“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!
Chapter One-The Bear Garden Southwark, September
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.”