Ned’s better angel primly added that getting more sleep last night might have helped his present situation. His daemon countered with the suggestion of another good round of dicing or cards. Surely roistering would have improved his mood. But, by all the devils, imps and demons of the nine circles of Hell, what he really hadn’t needed last night was another of those cursed summons by Meg Black! He’d just settled down to a nice long dicing session with Walter and a few other lads and it was all going so well. Then, as he was in the middle of a winning streak, another messenger had called for him. For once it wasn’t Gruesome Roger, though it did concern Meg Black.
A young boy had been waiting nervously at the foot of the stairs. Ned had seen him around at the apothecaries, one of several who did the fetching and carrying amongst other household duties. The poor lamb was all afrightened with news that the Lord Chancellor’s men were going to raid one of the ‘night schools’ and Meg begged his aid.
Now that had been a real quandary. Ned would like nothing better than to inconvenience Meg Black, especially after she dragged him into Walter minding and this strangely devised pageant of hers. And of course her disturbance of his Christmas Revels begged for revenge. However, and he cursed as he considered it, the ‘night schools’ or ‘nests of heresy’ as Sir Thomas More called them, were secret gatherings of Lollards and evangelicals where they studied heretical texts and the Bible translated into English. The Bishop of London, with the assistance of the new Lord Chancellor, hunted them mercilessly, to root out the growing protests against the Church. Anyone captured could expect to spend some time in the Lollard tower of St Paul’s before being hauled before Foxford, the London Vicar General. Now there was a cleric without a drop of Christian compassion. You either confessed and were burnt or died in prison of the ‘sweats’. It was all the same to him. His better angel pricked his conscience. Was he really going to stand aside and let this happen? Actually no. While Red Ned Bedwell wasn’t strictly one of their number, during the Cardinal’s Angels affair, Lady Anne had spread her cloak of patronage over them at Grafton Regis. Thus he was now considered a client of the Boleyn faction and as a consequence, served Councillor Cromwell. So when the call for help went out…
In the end it had been a very long night. Ned had led a small band of ‘night schoolers’ away from the meeting at Cheapside via the twisting lanes and crooked alleys until they’d reached a safe house at Petty Wales down by the river. He’d even tucked one of the smaller heretical books into his doublet to stop it falling into More’s hands. It had been damned freezing with more snow, and the night was darker than a trip through Satan’s bum hole. Three hours it had taken by the time Ned had looped back, checking for any strays and then finally, wet, tired and chilled, he’d staggered back to the Sign of the Spread Eagle and, ignoring the carousing, he’d taken a blanket and collapsed on the corner bed.
That probably explained why Ned was having a problem flogging his weary sleep deprived brain into action. Why had he been summoned? Fortunately Ned found he had some hour or so in which to figure it out, though the impulse to snore away on a bench was sore tempting. The courts at Westminster may be closed and most clerks overwhelmingly concerned with their own Christmas revels. However that didn’t mean the function of government had closed down. No, there were still petitioners, reports and allocations to arrange. So Westminster, though leaner than the Law terms, was still bustling with activity.
Finally Reynolds, his patron’s liveryman, waved him into one of the hall’s privy chambers. Thomas Cromwell was standing with his back to a roaring fire, examining a letter. Ned immediately gave his most practiced bow, his cap brushing the floor. His master returned only the slightest flicker of an eyebrow to register the arrival of his latest retainer. Instead all of his attention remained on the letter. From his humbled position, Ned tried his best to read what he could of Cromwell’s demeanour. The newest of the King’s privy officials had a solid build. It was said around the Inns of Court that when younger, Cromwell had served as a mercenary in the Italian Wars. From all the signs Ned had seen, that could well be true. Cromwell moved amongst the men of power and violence with an ease that spoke of a long familiarity of court and command.
Finally Cromwell put down the letter and swung his undivided attention at Ned. With a slightly impatient flick of his fingers, he indicated that Ned should rise from his bow. “Ahh, Master Bedwell. Your Christmas Revels are going well I trust?”
This may have sounded like a pleasant question from his indulgent patron, but Ned knew that it wasn’t. Cromwell, as he was coming to understand, never indulged in idle conversation. Every word and nuance was weighed and measured for use, impact or return.
Quietly and respectfully Ned answered. “As good Christians and gentlemen, Councillor, our ceremony is celebrated with proper reverence and due respect for the season.” Ned’s better angel tut-tutted reprovingly, as the memory of the carousing at the Sign of the Spread Eagle several hours earlier resurfaced. Ned kept a tight rein on his bland smile. Cromwell could read volumes in a single twitch.
His lord and master paced over to the nearby table and tapped it with a single finger as he gave a very slow nod. “I see. I hope that it is exactly as you maintain, Master Bedwell. The good ‘health’ of young Walter is a matter dear to the King’s interests.”
Ned didn’t have to translate that. The Dellingham scion was important to some scheme of Cromwell’s.
His patron gave the slightest cough and continued. “Sir Martin Dellingham is an ardent reformer and as you’ve seen, is much influenced by the opinions of his good lady.”
The sudden image of Sir Martin, ring through his nose like that of a bullock, and with tether grasped firmly by Lady Dellingham, was produced by his delighted daemon.
“There are several matters currently before the Shropshire assizes that Sir Martin has offered his assistance in mediating with his neighbours. Since they are closely connected with His Majesty’s personal affairs, I do not need to spell them out.” Once more this wasn’t a question, though it sounded like one.
Cromwell twisted a ring on his large hand and gave the slightest frown as he spoke. “So Master Bedwell, I’m sure I have made a wise choice in placing this unworldly young man into your charge?”
“The care of Walter Dellingham is my watchword Councillor.”
Cromwell turned his back to Ned and strolled over to the fire. Then after a minute’s silence Cromwell continued in almost a musing fashion. “You know Master Bedwell, the devil sets snares for us every day. Sin and temptation dog our footsteps. According to some learned men, it is how we grapple with these demon’s traps that gives us the chance of salvation. As we know, every man, even the veriest sinner can gain the grace of our loving God by their justification of faith.”
Ned was somewhat lost. He didn’t have a clue what his patron was talking about. Salvation, sin he’d been dragged all the way across a bitterly chill London to hear cryptic homilies? To play safe he murmured profound agreement and humble thanks for the advice. After that and a longer silence, Ned was given a simple waved dismissal as Cromwell, staring out the window at the falling snow, ignored him. With a hopefully graceful half bow, Ned turned on his heel and exited the room. He once more pulled on his cap to ward against the chill of Westminster’s corridors. Damn, now he had to walk all the way back and the point of this summons was, well put simply, look after Walter. He shook his head and rubbed his face in exasperation. Damn, damn, damn! He had to trudge back all that way and it was snowing and for company he had the surly Gruesome Roger. So much for the pleasant idylls of the Christmas Revels!
***