The Cardinal's Angels Read online

  His friend smiled openly and nodded his head. “It’s a bit like the tale of the good Samaritan, or when someone takes in an injured bird or dog. Once Meg does that then she’ll fight any to keep you safe.”

  That was kind of reassuring, though Ned forbore to mention that in some places he’d been in Southwark, taking in an injured animal only meant a meat stew that night and a fur trim tomorrow.

  So far all was going well. They’d just crossed the bridge to Tooleys Lane and were walking through Bermondsey village. About a hundred yards ahead on the left was Bermondsey Street. They could cut down there and travel along the back lanes skirting most of Southwark—safe, easy and fast.

  So with a lighter step now that basic issues of trust had been resolved, they turned into Bermondsey Street. Later Ned blamed the herd of cattle. Rob blamed the distraction of the lass driving the cattle, while Gruesome Roger reckoned it was the afternoon sun punching through the clouds. Meg Black ignored all that. She kept it simple and consistent and blamed Ned.

  Immediately behind the press of cattle that blocked the road was a band of non descript men. In the city you’d usually not give them a second glance, that’s if you had your own retinue or several hefty friends. Ned started out in a cold sweat instantly pulled his cap down as they sauntered past, sending up a fervent prayer for concealment. They’d almost past the cattle driver, a busty lass with straw blonde hair and a winsome encouraging smile, at first glance Rob was smitten and grinned like a loon right until he bumped into the bands’ leader who also similarly taken by the swaying hips.

  “Hoy. Watch a’where yea goin’ lad!” The distraught cry came from the crumpled figure on the ground. Rob Black was full of profuse apologies as he helped the smaller man to his feet. The victim of the collision was dressed in the slightly ragged finery of a ‘distressed’ gentleman who was temporarily down on his luck, you know the look, worn velvet, tattered silk and frayed mock silver braid and a heavy cloak that had the appearance of, at the same time, both too many repairs and simultaneously not enough. In Rob’s case smaller actually meant more common sized and this poor fellow was shaking his head after colliding with a giant. “Well damn me for a Turk! Where’s yea headin’ young Samson?”

  Ned tried to do two things at once, first blend into the background and secondly tell Rob to lie. He had the chance to do neither.

  “We’re off to the Gryne Dragone good sirrah.”

  The slightly rumpled ‘gentleman’ took a half step back and tilted his head back to take in the full measure of Rob. He gave a friendly gap–toothed grin and ‘tch tched’ loudly, his Adam’s apple oscillating like a ratchet block on a crane. It made him look like a scrawny egret trying to swallow a flounder.

  “Why’s, that be a dangerous part o’ town lad. They eats fine lads such as yea for their supper. For a slight consideration we’s could see yea safe.”

  “I thank you good master, but we already have a guide.”

  Ned would have reached over and shoved his cap into Rob’s mouth except that it would draw unwanted attention. Then to his absolute horror his friend waved a hand in his direction. Rob’s victim swung his gaze Ned–wards and squinted his watery grey eyes for a moment before his eyebrows shot up like startled caterpillars. “Why, Lors’ blessin’s! Tis Red Ned! Tis really a gift fro’ the gud lord ta see yea Ned. Canting’s bin a missin’ yea so, a really pinin’ fo’ yea company!” It was such a cheerful voice. Gulping Jemmy was genuinely pleased to see him. It was just that for such a decent scoundrel, Gulping had an enormous blindside when it came to his master Canting Michael and failed to note the heavy vindictive streak.

  “Ahh good day Gulping Jemmy. I’m pleased to see you as well. Just passing through. I’ll catch you after Sunday.” Ned gave the shorter man a clap on the shoulder and made to move off.

  A swift hand caught his sleeve. “Nay, nay, Ned. Tis been twa long, an’ Canting told me he pines fr’ yea. He wanted ta pleasure o’ yea company ifn ever I found yea. What say we go’s over ta Louland Inn for a quench o’ ale, till I gets word t’ Canting.”

  Ned would have tried to pull away but for a few difficulties. The first was he really did like Gulping. The fellow was an engaging rogue full of the most amazing tales, but secondly and more importantly, Gulping’s men outnumbered them.

  As Gulping requested they complied, and his companions became ‘guests’, including the glowering Mistress Black. Ned was thankful she didn’t possess the evil eye. Otherwise he wouldn’t have made it to the bench before being transformed into a newt. As her piercing glare bored into his quailing conscience, Ned had a flash of inspiration. While they were all taking their seats in the tavern at the hearty invitation of Gulping Jemmy, he grabbed a passing Mistress Black and pulled her into his lap. As Smeaton would have related if he was still alive, that was a singularly dangerous act. Ned had to call on most of the wrestling skills he’d learnt just to ensure he wasn’t crippled. After a most undignified struggle and a few more bruises which aroused many an amused comment from Gulping’s lads, Ned managed to plant a kiss on her cheek while quickly whispering a plan to her. It was a ploy fraught with difficulties, but he’s wasn’t prepared to risk the tender mercies of Canting.

  “Damn you Meg Black, I trying to get us out of this mess! Buy them firkins of the double strong and get the Tavern keeper to add a measure of Brandywine to each!”

  She pushed off and spun around with her hand prepared for just the kind of round house blow he had come to expect. “Don’t touch me again you groping measle!”

  Expected or not, he failed to avoid it and damn but it hurt in that stinging, aching kind of way that brought a flood of white spots before his eyes.

  Gulping let out a roar of laughter at the sight and gave Ned a more considerate slap on the back. “Ned, she’s a feisty lass. I’ve nay seen many that could set yea aback. Is she you’rn?

  After a cautious shake of his head, and a cautious exploration of the tender spot that was his jaw, Ned gave a grudging reply. “We’re more in the way of business partners, Gulping. These three are with me to explore a profitable venture.”

  Gulping gave quiet chuckle and patted the side of his large battered nose with a finger. “I’s understan’ opportunities. Why Canting’s over ta river ‘avin’ a chat wit’ some lord about one right now.”

  That revelation almost lost Ned any remaining composure he had left. Damn them Canting was already deep in a lord’s purse. Ned desperately tried to convey all the nonchalance that was currently don the missing list. “Canting must have moved up in the world. Who’s he seeing?”

  “Ahh Ned, yeas a clever lad, but ol’ Canting reckons to save ta surprise.” Gulping gave a broad friendly smile as the serving lass brought over a collection of large wooden tankards.

  “Thankee lass.” Gulping swallowed the whole firkin without stopping or pausing for breath, showing just how he acquired his nickname. As usual it got an appreciative cheer from his men as well as a gasp of admiration from Gruesome Roger. The gang captaine lowered the empty tankard and let out a loud sigh of pleasure. “By ta blessed Thomas, that’s a proper double!”

  Well to be a leader in Canting’s crew a man had to have some special skills apart from thievery. In Gulping case it was well known around Southwark that he earned a good living from fleecing newcomers by challenging them to a drinking bout. As expected he always won either by speed or capacity. Ned had little hope of winning his freedom with any similar contest, but he did hope that Gulping might soften a little and accept a bribe.

  “Tis good t’ while a way the afternoon wit yea, Ned. I’s missed yea latterly. Southwark ain’t near so amusing wit’ut yea.”

  Ned leaned across and slipped a few angels under his host’s hand. “I think of you as a kindly uncle, Gulping. How about letting me go and I’ll square it with Canting later?”

  Gulping Jemmy may have been friendly and amiable but he wasn’t slow. He scooped the coins up and gave one a casual nibble. “I’s impressed Ned. Yea�
�re a dear lad, but it would nay be worth my quick if’n I let yea go. Canting still has a set agin yea cos o’ that ploy yea pulled last year.”

  Gulping looked so upset, his Adams apple quivered alarmingly as if it were about to leap out in agitation though the gold coins still vanished into a pocket. “I’s could let the lass an ta others loose but Ned, yea ‘ave ta stay for Canting.”

  It was a start, but damn was it too much to expect that Canting had forgotten the incident of the rats and dogs! It seemed that it still rankled. It shouldn’t but it did. Ned had chanced his life and gained his nickname, a very stupid act but at least notable and it had won him some considerable standing in the darker regions of the city.

  That had been in the spring last year when he possessed nowhere near the maturity or sense that he now possessed. The day had started badly with yet another argument with his uncle over his future prospects. It had escalated into the inevitable shouting match and led directly to Ned storming out of the house in search of distractions.

  His favoured place for drinking at that time was the Bull and Goat in the Southwark liberties. Well the result that night was he had got well and truly plastered, much taken by drink as one wit had it, and so deeply the tosspot that at the bear baiting the next day, he had taken up Canting Michael’s traditional offer at the end of the first round.

  It must have been pot courage and a damned lot of that to do something so gut wrenchingly stupid. After the bodies of the first bear and the dogs that had fallen victim to the bear’s claws had been dragged away, Canting Michael always made the offer of two hundred golden angels to whoever survived a round of the rats and dogs. For the purveyor of the entertainment it was always a safe bet. Some fool or other was always desperate enough to try for the riches. Canting’s challenge provided a promise of escape from the grinding despair and misery that was life at the bottom rung of the Liberties. Many had accepted the offer. So far none had succeeded and most of those had died as a result, but it was still there, the glittering prize, inspiration and peril.

  Ned, lost in his drunken fog, had accepted and so he had found himself in the pit betwixt several ravenous mastiffs and fifty rats. The first clawing had sobered him up fast and several minutes fending of multiple assaults by fang and claw had seen him drenched in blood. By what could only be the providence of God’s grace he was still alive. Even now he had no clear idea how he’d managed to win the savage battles in the pit. All he did remember was the acclaim of the crowd and Canting Michael’s loaded promise to seek out such an enterprising lad. The gold must have funded the most amazing bender of feasting and drinking, for he could recall only the most tantalising of glimpses.

  At the end of a week he came to his senses at last, amazingly still with twenty five angels left in his purse. That must have been some cutpurse’s generous oversight. So in the space of a day he had gained the fame of the Liberties as ‘Red Ned’, the only survivor of Canting Michael’s baiting pit. It was perhaps ironic that apart from useful notoriety, he’d also gained the lasting enmity of Canting. The fact that his success had led to a clamour for further bouts that had all ended to the advantage of Baiting Pit owner was ignored in favour of that rancour.

  Gulping patted his shoulder in sympathy “Ahh Ned, I’s can see yea abit taken wit’ yea troubles. Fear not. I’ll nay mention yea’r last cozening trick wit’ young Samson there.”

  Canting’s captaine waved a languid hand towards Rob Black who was regaling a few of Gulping’s lads with the tale of shooting the bridge race. “Twas a clever trick. Ol’ Canting were fair livid over his losses. I’s still can’t reckon how’s yea got t’ ta bear an’ dogs.”

  Ned remained smiling, and toasted his companion. Well at least this way most of them would get free, though it indicated a few flaws in his bearded disguise if Gulping here could see through it.

  “I appreciate that Gulping. Just to show you, I’ll stand a round for you and your men.” Ned slammed two more gold coins on the table. “Innkeeper, five quarts of your best Brandywine!”

  It was worth a try. The Inn looked more prosperous than the usual alehouse that infested the Liberties, who knows the liquor may even have been palatable?

  “Bless yea Ned. ‘at be a rit’ Christian act. If’n yea want, I’ll eve’ stand surety fo’ yea wit’ Canting!” That was remarkably generous and in the usual course would have given a boost to his confidence. Now though it was useless. Canting would sell him to one of the powers at Court in a heartbeat.

  The several jugs of strong spirit arrived borne by Mistress Meg Black herself. She plunked a large pewter jug down in front of Gulping and lent towards him over the table. Ned’s eyes bulged. That was a much more generous spread of white breasts than he’d seen afore. She’d loosened her bodice! His codpiece felt all tight and constricting. Had someone stacked the fire? It felt awfully warm in here. Then in a voice breathless with promise Meg whispered loudly into Gulping’s ear. “Take it. Take it all. I likes a man who can do the deed.”

  Ned could have sworn she licked his ear. Gulping didn’t need any more encouragement. He gave a knowing grin and grasped the handle in his right hand and brought the edge of the jug to his lips, and pausing but for a moment, began the longest draft Ned had ever seen. Surely he couldn’t. It must be the best part of a gallon. Ale, even strong ale, was possible but he’d never seen anyone take more than a pint of spirits. The empty jug slammed down onto the table to a roar from his men and Ned, seized by inspiration, dropped another handful of spinning gold coins on the scarred wooden plank. “Five angels to any man who can equal Gulping Jemmy, the Lord o’ Bermondsey!

  His followers needed no encouragement and set to their own feats with gusto. It was fair to say that none equalled their captaine and a few probably spilt more than they drank. Gulping sat on the bench grinning with anticipation as Meg Black slid into the space beside him and handed him a small horn cup. “Pledge me your friendship Master Jemmy.”

  Gulping gave a polite nod and polished it off like the last then made to claim his kiss. Meg easily intercepted his hand and eased it down. Gulping seemed to have a puzzled look on his face as he watched his hand flop on the table. Then he began to slide ever so slowly sideways and his still grinning face collided with Meg’s shoulder.

  Ned leant closer. Gulping was here in the flesh. That was true enough. His eyes however were unfocused and the body as limp as a boned fish. “What did you put in his drink?”

  “Just a little apothecary’s remedy I got out of a book.” Meg Black sounded so pleased. She eased Gulping Jemmy’s head carefully onto his crossed arms. It looked just like he was slumbering.

  Ned quickly glanced around to see how his band had taken their leader’s collapse. He needn’t have worried. They’d joined Gulping in the arms of Morpheus and were draped over various benches in the tavern. Ned was deeply impressed. He hadn’t hoped for anything so soon, or so successful. “What’s it called?”

  “Paracelsus names it Laudanum, and believes it a strong physick for illness.”

  Looking at its victims, Ned had a few doubts about whether it would cure illness or just push you into that pleasant plateau where having a leg sawn off was given no more credence than flea bite. He prodded Gulping a few times. Nothing happened and the smile remained.

  “Can he hear me?”

  Meg Black gave a shrug and moved around the room, emptying out the other jugs of spirit.

  Ned put his mouth close to Gulping and did his best to imitate the speech of Canting. “Gulping Jemmy where’s I off to ‘cross the river?” Then he gave the body a shove.

  Gulping gave a grumble and a lazy shrug before mumbling a reply. “Minste’, Canting yea recall.

  “Aye Jemmy ‘at where the place. Who was I ta see?” The smile quirked slightly as the words slurred out.

  “Why’s ta see Suff’lk’s m’n ab’ut me friend, Ned.”

  Ned’s blood turned to ice. He hated it when his imaginings were right. He grabbed Gulping’s cloak and gave a
shake of his head. “I think the sooner we make the Gryne Dragone the safer we’ll be.”

  Ned left three angels with the innkeeper and strict instructions to ‘mind’ Gulping and his lads. It may not have been necessary since only a bedlam loon would harm one of Canting’s men this side of Southwark. But Ned did believe poor Gulping Jemmy would have stood up for him and any loyalty, even so slight, needed reward. Strangely enough once they hit the road Meg Black let him lead them all the way to High Street. His daemon had a ready answer. After their last collision maybe she wanted him to be the Forlorn Hope!

  Chapter Sixteen–The Southwark Watch

  It was less than a mile to the High Street at Southwark, and if it hadn’t been for their meeting with Gulping Jemmy it should have been an easy walk. Leaving Canting’s gang captaine and his lads to snooze off the combined effects of Brandywine, ale and laudanum in the tavern they continued their progress towards the centre of Southwark. Ned was at a loss to understand Mistress Black’s ready compliance. She only made a few minor derogatory comments as they walked along and generally cooperated with his directions. Had a kindly saint smitten her with sweet reason? His daemon quietly expressed its doubts, though his angel for once didn’t venture even the shadow of a charitable opinion. So under Ned’s direction they dodged from one piece of cover to another, using the driven herds of cattle, geese and sheep or the lumbering carts and wagons. The last gave the best protection, despite the profane curses of the wagoneers and the suspicious glares of the clusters of gossips by the wells.

  Afternoon was pushing on. As shielding, Ned thought his method was particularly brilliant. No one would be able pick them out of this congestion, though it did have some drawbacks. The progress was slow and the aroma of the farmyard tended to be cloying, and it took more than an hour to progress less than a mile. They finally came to the relatively open space where Tooley Street hit High Street by the entrance to London Bridge, and the chaos increased. The flow out from the city forced them along High Street towards St Margaret’s Hill, and with the rest of the press, they came to a shuddering halt by the Pillory. Ned wasn’t the only one to feel nervous. They’d all caught sight of the long rank of steel tipped halberds glittering in the bursts of afternoon light as they cut through the grey clouds. It was far too great a display for the punishment of thieves or transgressing bakers.