Выбрать главу

But those grievances aside, and the rumours about the failed annulment, the Cardinal was still supreme in the kingdom. It was said that he retained over a thousand men, more than any earl or duke, and the rooms of his great London house at York Place next to Westminster, had to be seen to be believed. It was reputed to be the most splendid palace in the country, outshining Greenwich or Richmond. As with anything in this world, with privilege and power came rivals and greed. It was common knowledge that to gain his place as the Lord Chancellor, the Cardinal had pushed aside other nobles close to the King. As men of ambition and prickly honour, they didn’t take kindly to being displaced, and restricted in access to the honours and riches that were in His Majesty’s gift.

That most of London loathed Cardinal Wolsey was a simple fact of life, like the stench of the Shambles. Ask any citizens and they’d immediately make disparaging references to the Cardinal’s sumptuous display and excessive arrogance. It could be said that it was just the public grumblings of the commons against any lord. However in the taverns and at the parish wells, truth came more easily. Londoners were against Wolsey because he controlled the church courts and, under him, the increased charges and exactions had set a deep and abiding ranker, especially when it came to wills and probate. Now here was the interesting part. Despite his uncle’s current allegiance, even he had complained frequently to his friends at the Inns of Court about the loss of clients, as the Cardinal’s Council of the Star Chamber usurped more and more of the common law cases. As of this morning, that usurpation also worried Ned, since the Cardinal had recently decided to add incidents of riot along with forgery, perjury, and libel to his purview. If he didn’t find the real murderer then there was every chance he could be tried before Wolsey himself! So rather than face that ominous threat, he really had to find out who’d want to kill a servant of the most powerful lord in the land.

Ned slumped back against the wall in despair. When you looked at it like that, the list would have to be thousands long. In reality, who wouldn’t stick a knife into the man’s ribs for any one of a dozen reasons-greed, theft, revenge or lust. Well, in fact, anything was enough to see a man bleed out his life in the mud, even a careless mistake.

This was getting nowhere. He would have to find some sources of information on likely rivals and why it was seen as needful for Smeaton to die. How his daemon prompted. Ned shook himself out of this moment of doubt, and slung his satchel over his shoulder, as the rumpled notes of a horn sounded. It was time to chance all with Lady Fortuna.

Despite the ominous spectre of Canting Michael, for his life, liberty and urgent desire not to experience rancid French cooking, Ned had to cross the river. The master of Paris Bear Gardens had ears and eyes on every street and crooked by lane that wove through the Liberties. No matter, it had to be risked.

Chapter Five-The Cardinal’s Cap-London Bridge to Southwark

Battling the dawn surge across the bridge took over an hour, so the sun was well and truly up, punching shafts of autumn light through gaps in the cloud. Like most Londoners, Ned coped with the complaints, swearing and shoving as each person battled the counter flows caused by the inadequate breadth of the bridge. The flow had long been restricted by the flanking rows of houses, shops and even a small church dedicated to St Thomas a’ Beckett. He was a local lad who became Chancellor, then Archbishop of Canterbury. According to the histories, that had been in the time of Henry II. If Ned recalled correctly, the same old king had later regretted this elevation of a commoner and arranged a bloody removal. Beckett must have been popular in his day to have such a well-appointed chapel built in his memory. How ironic, considering the current circumstances. Ned couldn’t believe that any Londoner, no matter how pious, would propose such a memorial for their present Lord Chancellor, in his present state. Half those same Londoners though, would probably willingly donate to a fund to build one to Wolsey, if that meant that his state was to change to that of “late and very much unlamented”.

Ironically from what he had seen as he struggled past the chapel, the few early morning parishioners were praying for the blessed St Thomas to intercede on their behalf with the Cardinal’s henchmen. Ned crossed himself and quietly added his own prayer for assistance. After all you never knew when the workings of divine mercy may shift your way.

Crossing the bridge to Southwark had been his first hurdle, but now that he was on High Street another cropped up. He’d pulled his cap down over his face and hunched his gait into a semi crouch to look smaller than his usual six foot height. His present scruffy, battered appearance helped. Most passers by didn’t even give him a second glance as he slipped off the main thoroughfare into a side alley at the old church of St Mary’s Overie by the Bridge House. Once on this track, another worrying thought sidled up to add to his active sense of paranoia. By all that was holy, he should have thought about this sooner. If Smeaton’s slaying was anything other than just a casual act as part of a drunken brawl, then that implied the hand of one or more of Wolsey’s rivals was involved. Ned visibly blanched at the unpleasant implications this presented. Alright, he had used this as an excuse only to escape the threat of exile to France. Until now though he hadn’t seriously considered it. But what if it were true? Oh Lord, why hadn’t he seriously thought about this before now? If it didn’t prove to be a common cutpurse or brawler then he’d be working against men several degrees more threatening than Canting’s known rancour and spite.

Ned knew caution wasn’t one of his principle attributes. In fact, if he were kneeling in the confessional, and told to list his faults, then impatience and anger, not forgetting pride, would be pretty close to the top. As for lust, the obsession of all priests, well what did one expect-he was young and not a monk. However two nights in the Clink and this sudden realisation helped clarify the rewards of recklessness and he made an effort to blend into the morning pattern of the liberties. So far it had worked and with a sigh of relief, he settled down at a bench fronting a small cook shop just opposite the place Will had suggested as the site of the deadly affray, the Cardinal’s Cap tavern. He paid over a few small coins for a loaf of the common ravelled bread with a bowl of pottage and dove into a needed second meal. The loaf was coarse to chew, but fresh, and the steaming pottage was hot, filling and cheap. Even better, the cook had tossed in a good slab of salted bacon along with the usual onions, cabbage and beans, so it was full of flavour. After the third bowl he sat back and waited.

Good sense and caution had convinced him that walking into the tavern and gaming den would be a very bad idea, not to mention a danger to his continued good health. So if he couldn’t go in, then he would just have to watch the comings and goings from his present location. Ned knew the stew by reputation. He’d even been in a few times and could recognise a few of the girls, either punks who occasionally worked upstairs, or serving lasses who kept the customers plied with drink. Meeting Will this morning had been a real boon, as stray fragments of the missing night slowly drifted back. Last night’s song had been about Pleasant Anne, the redoubtable mistress of the establishment. She had a fine reputation, a lass of many talents, some of which served as the inspiration for the song’s lewder verses. Leaving a young man’s predilections aside, the rest of Southwark knew Pleasant Anne for the quality of her victuals. So at least one of her girls would be out soon to shop for supplies at the local market. In the meantime, after the rigour of the past few days he needed to rest up. His head still throbbed occasionally and the weight of his satchel had almost set his ribs screaming with pain in the short walk from the bridge to here.