And now to stir up that volatile mix of London sentiment was this plague of friars calling down a vengeful rain of blood and fire. To Ned this fellow’s ranting was concerning. He called over the pot boy and slipped him a half groat to have a message delivered. The lad nodded in comprehension and trotted off while Ned lent back to watch the performance. Far quicker than expected, a small troop of the Common Watch tramped into view. As a display of stout citizens and sturdy yeoman of the city it wasn’t much, but rather the best that could be had. After all, the qualifications to join the Watch were pretty low: firstly you had to be alive or at least not of knocking acquaintance with death’s door; secondly, current or recent possession of most of your limbs was considered an advantage; and thirdly, and most importantly, you must possess the wits to know when to accept a bribe.
To Ned’s practiced eye, this motley body fulfilled most of those requirements though for a couple it would be best not to inquire too closely regarding how close they’d come to missing the mark. They did, however, compare favourably with the his old friends the Southwark Watch under Constable Dewberry, though his daemon sneering reminded him that a pack of blind, starving beggars could out present those unshakable bastions of law and order in the Southwark Liberties. The Aldgate sergeant though, was a man of considerable experience as well as girth, and he stood listening to the preacher for a few minutes with his hands resting lazily on his broad paunch until the friar had said one word too many. Then, with an abrupt wave, he signalled his band to grab the offender. Considering their many afflictions and deficiencies the Watch were really quite efficient. Within moments the screaming friar was gagged, trussed and bundled off, leaving a muttering crowd in their wake.
Satisfied, Ned pushed himself off the bench and left several small coins and low voiced instructions to the pot boy, and limping, made his way west towards Greyfriars. That was one matter dealt with. The friar would probably be dumped in the Bread Street Compter for several days as a warning. Since the Church courts had lately refused to deal with clerical offenders this was the best that could be expected. Ned had seen that the Watch got a reward for its duty. On their return to Aldgate they would find several quarts of the Bee Skep’s best double ale waiting for them. Right now he wished he could join them. However obligation had its own demands.
Usually a walk from Aldgate to Greyfriars could be accomplished within an easy half hour at a leisurely pace. Today the bruising limited him to a more time consuming limp. He supposed it was to be endured and it gave him a chance to take in the atmosphere of the streets and alleys. While the city in this ward was still shrouded by its usual wood smoke and stinking wastes, there was another scent that undercut all this. It added a sharper tone to the street cries, and a worried edged to the conversation of the gossips clustered at the public wells and fountains.
It was the taste of fear, and the city was ripe with the bitter tang. Parliament had ended with much achieved, and there were constant rumours that it would be called again very soon, next month some said, to complete its vengeance against the bishops. But in the meantime, the lord bishops still had a stranglehold on power, despite the loss by Wolsey of his long accustomed perch. And in the recent competition for the highest position, a Londoner rather than a lord had won out, one Sir Thomas More. Both he and his family were well known in the city. His father had been a judge, while the famous son had, like Ned’s uncle, Richard Rich, served his time as the Commissioner of Sewers. But Master More had gone on from that humble position, climbing the dizzy and perilous heights of the King’s service. Whereas once he had been His Majesty’s secretary and sometime ambassador, now Sir Thomas had acquired the lofty rank of Lord Chancellor from the King’s hand.
He had wasted no time in letting his friends and rivals know were he stood on matters of import and past friendships. At the opening of Parliament he had savagely attacked his former patron, Cardinal Wolsey, by delivering the Bill of Attainder. It listed forty four offences committed by the Cardinal against the King’s Majesty and included one classic that gave Ned wry amusement every time he thought of it.
“That knowing he had the foul and contagious disease of the Great Pox broken out upon him in divers places of his body, came daily into Your Graces presence and blowing on Your most noble Grace with his perilous and infective breath.”
That was ironic for a priest. Even a child knew how you caught the Spaniard’s Pox.
After this list of treasonous offences had been read out and cheered, another member of Parliament had then stood up in the House, and defended the disgraced Cardinal-Thomas Cromwell, previously Wolsey’s secretary, now known to be in the King’s service. It was a considerable risk, but it did signal the limits of His Sovereign Majesty’s displeasure.
Ned was in a bit of a quandary over that. On the one hand he was pleased at the fall of the arrogant prelate, but he would have preferred someone else to launch the attack on Wolsey, since there was considerable bad feeling between his uncle’s family and Sir Thomas More, while Cromwell’s defence created its own paradox, especially since Ned was now bound to him as a retainer due to a very convoluted escapade last year.
For Ned and the city, the last session of Parliament had been an incomplete victory. The clerical faction had been wounded in the affray but according to his uncle, the Privy Council had slipped up. While More was undoubtedly clever and held the confidence of the King, the new Lord Chancellor, in Master Richard Rich’s opinion, was more unpredictable and slippery than a greased weasel. Ned still recalled the violent rage of his uncle when he heard of the appointment. He’d sworn loudly and complained that ‘Lord Chancellor’ More knew the city as well as any Cheapside foister or punk. Then he’d made it plain, that to the Rich clan this elevation was to be viewed as more a curse than a blessing. All the while during this tirade his uncle had been glaring ominously in Ned’s direction. His demon had meekly suggested the perhaps Uncle Richard doubted Ned’s ability to stay out of trouble. It was not a reminder he needed.
For the Mayor and Aldermen of the city, the appointment was greeted with mild good cheer. They, no doubt, felt that Sir Thomas could be expected to have an excellent understanding of the complex problems and difficulties that beset the city and its inhabitants, treating them with the respect and compassion expected from the famous author of Utopia. Ahh, maybe not. In Ned’s jaundiced view that was the problem. He’d read the work at university. The fantasy of Utopia was not a land where any Englishman would feel at ease. Apart from that ominous imprint, Sir Thomas More also had gained a reputation for ruthlessly pursuing and destroying of any who differed in the slightest from his rigid interpretation of the Christian faith. If the suspected person was found to be tainted by Lutheran or other heretical sympathies, or even a lack of respect for the Church, then it could very dangerous indeed.
This ingrained attitude of the new Lord Chancellor created further complications, for the people of London where renowned as the most anticlerical in the kingdom. Thus the mood of Sir Thomas More was a difficult thing to gauge, and his recent series of raids across the city had spawned a fear and apprehension far beyond their limited targets. The Church’s Lollard towers for heretics were full, and there had been talk of using one of the older compters or prisons like the Fleete for the overflow. But whether it was ambition or delusion, the passions of the Lord Chancellor now held sway over the city streets, and tainted the flavours of daily intercourse.