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.
***
Will Coverdale was beside himself with anguish, shredding his fine linen kerchief in clenched fingers, as he staggered through the bear pits doorway. “Oh No! Sheer knavery, a half a dozen angels lost!”
Ned gave him a pat of consolation and carefully guided his companions to the street outside, making sure they always walked between him and Canting Michael, who was hissing his discomfort to a pale faced, nervously twitching minion. It was too bad about Will. His friend had been so happy a short while ago, gustily cheering the dogs on with the rest of the audience.
It was the fifth pair of dogs, and Terrible Tom was clearly flagging, his fur was torn and bloody along his massive forearms. Those ferocious claws had downed the previous four pairs of mastiffs, scattering their remains across the clotted sand. Now it had come to the final pair of dogs and the crowd was roaring with frenzy at this, the last battle. Unlike the previous set, these beasts moved their hundred and fifty pounds of eager muscle in linked symmetry, one baiting while the other lunged at the exposed belly or flanks. It was a useful tactic and spoke of good training by their handler. By this stage the betting had been closed down and Canting Michael could be seen leaning against a post with a sneeringly satisfied smile. No beast had ever survived so long. It was going to be a victory for the mastiffs. And then in an instant it changed. Both dogs lost the pattern of attack and halted in midst of a joint strike before being bowled over by a single backhanded blow, landing heavily against the flint stone facing of the pit. The fight was over-Terrible Tom o’Taunton was victorious.
Ned’s remembrance of the struggle was broken by another peevish complaint from Will. “Ned! I can see your smirk through that infested face mirkin. By the saints, what do you have to happy about? This wipes me out for a month. No more parties and dicing at the Boars Head and I’ll have to grovel to my uncle for silver. Nooo … he’s such a sanctimonious tight purse!”
Poor Will, he wasn’t taking his loss very well. From the heart felt wail, you’d think he’d been robbed rather than eagerly handing over his share for the wager. Geoffrey’s sour grimace and clenched lips betrayed a similar disappointment. Like Ned, he was more used to the travails of chance. As for Ned, he was so excited it was hard not to burst into laughter at the morose faces of his friends. Anyway despite continued moans and complaints, they allowed him to steer them away from the Paris Gardens until he finally saw his target-a well built lad with impressive shoulders and a head surmounted by a thicket of spiky brown hair waving to him.