale and perhaps a few rats had too close an acquaintance with it before now, but Master Cowper kept a keen eye on the stores of the Inns revels and it was the best that could be snatched.

Before he could draw a rodent tainted breath for a reply, a high squeaking voice sounded in his defence. “Leave off Will. Y’
know
Canting’s on the look out for Ned. I reckon it’s a fine joke to pull and if Ned wants to wear a dead rat on his face, it’s better than breathing in the stink of your latest scent.”

Ned stopped a moment to give his other friend a questioning glance. Well that was a reasonable response, but like many of Geoffrey’s responses, adequate, to the point and two edged. He’d make a fine lawyer when he grew into his hand–me–down robes. And of course, when his voice deepened and he avoided offending powerful men by too honest appraisals. Anyway they were here to have fun not argue. So he let the adverse comments on his disguise pass and raised a point of recent speculation at the Inns with his companion. “Will, you got to see the commission at Blackfriars. How did it go?”

The kerchief fluttered expansively and Will gave a superior smile, flashing a set of even white teeth. He liked to remind everyone he was a gentleman born and bred, with family at Court. Giving a last flourish, he reclined on the pine bench as if bored by the display below. “Twas a great show indeed. My cousin, Sir Francis Bryan, a gentleman of the royal chamber, secured my appointment as an usher, so I saw it all.”

His friend, Will, was in full spate and fortunately, didn’t notice Ned’s self conscious twitch and scowl. He tried hard not to show how Will’s unselfconscious boasting of family connections pained him. He had ‘family’ connections as well, and every day he was made aware of his lack of prospects by his ‘loving and generous’ Uncle Richard, a failing rubbed in without
relent
. He’d promised himself last Saint George’s Day that he’d not endure that humiliation for much longer. That was one reason he risked being here today. However that surge of resentment didn’t stop him from listening carefully. Any fool knew that, in the game of princes, lords rose and fell as Lady Fortuna dictated, and if a canny lad watched out, he could secure a profitable future.

This received a low whistle of admiration from Geoffrey. His master at the Inns shunned any display of opulence and, as a lad coming from an even more strained background than
Ned,
he was easily impressed by a fine display.

“There were two chairs for the Cardinals at the head of the hall and those where flanked, left and right, by the opposing parties, with the King’s covered by a silk cloth of gold canopy of estate.” Having set out the wealth and status of the scene he was a part of, Will gave an overly elaborate beckon to Ned as if inviting him to share a secret.
“A word of warning to your Uncle Richard.
A wise man would seek a new patron. The Cardinal’s star is waning.”

Once more Geoff burst in before Ned could frame a question. “Nay, it cannot be. Wolsey’s
lorded
it over us all forever. Only death could pry his grasp from our throats!”

Ned gave a silent prayer of thanks that the noise of the crowd was too loud for any spy to overhear that rebellious comment and shook his head over the impulsiveness of his friend. “Surely Will, it can’t be? He’s Cardinal, Chancellor and Archbishop. No man is more powerful in the realm save the King!”

“Tis true enough. All was well for Our Lord of York, fat and princely as any prelate, in his scarlet robes sitting in judgement, when in bursts Queen Katherine and denied he’d any jurisdiction. Some colourful Spanish popinjay in her retinue threw down a parchment heavy with Papal seals, and claimed the case should be
advoked
to Rome. Wolsey turned redder than beetroot and loudly rejected the validity of the Papal Bull, calling it a forgery.”

“No!” Ned and Geoffrey joined in a gasped denial.

“Wait lads—it gets better. Queen Katherine said she’d not return to the commission, but
await
advice and counsel from her friends in Spain, and we all know what that means!” Will waggled his eyebrows in an exaggerated manner.

They did and it was no idle boast. All of Ned’s young life of seventeen years, there’d been two powers that dominated Europe, warring over land and titles—the King of France and the Holy Roman Emperor, Lord of the vast Hapsburg domains that stretched from the gold rich New World, across the Atlantic Ocean, to Spain and the German lands. Only a fool or one addle–witted wouldn’t see that for a blatant threat to drag in her nephew, the Emperor Charles.

“From then on, no player could’ve given a better show. The Queen threw herself on her knees before King Henry and, with tears streaming down her cheeks and her voice choked with sobs, begged him to consider her honour, her daughter's and his own. Our Sovereign Lord then stepped off his dais, picked up Her Majesty and repeatedly promised it was all done to restore her dignity and that of the throne.”

Ned gave a loud whistle of appreciation. Will was a lucky sod to have seen all this drama. Geoffrey wasn’t easily so impressed and chimed in with his own version of the commission. “I heard that Bishop Fisher stood up later and defended the case of the Queen, leaving Wolsey trembling with wrath that one of his prelates dared to oppose him in open court.”

Will took the interruption in good part and nodded agreement before waving them closer for his last juicy bit of news. “The finale was worth any dozen Greek plays, for at the end of the day, the Italian Cardinal Campeggio announced an adjournment until October because, and you’re going to love this twist, Legatine Commissions have to follow the normal sitting dates as if they were in Rome!”

Ned shook his head. He had to agree that, as a legal trick, it surpassed the usual fare of the Court of the King’s Bench.

Will, however, was not finished with the tale, for he gave one of his superior smirks and drew them in like the best cozener at his game. “Then the Duke of Suffolk leapt up and, before the court and his Majesty, cursed all Cardinals in England, swearing before long all would be driven out, and everyone in the hall cheered until the rafters shook. Wolsey, by then, had scampered out, as pale as a corpse. I reckon the Italian took him by surprise as well. I can tell you that His Majesty didn’t look too happy about how the Commission was going. Ergo, Fortuna’s wheel is turning and Wolsey’s slipping off.” His story complete, Will Coverdale returned to fluffing his scented kerchief with an attempt at elegant disdain.

Ned scratched at a persistent itch under his false beard. Damned fleas! This was very interesting news if it could be believed. He knew that Will’s family were beholden to Suffolk, so a natural bias had to be taken into account with any story. Lounging around the various law courts, waiting for the end of long, slow, boring cases to wind up, apprentice lawyers had to engage in some sort of distraction, and the most ready to hand was the swapping of rumours about the affairs of their lords and masters, the higher the better, and none was more feared, hated or envied than Cardinal Wolsey, the patron of his own uncle, Richard Rich.

He gave up the hunt for the elusive flea and concentrated on the scene below. Other matters were of more concern to him at this moment than factional politics. It was his desperate need to attract the elusive ‘angels’ that had him all disguised and at risk.
More so, since this quest wasn’t due to any concern for his soul.
The heavenly hosts that served as the guardians of almighty God were no help to him. No, the ‘angels’ Ned so keenly needed, while still golden in hue, were of a grosser, earthier nature, being in essence and fact as his old tutor would say “dug from the manure of the sin and struck with the transitory imprint of worldly pomp and vanity”, or rendered to the understanding of the common man; one gold coin worth seven shillings and sixpence. If Ned was to keep his soul firmly attached to his body past this week, he had to find at least twenty angels. What with, ahh, ‘entertainment expenses’ and an unsurpassable ‘business opportunity’ presented by one of the Lincoln Inn lads, his purse was now emptier than a Bedlam’s wits. He couldn’t even afford the few pennies wherry fare across the Thames, so instead, had cadged a ride up river the night before on an empty barge and jumped ashore by Lambeth Palace. After skulking around the hedges like a beggar, he’d met up with his companions this afternoon, once they’d left St Mary Overie stairs wharf. He didn’t want Canting Michael to have any warning of his presence, as he knew the idling loafers at the wharf were his retained spies looking for wealthy or gullible marks to roll. The capture of an apprentice of Gray’s Inn, one Ned Bedwell, or rather as he was known in this region of Southwark, “Red Ned”, would earn any man several gold angels, and alive maybe double that.

So no matter how itchy, the beard stayed.

Ned payed very close attention to the last circuit of the beasts, and with the fitful blowing from a couple of sackbuts, the first round began. A pair of great English mastiffs, two and half foot at the shoulder and heavily built, were unchained and set against the towering six foot of Terrible Tom, each massive paw armed with claws large enough to disembowel a beast at a single swipe . With their short, tawny coats bristling with outrage, they dropped into a half stance, snarling and clashing their heavy, black faced jaws. The crowd screamed, hungry with anticipation, and the dogs’ howls were overwhelmed by the storm of noise. If those ravens hadn’t left, the wave of noise would have washed them off the eaves like a roiling flood. However it was not the dogs that Ned was watching so carefully but the pattern of wagers made down by the counting table. Slowly a mischievous smile arched across his face and he settled down to watch the show.

Baiting was an old and favoured pastime for Londoners. Even the King liked to watch the contests. The idea was that an animal, be it bear, bull or other combination of beasts, was loosely tethered in the centre of a sand covered ring, and fought to the death against well trained dogs singly or in pairs. A good bout could last for an hour and a prized bear could maim or kill over a dozen dogs. The whole trick of the play was to place your wager on which set of dogs or the bear would triumph at the end of the match. A good bet could see you walk off richer by a heavy bag of golden angels. A loss, of course, was not so good, and left a man vulnerable to the ill winds of fate and an easy mark for the hucksters who prowled the Southwark stews. At the centre of all this commerce stood Canting Michael, the canny cony–catcher who managed the Pits, the wagers and was the master of the rough and tumble lads who ensured the collection of debts, as well as other nefarious tasks. Unfortunately for Ned, Canting was at this moment dead keen to renew an old acquaintance, and openly boasted of his plans for young ‘Red Ned’. Only the musty player’s beard stood between him and an unwelcome reunion. But Ned had a plan of his own for Canting Michael.