The Queen's Oranges Released!

The Queen's Oranges by Gregory House

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


Now as the author I could gush wonderfully about this, saying the novel was the equal of Patricia Finney’s Firedrakes Eye or a better view of the Tudor turmoil than Phillipa Gregory or even a tour de force like CJ Sansom’s Shardlake series. I won’t. That is for you, the reader, to make your own judgement. All I can give you are the opinions of my beta readers. They’ve said it is a great piece of period mystery, blending a hefty splash of humour with the politics and machinations of Tudor England and so forth.

Since I don’t pay them, they aren’t relatives and they’ve all expressed an eager willingness to vet my future stories, then just maybe it could be…true? So why don’t you cruise on by download a sample and see what you think.

It gives me great pleasure to announce the release on Amazon Kindle of my first full length novel The Queen’s Oranges. Red Ned Bedwell Apprentice lawyer and aspiring rogue having recovered from his ordeals in The Liberties of London and several other difficult tasks from his lords and masters, is once more plunged into the labyrinthine complexities of Tudor politics. This story involves an unnatural double murder, smuggling and the strange hint of a devious plot circling the King’s annulment. For Ned life would be so much easier if he also didn’t have to rescue Meg Black from the suspicion of heresy or find a vanished royal official. Oh yes and of course there are always these damned oranges!

Available:

Amazon US/Australia



Amazon UK


Regards Greg

The Queen's Oranges



View all my reviews

The Queen’s Oranges- A Cover! A story in Itself!

Good day to my growing legion of devoted readers.  First off, before we start this instalment of Red Ned’s Tudor blog, I would once more like you to take a moment to continue to think of those around the world undergoing threat or privation.  Disasters happen, and then all too soon our attention is drawn away by some other media event.  However the effects of the Japanese Tsunami and the continuing spread of nuclear radiation contamination doesn’t vanish when you change channels.  I ask you that if it is possible please donate or support a local/international charity of your choice.

 

Now on to the latest Red Ned news!  The Liberties of London novella is now almost across the complete internet spectrum firstly here at Smashwords, then secondly via their affiliate program through Barnes & Noble’s Nook and Diesel so far.  According to their updates, Kobo and Android will soon follow, with Sony, and Apple lagging a tad.  Right now you can acquire this (‘ahem’ to quote Lady Dellingham) magnificent piece of Tudor period fiction for the trifling amount of 99c!  In the meantime it is definitely available on Amazon Kindle at this link.  For those of you who have continued to ask for a hard copy, sorry, I fear that will still have to be much, much later this year.  But thank you for your interest.

Now on to the second book in the Red Ned Series—The Queen’s Oranges.  Within the next few days it will be live on Amazon and I will attach the link to this blog page.  In the meantime I thought we’d look at the cover art process for this novel.  In keeping with the theme of the last book, The Liberties of London, we have used a composition of the story elements.  I believe this is much better than the headless bimbo theme currently in vogue for almost every piece of historical fiction.  A wonderful article on that theme can be found here or my satirical version on Prognostications and Pouting.  As inspiration we’ve looked towards the wonderful early Dutch still life paintings of the mid 16^th to 17^th century.  As you can see in Claesz’s Still Life with Overturned Jug, Glass of Beer, and Food, an oil on canvas painted in 1635,it is fantastically full of life and colour. 
 

 Now after all that lofty discussion and inspiration we return the humdrum of real life. It came time for us to get the work done.  As Indies we have only our own resources to draw upon.  Though rich in talent and in theory, wealthy in experience, we have only the most basic tools available for graphics.  Thus improvisation is … well for us it is everything as you shall soon read.

Plan the First

Alex was to colour his excellent pen and ink sketch in Photoshop via the wonderful graphics tablet his loving parents had scrimped and saved for.  Well two weeks into this process and next to nothing had happened.  Alex, it seemed, had vastly overestimated his skills in Photoshop illustration, and fearing the undoubted wrath of his enraged parents, (here read me), had stayed silently reticent on his progress (read here very, very little).  The final editing was in its last flurry and we were almost ready to put it all together and…we had nothing, no maps, no cover and only the pen and ink sketch.  At this stage you can understand my hair pulling which achieved new levels of exasperation as soon as I discovered that Alex had also packed his not–so–well laptop so full of…ahh teenage stuff that only the odd miniscule kilobyte had room to squeeze through and run the poor thing.

A peremptory instruction finally had Alex grumblingly burn all his …ahh stuff onto a box full of discs.  Apparently he’d been under the impression that the magic backup fairy in size seven and a half boots (again once more you should read me here) was going to wave his wand and it would all be solved.  Not this time! 

All that took yet another day. Then four hours later the battery on Alex’s laptop, having staggered gamely along seriously depleted, promptly keeled over.  For its effort we awarded it a posthumous VC for gallantry above and beyond the call of duty.

So after all this we were still up that infamous creek with only the very beginnings of a sketch of a paddle.  The editing had been finished but we lacked the essentials for an ebook, i.e. cover and maps.  At this stage Lady Fortuna cast us her smile Alex’s way, and a spare mint condition netbook with all the required programs was offered for use.  Well actually it was given to Alex to use by the school and it was dragooned immediately into service.  At last we had a graphics program, now for the maps et al.

Plan the Second

Initially Alex being a teenager wanted to use Google maps and then snapshot, filter, overlay, highlight, colourize and…well I’m sure you get the drift.  His ‘client’ felt this would result in another very long exercise where much play and fiddling on the netbook programs could ensure little actual progress.  The ‘client’ then made an executive decision and curtly instructed the following ‘get a pencil and a pad and draw the damned thing off the screen!’  That process took less than an hour, and within two days after a ‘little’ further supervision and checking, we had scanned the excellent inked final versions ready for use. 

Now for the vexing problem of the cover.  Meg had offered to colourise the pen and ink and for a little while this was tempting.  She does have outstanding skill with colour as you can see in this example.  However we were still stumped for a cover.  Then as inspiration does, it struck in the strangest of circumstances.  At three in the morning I suddenly woke up with a Eureka moment.  Photograph an arranged still life and then Photoshop it.  Yes it could work!  I explained my idea to my dearest Uber editor, who to my chagrin was firstly already awake, and secondly had sketched out the idea on the back of an envelope about ten minutes earlier.

Plan the Third

A photographic studio was not at hand, so once more it was time to improvise.  The laundry (a rather small room on the eastern side of the house) was the least cluttered and had the whitest walls for light reflection.  So this was cleared and my Turkish carpet was tapped to the wall and draped over the freezer to provide a setting similar to that in Holbein’s Ambassadors.  Then a quick search of our re enactment gear pulled up a turned ash bowl, a Tudor period style pewter tankard and my twist pattern long dagger.  All this was artfully arranged as I said earlier to match the style of an early Dutch still life.  Easy, just go mad with the camera at variety of angles and light levels, a piece of cake!

Well no it wasn’t quite.  All this activity and moving carpets around had naturally attracted the interest and attention of our cats, who it transpired all wanted to help and none were so keen or so ‘helpful’ as my muse Myrtle.  Every couple of shots we had to pause and lift off cats, rescue other cats from knocked off daggers, stop them from climbing up their new vertical play gym (my carpet) and so on. 

In the end we had some hundred shots to pick from, and on the advice of my Uber editor two were selected for treatment via basic effects on Photoshop. 

As with every stage of this ‘simple’ project we ran into another snag.  The font we’d used for title upon the cover for The Liberties of London was perfect for this.  However it was currently locked away in Alex’s hors d’ combat laptop.  Now did desperation take hold and Alex was ‘requested’ to search through whatever options were available to him as to text styles.  The result was four choices.  One was discarded pretty quickly as way too modern while the other three scrutinised for both period character and also importantly legibility.  After a quick post around to a few of our beta readers one stood out as the most favoured and the winner is…

All that process is for now concluded, but we feel that the still life theme is worth continuing, so we will field some preliminary ideas for our up coming novels The Trade of the Thames and The King’s Counsel both to be released towards Fall.

In the meantime, as a shameless self publicist, check out my Tudor frolic The Liberties of London.  Download a sample.  If you like it splurge that 99c and help support ‘indie’ authors so that we, the crafters and wordsmiths, can directly supply you the reader with the best fiction possible as soon as possible.

Regards Greg and in conclusion the shot we had to put in!

Still life with Myrtle

The Queen's Oranges Chapter 1

Red Ned The Queen’s Oranges
Good day to my growing legion of devoted readers and friends.  Before we start this instalment of Red Ned’s Tudor blog as usual, I would like you to take a moment to think of the survivors of the most recent disaster in the US where they are enduring the savage Tornado season.  Those along with the Japanese Tsunami and the still- still on going Nuclear disaster.  It has been said by some anthropologists that ‘man is red in tooth and claw’.  Well apparently not, for on hearing of these dreadful events our first reaction across the world was to offer help compassion and support.  Thus it is our common humanity rather than greed and aggression that shines forth.  So I ask you first to not heed those tempting sirens of self interest, fear and parochialism.  Instead if it is possible, please donate or support a local/international charity of your choice.

Now on to the latest Red Ned news!  The Liberties of London novella is now almost across the complete internet spectrum firstly here at Smashwords  then secondly via their affiliate program through Barnes & Noble’s Nook and Diesel so far.  According to their updates, Sony, Apple, Kobo and Android will soon follow, when of course depends on them.  Right now you can acquire this magnificent piece of Tudor period fiction for the trifling amount of 99c!  In the meantime it is definitely available on Amazon Kindle at this link.  For those of you who have expressed a desire for a hard copy I fear that will have to be much, much later this year.  But thanks for asking, as soon as it is I'll let everyone know.

Now on to the second book in the Red Ned Series- The Queen’s Oranges.  I’m including in this blog the second pen and ink sketch by the very talented artist, Alexander House, of one of the concepts for the draft cover.  This one didn’t quite make the final selection but still it is a good study and assisted a lot in our final cover decision.

So on to chapter 1 where poor Ned is concerned with mostly mundane matters, hopefully only slightly tainted with Tudor court politics. 

Chapter One

Aldgate and the Friar

The Bee Skep Tavern to Aldgate

5th June 1530

Ned limped through the grey stone archway of Aldgate into the clustered noisy wards of London city. He’d been at Aldgate Bars out past the wall to the east and it couldn’t have been more than a mile or so but it felt like several and up hill at that. His better angel sternly chastened his grumbling. After all it reminded him, he’d paid for the lessons and if he was clumsy enough or inattentive then Master Ned Bedwell certainly deserved the bruises!  In answer his daemon chimed in that pain and lumps from left hip to ankle weren’t part of the bargain, nor was the painful stagger along the muddy road. Ned ignored them both. It was immaterial that the blows were unfair and not considered part of the gentlemanly code of combat. That was the point. Since the ambush last year on the way to Grafton Regis, where he had been forced to run for his life and cower in a badger’s set, he’d promised himself not to undergo similar humiliations. So as a consequence he had taken up Margaret Black’s offer and had trained diligently four times a week under the watchful eye and heavy hand of Master Robin Sylver, a veteran of the wars on the continent, and expert at the arts of staying alive in brawl, affray or battle.

The fellow was a true master of his craft, especially if it required the adroit use of the knee, boot, elbow or God forbid, the forehead. Master Sylver’s idea of combat rendered down to its raw essence was that you walked off the battleground leaving your opponent bloody and groaning in possession of the field. Ned, at the beginning, had asked him about how that accorded with the code of honour and chivalry. After all, holding the field at the end of combat was what indicated victory. Master Robin gave one of his gap tooth sneers and commented that such fancy notions were fine for fellows who were rich enough to afford playing at the sport of war, or who could whistle up twenty armed retainers to guard them in their evening strolls. Then after a hawked gob towards the battered pell, he’d said that for ordinary lads without the security of ransom to load the grim dice of battle, one scrap of dirt was as good as another so long as it wasn’t being shovelled over you.

After the badger’s hole incident, that realistic appraisal of battle made a certain amount of sense to Ned. In his last affray, Don Juan Sebastian de Alva had been very insistent regarding what he felt was the honourable way to face an opponent, even to offering Ned a dagger, in fact the one he now had at his belt. Its acquisition had been a very painful and almost fatal spur to his current training regime. For one thing, Ned knew that the affair between the Spaniard and him was far from finished, and badger sets were in short supply in London.

Ned’s battered limbs were feeling the worse for the walk and he stopped at the Bee Skep Tavern on Aldgate Street past the city gates for a firkin of refreshment. The place had been recommended by Rob Black, the artificer, and even had the approval of his redoubtable sister Meg. Taking a seat at one of the outside trestles to enjoy the passing life of the Aldgate markets, Ned took a long pull on the fresh golden ale. As it went down he could have sworn it washed away some of the ache—beneficial indeed. He was planning on further relief soon by angling towards Greyfriars and the establishment of Williams the Apothecary, hoping that his sorry state, the results of valiant efforts on the training field, might elicit some sympathy and a useful remedy from Mistress Margaret Black. His last visit had earned a surreptitious smile when he had regaled her with the tales of his mighty battle with the Blackamore pell. True, she’d given him a light buffet when he sneaked a kiss, but it seemed to lack her usual affronted vigour. At the time he’d suspected the symbolic thump was only due to the two sniggering faces of her cousins peering through the curtain.

But now as he basked in the warm glow of the afternoon sun Ned appreciated the theatre of the street. This summer had finally come into its own. Last season had been a bit of a disappointment, with a long lingering winter that seemed reluctant to release it grip upon the land, only grudgingly yielding to the approaching warmth. The winter had seen drama enough with huge chunks of ice choking the river for weeks, blocking the usual river borne bustle between London and Southwark and forcing everyone to struggle across the bridge. The wherry men had been very bitter about their loss of trade and had led processions to the riverside churches, begging for divine intercession. Whether it worked or not Ned was unsure, but all the city officials from the Lord Mayor down, joined in the petitions and organised relief for those who suffered the enforced idleness. After all considering the fracass that had raged in Parliament this winter, no one wanted a large body of angry men wandering the streets of London, disgruntled and eager for mischief. Ned had shuddered to think what would have happened if he hadn’t helped solve the grain importing cozenage during the cold, dark and hungry days of February.

The astrologers and other learned men said the heavens were a mirror to the actions below and that such ominous portents could not be ignored, though opinion was divided on what exactly those omens meant. Ned had experience in dealing with dabblers in the future and the only one he’d consider believing was Dr Caerleon. The old man had proven singularly perceptive during the crisis last autumn, though Ned’s regard didn’t extend to trust. The astrologer was adept at subtle manipulation—a talent that had Ned keep a wary distance despite his curious nature.

He took another drink of his ale and idly watched the performance over at the market square pillory. The business of malefactors must be slow for the stocks were empty. Instead a small crowd had gathered to listen to one of the wandering friars who in recent times seemed to infest the city. They received a good hearing especially after a brief snowfall on St George’s Day had the merchants panicked. The price of bread had doubled in the city at the threat to the grain. That and the recent troubles of the mighty had provided a useful field for the market prophets to till. Anyway Londoners appreciated any good bit of free entertainment. Preaching or hanging it was all the same to them.

This friar had set his scene well. He had that wild eyed look that spoke of suffering in the wilderness, along with a staff lantern that fitfully spewed gouts of aromatic smoke to put his audience in the right frame of mind. It also served as a useful prop when waved it in broad sweeping gestures. Like the rest Ned listened in.

“The time of Woe and Lamentation is upon us. We have grievously sinned and for our faults the Lord God and all the saints have turned their backs on us.”

It was a good start, Ned considered, declaimed in a hollow booming voice. A few of the crowd jumped in fright and quickly crossed themselves.

“The sins of the great are many—pride, lust, avarice, impiety and greed!  You, the good people of Christ’s Kingdom, will suffer for it. You will be the ones visited by fire and retribution—for you stood aside and allowed the Holy Sacraments to be broken!”  The impassioned voice struck a chord and a few in the crowd muttered darkly. Any fool could see the friar was preaching against the faults of the Royal Court. Ever since the Easter celebrations this seemed to be a constant theme.

“You have forsaken the devotions of Mary, the mother of our Lord!  The breach of the most holy sacrament of marriage, by the Lord’s anointed, will see this city laid waste by the cleansing flame of retribution. All within these walls will perish!  You must petition our noble King to humble himself in forgiveness.”

Ned almost sprayed out his mouthful of ale. By the saints, that call was new and this friar was pretty bold to incite the commoners so!  That was dangerous talk and would, in some quarters, be considered treason. The man was lucky he was wearing the remnants of a habit. Usually such calls would be met with a barrage of refuse. The people of London weren’t overly respectful of the monarch, but they openly despised the well–fed clerics who, led by Cardinal Wolsey, frequently paraded their wealth and power through the streets of the city.

But recently the situation had changed. Wolsey had fallen from his exulted position. Last year he’d arrived in all his usual pomp and splendour for the opening of parliament, and taken his accustomed seat in the Court of Chancery at Westminster. Ned had been next door and word had spread through the Inns of Court that the Cardinal was to be brought low. He’d been part of the jostling audience in the Court of the King’s Bench who had watched the Attorney General bring the charge of Praemunire against Lord Chancellor Wolsey. To the informed that was dealing with a foreign power to the detriment of the King’s Majesty, a dangerous charge for any man let alone a prelate who had to deal with the Apostolic See in Rome as part of his daily duties.

The issue of the summons had received resounding cheers and there had been a rush to follow the clerk as he left to present the suddenly former King’s great minister with the charge. Ned had been amongst the first and saw the shock that accompanied its delivery. Wolsey turned pale and withdrew to the hooting calls of the crowd. It may have been undignified but it was very satisfying, especially to Ned who’d almost lost his life when he accidentally became embroiled in one of the Cardinal’s schemes. Within the hour the news had spread though out the city, and thousands had gathered on the river, grabbing anything vaguely water worthy to watch the expected procession of the Cardinal down river, to his anticipated new ‘temporary’ lodgings of the Tower.

Such a spectacle was not to be. His Majesty must have been in a forgiving mood. The Cardinal was instead rowed towards his house at Escher by Putney. The cost of the a reprieve was the loss of his magnificent palace of York Place, and its coffers of gold and silver plate and yards of silk tapestry. Lady Anne Boleyn was said to be very impressed with the prize, claiming it was more worthy of a King than a priest.

That act signalled the mood of the Commons. The dismissal had been but a precursor to the raft of anti clerical legislation that the Parliament pushed through during its session, from the removal of multiple benefices to the practice of simony. The members of the Commons were in no mood for compromise. After years of arrogance and abuse, they were out to prune the abuses of the English clergy—with the King’s blessing.

There had, of course, been a bitter backlash from the Church and the bishops, who’d stalled legislation, seeing a real threat to their privileges, but with the loss of Wolsey that had been ineffectual. Most of the prelates had hated the Cardinal for his high handed manner and had exulted at his fall so were caught between celebration for the loss of a rival and dismay at the savage mood of the Commons, while the support of his Majesty for this vengeful baying had them floundering in confusion.

However that had been in winter and the difficulties since had a few muttering that the impious assault on the Church was being met by God’s judgement. No one knew if the King’s latest move in the campaign to put aside his wife, Katherine of Aragon, would see a counter reaction from her nephew, Emperor Charles V. The merchants fretted that the Holy Roman Emperor could easily close the vital Low Countries ports to English ships, thus strangling trade, or more ominously consider it an insult to Hapsburg honour, and commission an avenging fleet from Spain. So the mood of the city was nervous and twitchy, prone to violent argument and sudden outbursts of hysteria.

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 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 nearest goal 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 royal 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 Churches’ Lollard towers for heretics were full, and there had been talk of using one of the older compters or prisons like the Fleet 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.

In his passage through the city parishes, Ned took as careful a note of the street’s pulse as would any barber–surgeon for a patient, since he’d been awarded the useful but dangerous post as intelligencer and pursuivant to Thomas Cromwell—a sniffer out of secrets and listener to keyholes, a spy some sneeringly labelled it. Ned ignored the slander and considered his task as more a searcher out of inconvenient truths. In that duty he’d gained some measure of success and standing last year, with the mystery of the Cardinal’s Angels as well as one or two other minor matters since of unpaid debts and doubtful wills. He preferred not to remember the Dellingham incident at Christmas and he definitely didn’t want his uncle to discover his solution to the grain shortages during the crisis in February. While those were dangerous, messy and complicated, they were minor affairs for his patron who was steadily ascending in Royal regard at Court. However, as any man knew, the Wheel of Fortuna was fickle, and advantages could change with the whim of the King or a shift in foreign alliance. These were higher affairs of lords and princes and it was the here and now that concerned Ned the most. As an apprentice law student at Gray’s Inn he still had little in the way of security, and his uncle’s family was nowhere near connected enough for him to be taken on by one of the more prominent lawyers. Not that Uncle Richard would stir himself much for a bastard nephew, so continued service under Master Richard Rich with his ‘borrowed’ use by Councillor Cromwell was his only option.

Having finally reached his destination, Ned stepped through the wreathing cloud of bitter scented smoke that shrouded the apothecary’s entrance, to find Meg’s twin cousins, Anne and Alison, dealing with a selection of customers. Since there was no sign of their father, Master Williams, the apothecary must be off again doing the rounds of the surrounding counties for herbs and remedies. Though having met Meg’s aunt, Goodwife Agnes, if he’d been so wedded he’d want to spend as much time elsewhere as possible as well. He’d never seen anyone so obsessed with the meaningless minutia of social position. Goodwife Agnes’s every waking moment was devoted to gaining minuscule advantages over her friends and relations. Ned had been unfortunate enough to collide with the woman on a prior visit to her niece, Meg. It was purely concerning business of course. Instead Ned found himself dragged in by the rest of the family for an Easter feast, as a potential shield to deflect the goodwife’s endless fussing and interference, while they dealt with the preparations. It was the worst three hours of his young life, as the goodwife poked and pried to find out every detail of his social prospects and that of his family. By the end she had a list of twenty eligible girls who would jump at the chance of marriage. Ned also heard an intriguing list of each candidate’s foibles and assets, probably down to the value of a clipped groat.

After that gruelling experience, he could see why the family frequently suggested that the old parish priest needed her assistance with the myriad affairs that only a devoted parishioner could provide. He only wondered what the poor priest had done to deserve such an affliction.

After dealing with the last customer, one of the girls sauntered over. Ned had assumed a vaguely injured expression and was leaning meaningfully against one of the pillars, trying to portray an air of suffering stoicism. From the red ribbon in her hair he thought it was Anne. He still found it very difficult to tell them apart. The only way to tell the difference between the two was their red and blue ribbons, and Ned had often thought about how easy it would be for them to pull a switch.

“If you are looking for sympathy from your lady love, she’s not here Ned.”

That cut the ground right out from his proposed sorrowful declamation. Instead he straightened up and suppressing a wince, whispered a reply. “Alison, I’ve told you before that Meg is not my lady love. I have eyes only for you.”

At that witty retort she just shrugged and twitched a disbelieving eyebrow while her sister came over to join the baiting. The other one, Anne he hoped, put her hands together and sighed deeply. “If only Jonathon would learn to fight for me. It would be so romantic and courtly.”

Ned suppressed a chuckle at that suggestion. He’d met Anne’s intended, a young lad who was training to be a draper’s clerk. Not meaning to disparage the fellow, but he’d have to put on a bit more meat before he could pick up a sword without falling over. What Meg’s young cousin saw in her scrawny boyfriend—well they say love is blind. Ned just hoped the fellow had other ‘hidden’ compensations.

“So fair damsels, where is the sought for maiden?”

That at least elicited a matched pair of giggles before Alison pushed her sister away and adopted a more businesslike demeanour. “A couple of hours ago she got an urgent summons from the Steelyards, around the time of the Nones chimes.”

Ah that was the reason for the suddenly, serious expression—the unofficial part of Meg Black’s duties, the ‘secret’ that had kept the noose from around their necks and their innards unroasted during the Cardinal’s crisis last year. Ned had found out that sweet innocent Mistress Margaret Black, apprentice apothecary and keen amateur surgeon, a lass of no more than seventeen, was deeply involved in the smuggling of heretical writings. Now London was no stranger to bizarre happenings or circumstance. The surprising revelation was that one of her key patrons was Lady Anne Boleyn. The woman, it was said by some, steered the King’s complex manoeuvring over the annulment of his present wife, Katherine of Aragon. That little fact had left Ned gratefully flabbergasted, though it was the kind of exasperating one–upmanship he was beginning to expect from the resourceful Mistress Black.

So whatever the summons meant, he’d have to see Meg another time. He briefly considered asking Alison, if she knew of a remedy for his bruises. But if such a request was taken the wrong way, he might find himself with another very long and convoluted interview with Goodwife Agnes. So instead he suffered the whispers and twitters as he made as dignified an exit as possible. Maybe his aunt had a decent cure—she seemed to come up with all sorts of treatments for the bumps and scrapes of his cousins.

Before he had made his halting way to the end of the street, Ned found his passage barred by a large, sneering fellow who strode purposefully towards him, idly swinging a cudgel. Almost automatically, hand to sword, Ned sank into a half crouch at a speed that Master Sylver would definitely approve. It took a moment to recognise the scarred face of Gruesome Rodger Hawkins, Mistress Black’s menacing shadow. While the man had proven his worth and more last year, that didn’t mean his arrival was welcomed or wanted. It irked Ned that the retainer still regarded ‘his’ presence with the grudging acceptance usually reserved for impecunious relations with unsavoury habits regarding sheep, especially since the ‘Liberties of London’ escapade with young lamb Walter Dellingham. ‘Hawks’ lacked a certain credibility in claiming any moral superiority after that little chase.

“About time Bedwell!” growled out the rough voice. “At least I don’t have to tramp through all y’r sordid haunts in the city. Mistress Black wants y’ down at Smarts Key wharf!”

Ned dropped his hand from the sword hilt and adopting a more dignified pose snarled out a reply to the peremptory summons. “Despite what some may claim, I do not come and go at Meg Black’s say so!”

Gruesome Rodger seemed amused by Ned’s stand and shook his head with a grim chuckle. “Y’ will this time. There’s a death involved.”

It was simple statement but it immediately brought back memories of last year’s affray. Death had figured prominently in that affair, well murder to be precise. More deaths came later. Ned felt a chill march up his spine. If Margaret Black sought his assistance, then it must be serious. He really didn’t feel like another limping tramp across the city, but the presence of her impatient retainer left little choice. With a resigned wave of acceptance he followed on. (Copyright is retained for this work by the author 2011)
Here endeth chapter 1.  Check out your favourite ebook provider for The Liberites of London or ask for the Queen's Oranges 
Regards Greg 

The Terrible Tudors

Welcome dear visitor to Red Ned’s Tudor Mysteries Blog

If you have any interest in our most famous and infamous royal dynasty, this is the place to visit.  As you may have already guessed the Red Ned of the title is a Tudor period detective.  Now the correct Tudor term that Ned prefers is intelligencer, it is so much more in keeping with his aspirations of becoming a gentleman.  Considering that the ‘common title’ is pursuivant, and as everyone knows in Tudor London a pursuivant is a lowly vagrant, who spies upon good god fearing honest people, always ready to report mischief and rumour.  What’s more they’re so untrustworthy and shifty, they’d sell their blessed mothers for a groat based on privy gossip.  Ned would never stoop so low, after all a groat won’t buy a meal for gentleman, what with the devaluing of the king’s silver.  So on to the blog I have transferred this article from my other site Prognostications and pouting to where I feel it will be more at home with its fellow Tudors.  I have also updated some of the sections to place them in more of a Red Ned Bedwell context ie where he fits in the highly complex Tudor hierarchy of family, faction, religion and politics.   

Why are we so facianted by the Tudors?I mean its such a boring dreary period. Absolutely nothing happened, no dramatic love triangles (Henry, Katherine and Anne) no illicit affairs (Henry’s mistresses all several of them) no bloody revenge of spurned wives from the grave (Katherine to Anne as on historian has suggested no zombies though) a complete lack of tragedy and pathos (the death of Jane Seymour and the official murder of Anne). And its not as if there’s any link with a few modern social crises such as growing radical religious division (protestants v’s catholics) or even the abuses of government or elitists hierarchies (Oh dear, where to start the list, the church, the Act of Supremacy, stacking Parliament).
Or perhaps we could look at the current Arab Uprisings against the entrenched corrupt regimes who stoutly insisting that they are perfect!  Those who complain must be treasonous criminals and heretics and will be rooted out and punished.  How familiar is that, do we not have an echo in the complaints of the early Protestants against the Catholic Church, doesn’t the rhetoric ring true?
 
Then again its was such a different world and of course they didn’t have the benefit of the internet or social media. Instead the early printing presses that ran almost 24/7 pumping out books, pamphlets and ballads all striving to put new ideas into public circulation. Not that the flood of new literature or radically fast communication had anything to do with the sudden burgeoning of ideas and changes in society. So as I said it’s no wonder that the publishing industry has consigned the Tudors to the status of a lowly niche market, inhabited by readers of historical romance and history devotees nutters. (oops Uber editor’s correction that should have been devotees, after all would our dearly beloved publishing industry ever label any of their readers as nutters?

So be it, as you’ve no doubt read in my prior posts, the Tudor era is where I’ll be launching my first series of books. As I’ve briefly outlined above this fascinating period of British history is packed full of bloodshed, treachery, manipulative scheming politicians, overt sexual tensions, a dominating monarch and a simmering religious feud that threatened to erupt into civil war. This has recently been made even more accessible by the history programs of David Starkey on Henry VIII and his Wives as well as the kind of accurate cross between a soap opera and history for television series The Tudors http://www.cbc.ca/tudors/

Leading on from that I was checking up with my ‘unbiased’ reviewer this afternoon regarding my Tudor novel I’d recently sent him to proof read. He quite gratifyingly said it was really good and a lot of fun to read. Naturally I thought this was fantastic news. Imagine at this stage a series of energetic cartwheels and popping champagne corks. Then after my brief moment of euphoria, he uttered those dreaded words feared by any writer- ‘however’. It amazing how a simple word like ‘however’ can strike you with bone shaking dread. His use of it was luckily only as a member of the very general reading audience, thus not quite so chilling. He found it a little confusing sorting out the characters and their motives. Considering the twists, turns, reversals and abrupt terminations of the Tudor family affairs that is perfectly understandable, so as a rough guide to the perplexed here is the potted version of Tudor characters



Historical Characters

Henry VIII: King of England and Ireland, though he also longs for a chance to renew a hereditary claim to the French crown, which is why it’s stored amongst the royal titles in case of need. Henry has a serious problem due to the ravages of disease and the lottery of genetics. He is the last legitimate male Tudor. Apart from him, there is only one daughter Mary and a scattering of nieces and nephews via his two sisters. What’s worse is that he knows that if he has a ‘sudden accident’, his wife Katherine will immediately arrange a marriage of his daughter Mary to her cousins, the Hapsburgs. This possibility doesn’t improve the notoriously fickle royal humour, since Henry views her family as inherently manipulative and untrustworthy. So as the biological clock ticks away Henry desperately needs an annulment of his first marriage so that he can marry again and gain a son as heir. Simple isn’t it.

Katherine of Aragon: Queen of England and aunt of the Hapsburg Emperor Charles V, who happens to be master of half of Europe as well as the limitless riches of the New World. Katherine has a serious problem. She could only provide one living child for the English throne, a daughter Mary. By 1528 she is past child bearing age and she knows Henry is desperate for a male heir. However that can only happen if she is out of the way. This presents a difficulty since Katherine likes being queen and she wants her daughter to be queen. The solution is simple- she gains her Hapsburg nephew’s support and stymies Henry’s efforts for a legal papal divorce. In this endeavour Katherine is not alone, she has a number of both public and secret English backers in positions of power and influence. Some are men of principle and honour, while others seek to gain from a continuation of the current dynastic problem, or profit from the dispute. One more factor that is frequently ascribed to her motives, is a very deep Castilian desire for revenge. No one casts aside the daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain!

Now due family connections and the vagaries of political allegiance Ned finds himself opposing the followers of Queen Katherine.  He has nothing against her personally, except that her minions keep on trying to entangle him in their plots or kill him. As you’d expect, this has not engaged his sympathies for her difficult position as a cast off and discarded wife.

Anne Boleyn: the beloved mistress of King Henry and the essential reason for the annulment commission. Her sister is rumoured to have had a son to Henry so in royal eyes the odds of a male heir are good. Anne however, wants the legal recognition of a marriage for advancement and protection. Thus the complicated legal and biblical wrangling and negotiations to and fro with the Pope that lasts for years. It’s also been said around the court that Anne is both the driving force behind Henry and keen on the heretical ideas of Luther. If her potential husband has to break with Rome, then she won’t shed a tear over it. Whether she or Henry made the first move to ramp up the affair is now irrelevant. In the bitter factional rivalry of the Tudor court it has become a do or die effort. Anne is very aware of the penalty for faltering or failure- a quick river trip to the Tower.

For good or ill Ned has by circumstance, been forced to join the ranks of those supporting the push for a ‘legal’ marriage between Ann Boleyn and his sovereign majesty King Henry.  It did help that rather than the usual method of threat or blackmail to gain his services Ned is actually rewarded for his efforts, even if it came with some pretty strict and onerous conditions.

Thomas Wolsey: Cardinal legate, Archbishop of York and the Lord Chancellor of England. The supreme administrator of the kingdom and right hand of the king. He has gained this position by solving all the king’s problems and increasing his master’s status amongst the powers of Europe. However, as an upstart commoner he is loathed by the nobility, while as the instigator of high taxes and for his supreme arrogance, he is actively hated by the commoners. With the advent of Anne Boleyn Wolsey’s power begins to slip and the Cardinal is caught in a quandary. If he pushes Anne’s cause she gains power. If he doesn’t, he loses the trust and support of the King and falls. In the end he plays a dangerous game of prevarication and delay, hoping for change of mood in his fickle royal master or until he can find a substitute for that damn Boleyn woman. Or alternately a shift in the power balance in Europe makes ‘Lady Anne’ vulnerable.

Ned’s relationship with the Cardinal is as distant as he can make it.  If Wolsey was banished to the wilds of the New World, well Ned couldn’t be happier.  It is due to the machinations of the Cardinal that Ned owes the first steps in his painful and terrifying ascent of the Tudor hierarchy.

My first story Red Ned and The Liberties of London (a 40,000 word novella complete with maps and other Tudor goodies ) comes out sometime this week on both Smashwords and Amazon Kindle!  It will also contain a few sample chapters from The Queen’s Oranges, were Ned and his companions are dragged in to a dangerous mix of murder, treason and plot possibly involving gonnepowder and… well oranges.

The prologue for The Liberties of London will be up here within a few days, feel free to have a read or leave a comment.

Bye

Gregory House

Red Ned’s Tudor Mysteries

Welcome dear visitor to Red Ned’s Tudor Mysteries Blog
If you have any interest in our most famous and infamous royal dynasty, this is the place to visit. As you may have already guessed the Red Ned of the title is a Tudor period detective. Actually he prefers the title intelligencer to the more common pursuivant. But since he’s pretty low in the Tudor pecking order, Ned tends to consider himself lucky if his betters like Thomas Cromwell and his ‘loving’ Uncle Richard Rich don’t deliver a cuff with every command. Ned like many others in his position is caught up in the momentous changes in Tudor England as his Sovereign Majesty, King Henry VIII, grapples with the complex problem of annulling his marriage to Katherine of Aragon.

For a royal monarch this shouldn’t be difficult, the process of putting aside a royal wife is well established amongst European princes and nobility, simply come up with a plausible reason and cough up a fee (usually significant boxes of gold) to the Apostolic See in Rome. However in Henry’s case there are added complications, his father Henry VII seized the throne after the bloody battle at Bosworth Field. Since then there have been frequent worries of the legitimacy of the Tudor dynasty which consist of Henry, his two sisters and one daughter (along with a small cluster of nieces and nephews). The other major problem is that his to be discarded wife is the aunt of the current Holy Roman Emperor Charles V the wealthiest and most powerful monarch in Europe. Charles also happens to control the Pope, Clement VII despite his habit of equivocation isn’t interested in offending the man with an army on his doorstep. So Henry has a problem and when the king is unhappy every body suffers as the royal boot prods butt down the line.
Ned’s problem is that as an apprentice Lawyer at Gray’s Inn the butt stops with him. While a Lord or Privy Councillor may loftily command its Ned who has to wade through the piss channels of London and the Stews of Southwark to enact the Privy writ.
It’s fortunate he has a good dependable friend in Robert Black apprentice artificer. It would be ever more fortuitous if Rob’s sister Meg Black was similarly trustworthy, but her boldly forward manner and dabbling in heresy look likely to cause as many difficulties as they solve.
As you will no doubt discover in The Cardinals Angels please read the prologue inserted below and feel free to leave a comment.
The ebook will be available soon on Smashwords and Amazon’s Kindle I will update this blog on their web address

Also within the month I will have a Red Ned short story The Liberties of London ready to roll out, the front cover, prologue and first chapter will be previewed on this site. Just putting in the finishing touches like a map and the last edit by my wonderful uber-editor. In the meantime put your feet up lean back and enjoy the story.

Prologue: The Cardinal’s Dilemma

The Moore, Hertfordshire September 1529

The changing colour of the trees, from shading green to red and finally a crumpled brown, was enough of a hint of the passing of summer’s bounty for any to heed, in this the year of Our Lord, fifteen hundred and twenty nine, the twentieth year of the reign of Our Sovereign Lord, King Henry VIII.  Now that the colder winds of autumn were at hand, forewarning of winter’s chill and dearth, crossroad prophets warned of the nearing edge of Death’s dark scythe and railed for the repenting of sins.  Considering the recent fickleness of the seasons and poor harvests, the prudent farmer or goodwife would look to the state of their stores and give a heartfelt prayer for a short winter and perhaps an offering at their parish church, to avert the ill omens.  The cannier of them would, in the dark of the lengthening nights, also slip off to secretly consult the local hedge witch on their predictions for the season, while, as an added precaution, procuring a talisman to avert the dreaded ‘sweats’ that had recently ravaged the country, carrying off thousands in its grim tally.  Others, clustered around the crackling tavern fires and made reckless by strong ale, growled of the exorbitant tithes demanded by the clergy, and shared dangerous complaints.  The most common of these was that the dammed priests and bishops had no God-given right to the rewards of men’s labour.  The bolder amongst them stood up and with tankard held high, pledged to the coming day, when the mightiest of the church prelates, bloated by greed and with his cardinal’s robes dyed red with the blood of murdered yeoman, would fall to the hand of a commoner.  At that cry the tavern audience would cautiously nod agreement, while keeping a suspicious watch for the church’s pursuivants, sniffers of sedition and heresy.  So far, it was just a whisper amongst the market crowds, elusive, secret and deadly.

Treason was the usual charge for overheard slanderous public utterances regarding Cardinal Wolsey, the Chancellor of the England, the excuse being that such claims defamed the sovereignty of His Majesty, Henry VIII.  So as a precaution against unnatural pretensions to the King’s majesty, the punishment was harsh, bloody and public.  It was a long painful death by hanging, drawing and quartering on Tower Hill – spectacle, entertainment and warning for the commons, Parliament and gentry of London.  For the past twenty years it had served as a useful choke on wayward treasonous tongues, that was until this season.  Now it was openly spoken that the Cardinal’s power was wilting as fast as the fading leaves.  Last week, according to a rumour sweeping the Spitalfield Market, the Abbot of Wigmore threw out Wolsey’s pursuivant, telling the retainer to go hang.  The abbot, according to a friar who claimed to have seen it, had stood at his gate as the Cardinal’s servant was thrown into the mire of the road and screamed out he needn’t bend knee to some grasping upstart butcher’s brat from Ipswich.  An indrawn gasp of shock and glee greeted the tale and the folk of London gathered around the parish wells and fountains gossiping and betting as to the probable rewards for the abbot’s impudence. 

In Hertfordshire at the former royal estate of Manor of the Moor, by the village of Rickmansworth, one man was wracked by the recent waning of respect.  Thomas Wolsey, Archbishop of York was deeply worried.  His position and power should be unassailable.  He was the King’s right hand, holding the royal seal as Lord Chancellor, as well as the unique position of a lifetime legatine commission of Cardinal, trumping the usual head of the English church, the Archbishop of Canterbury.  Across the realms of western Christendom, monarchs and princes were accustomed to placing all matters of peace and war into his skilled hands for counsel and deliberation.  Wasn’t he called the ‘Great Arbiter of Europe’ by Emperor Charles V, the master of half of the Christian world as well as the new lands across the Atlantic?  Francis, the King of France, also held him in high esteem, hosting sumptuous banquets in his honour and clasping him by the hand and proclaiming him a loyal friend, rewarding him with a bishopric for his favour.  Then his own sovereign, Henry Tudor, had also been unstinting, bestowing unlimited favours and wealth, entrusting him with the high affairs of the kingdom.  As for the Holy Father in Rome, Clement’s retention of the papal throne was owed to Wolsey’s own blend of negotiation, bargaining and threats. 

So why should he be worried this night?  What was the arrogant braying of a minor cleric to him?  A gadfly bite, no more.  However, as the yapping of a mastiff gave warning of the sneak thief, this open insult presaged dark moves by those who were jealous of the King’s favour and was not just the least insult, but rather the latest.  Last week the King’s good friend and close brother–in–law, the Duke of Suffolk, stood up at the

Blackfriars Court

and swore before all the assembly, “that it was never merry in England whilst we had cardinals amongst us”.  The Court had cheered this vile insult.

He could have trumped that smear from Sir Charles Brandon with a flick of his hand, easily bringing the snarling cur to heel.  Brandon was hot headed and vain, and without Wolsey’s intercession the strutting jousting companion to the King wouldn’t have survived his secret marriage to the King’s sister.  Henry was touchy about his royal honour and that action had strayed too close to treason.  That being so, after the cheers from the rabble, the Court had settled down, His Sovereign Majesty had sat on his throne watching, and said nothing.

How could this be?  A few months ago Brandon was all smiles and scrapping bows for his beloved patron.  Now he displayed all the ingratitude of a treacherous heart.  This betrayal wounded deeply, but of more concern was why?  For all his bluff and swagger, Brandon was as cunning as a rat in sniffing the political winds of the Court.  That one so formerly loyal should turn was an ominous portent and the King had watched, and said nothing.  Nothing!

Cardinal Wolsey wearily rubbed his heavy jowls and considered the latest problem, his latest burden, that damned commission on the annulment of His Sovereign’s marriage to Queen Katherine.  He snorted in provoked anger at the memory.  Why couldn’t the Spanish harpy just leave it be?  As well wish for the moon.  That stiff necked woman hadn’t budged an inch and he’d even humbled himself on bended knee pleading for her to yield, promising lands and status as befitted her station.  All that effort wasted!  Even his personal solemn oath that she’d gain untold sympathy and guarantee a later return when His Majesty’s need for Imperial aid was stronger hadn’t altered her stubbornness.  Finally during the commission her scheming and tricks had ruined the open hearing at Blackfriars.  It was going so well, smoothly and rehearsed, and then the queen burst in, all tears and entreaties to her ‘loving husband’ and in a single act demolished years of work.  The plan was too cunning to be Katherine’s work.  He suspected Father Juan Luis Vives. It had taken but a few well placed and judicious threats to scare that learned scholar back to Spain.  And what of that recent arrival, Don Alva?  The Spaniard was young, clever and ambitious, a dangerous combination.

It was revenge, pure and simple, delivered with all the vicious calculation of a spurned wife.  Wolsey had turned pale at the scene.  Henry Tudor, his lord and master, did not forgive humiliation.  Still it could have been saved and the royal ire deflected, if it wasn’t for the actions of one of his own, an English bishop even, that damned sanctimonious interfering fool, Fisher!  Ignoring the hints of royal disfavour and legatine reward he defended Queen Katherine.  Of course the baleful glare of his outraged monarch alighted upon his most loyal chancellor and long-time solver of church problems, and the King said nothing!  That was the culminating ruin of the commission. 

Wolsey was almost tempted into profanity at the recollection.  A muttered prayer pushed him past the sinfulness of anger into a moment’s blessed peace.  It was all too brief.  He turned to the work at hand, and putting quill to parchment, wrote out the salutations to Thomas Boleyn, Lord Rochford, and father of Anne, the new beloved of His Sovereign and the reason for his mounting calamities.  After decades in royal service he knew how the play of power functioned.  He’d expected the manoeuvrings of Rochford and the Boleyn faction.  That was just the common practice at Court, as was so much of his business recently.  It was another in a long succession of ‘gifts’, the coin of patronage.  This one, by the King’s command, was a patent assigning the rents of the vacant see of Durham, worth two thousand four hundred pounds per annum, to Lord Rochford.  One more favour drawn from his suddenly waning stock.  At the memory of loss, Wolsey’s thoughts once more spiralled back to the last hour of the

Blackfriars Court

, and His Majesty’s ominous silence. Even now his requests for an audience were refused and His Majesty was not ten miles away!

Damn that feckless Abbot!  Wolsey frowned as one wrong dredged up another.  His servant, Cromwell, had determined that dissolving Wigmore monastery brought him enough to fund his work through to next spring.  The man was a veritable hound for sniffing out disposable abbeys.  It was not as if they were doing anything – gaining the remittance of sin for a smattering of rural yokels didn’t compare in any way to his two glorious colleges at Ipswich and Oxford.  The quill trembled in his spasmed hand and punched through the stiff parchment.  It had been several days, and His Majesty was still silent!

Wolsey thumped the table with his ringed hand and pushed up from his labours.  He’d handled His Sovereign’s amours and problems before – Mary Blout and Mary Boleyn were the two most prominent.  Henry was a lusty man, full of all the vigour expected of a monarch, but to cuddle his paramour before all, and treat Anne Boleyn as if she was already Queen – that was just too much to endure.  This whole situation with the disaster of the annulment was the fault of that meddling Frenchified punk!  It didn’t take a university scholar to see that My Lady Anne Boleyn was the drafter of all his problems, scheming, conspiring and plotting to pull him down as the King’s trusted servant.  It was her hand behind that affair with secretary Knight last year and the ‘secret mission’ to the Pope.  Damn, that had been close.  A day’s delay in messages from his intelligencers would have seen the decretals wing their way straight into the King’s hands without ‘careful appraisal and editing’.  That little surprise had the stiff necked Boleyns and their snarling pack deflated, taking the wind right out of their sails.

Until now, and the King’s silence and distance continued to grow.

Wolsey flexed his fingers and cracked his sore knuckles in irritation.  Which problem first?  Should he play down or use the Royal indiscretions?  Imperial eyes watched every loving caress and mark of favour.  It was a deliberate provocation on her part.  The woman was so sure – may as well call her Queen Anne for the bitch was that in all but name!  Why couldn’t His Majesty have asked for a French princess as Wolsey had been working towards?  The prestige of the Christian world would have been his, not to mention the benefits of a firm French alliance against the shifting factions of Europe.  This infatuation with that Boleyn temptress had thrown the complex game of crowns and lands into confusion.  Wolsey clenched his left hand in frustration.  Now to favour Henry’s passion, the path to a French crown receded, and England risked the wrath of Emperor Charles V for slighting his Aunt Katherine, and for no gain.  And his hold on power, now not nearly so firm, cracked and crumbled away like old plaster.

And it wasn’t just the Boleyn curs baying.  Now the court jackals scented blood as well, snarling and snapping away at his ankles.  Brandon’s insult and Wigmore’s insolence were merely the first signs.  And like any rebellious pack of hounds, they needed a firm hand on the whip to bring them to heel.  Wolsey frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose. Damn them all to the nethermost regions of Hell!  He’d seen the warnings but due to the demands of the Legatine Commission for His Majesty, it had been left to slip for too long.  Only last month he’d received a report from his agent secreted amongst the French Ambassador’s retainers, full to the brim with open conspiracy.

"These Lords intend, after he is dead or ruined, to impeach the State of the Church, and take all its goods; which it is hardly needful for me to write in cipher, for they proclaim it openly. I expect they will do fine miracles as well, I expect the priests will never have the great seal again; and that in this Parliament they will have terrible fright."

Of all the ambassadors in residence, Du Bellay was the cleverest.  If this was in his report to Francis, then Wolsey’s enemies had already sounded out foreign allies. What unnatural arrogance!  The casual expectation of his fall was an insult.  What was he already dead and buried?  Had they sung the last rites over him?  Wolsey hadn’t gained this hold over the Kingdom and been the right hand of the monarch all these years just to have foreigners and strutting nobles dismiss him so readily.  No!  There had to be a way out of this thicket, a way to regain Henry’s approval and to banish that distancing silence. 

He pushed himself painfully up from the table, and stood before the fire.  His gentleman usher, Cavendish, stepped forward and offered a goblet of Rhenish wine.  With a brief nod of acknowledgement, he took a hefty draught and stared into the crackling logs. 

He’d tried getting rid of the Boleyn girl – it hadn’t worked.  She was much cannier than her older sister, Mary, and so Henry had set his mind to marriage, legal and lawful, to Anne.  So had begun the round of offer, bargain and threat between London and Rome.  The bitch had even survived a bout of the sweats so she was unlikely to succumb to a sniffle.  It was time he lacked now. Three years this had played out as he swatted off the petty intrigues of the Boleyns.  And now he was out of time.  Damn Clement for the weak fool that he was! 

He’d solved the problems of Henry’s two sisters – a divorce for the Queen of Scotland and removal of the bigamy charges for the ungrateful Suffolk, thus elevating his stature as the papal expert.  Now … now was different.  After the letter from Master Casale in Rome, three days ago, any hopes of an annulment from the Apostolic See were dust.  The only remaining army on the Italian peninsula were beaten, and as a result, that master of equivocation, Pope Clement, had finally decided to commit himself once and for all to Charles V and the Imperial faction by recalling the annulment case to a Papal court.  A disaster – it was a complete disaster.  Why did Clement have to pick now to stick irrevocably to a decision?  By reputation, former Cardinal Giuliano Medici never resolved to one course of action for longer than it took to eat a capon.  It was often quoted as a wry joke within the Apostolic chambers that His Holiness could agree to several opposing suggestions between one sip of wine and another.  This last reported rumour from his agents in Rome, hinted at the cause for his unaccustomed consistency – an illegitimate Hapsburg daughter was to wed a papal nephew. 

Wolsey passed back the empty goblet and slapped one meaty hand into the other.  This too public failure could break him!  That damned harpy would be at her royal paramour every day, whispering and pouting, flashing those dark eyes, every word dripping with venom. ‘Our Lord Chancellor promised so much …’  Damn her and damn Clement! 

As this thought brought on yet another surge of bile, his ire acquired a more Romewards direction.  Clement, that Florentine ditherer, it was all his fault.  He had even fowled up the appointment of Cardinal Campeggio to the annulment commission.  Lorenzo Campeggio was supposed to be England’s agent in the Holy See, a cleric bought and paid for by English gold.  The Italian received the income from a bishopric and hefty annual gifts and yet now, despite all this generosity, he was hedging and wavering just like his master.  As slowly as was possible, Campeggio had travelled all the way from Rome – two weeks even to get from Dover to London.  A blind, crippled snail on crutches could have managed a faster journey!  Almost daily he was advised to either halt and wait, or to speed up as the inconstant Papal mind wandered along its meandering path.  Finally, after months wasted on the journey, Campeggio arrived and in his very first conversation with the King revealed that within his luggage was a Papal decretal granting the divorce. A much prayed for solution to this bitter, bitter problem. 

Ahh, but of course, it was not that simple.  Unless Katherine agreed to go into a nunnery, it was to neither published or displayed.  This sly surprise gave Lady Anne all the ammunition to further undermine his standing.  And then despite his best efforts, Katherine managed to smuggle out a letter to her nephew, Charles V, imploring his assistance.  This had only magnified his problems, and since then he had kept his intelligencers and spies working at full pitch, both in England and across the Channel.  Right now most of these were concentrated on the city of Cambri, watching that intricate dance between the Houses of Hapsburg and Valois over the culmination of their long wars.  All his long-honed instincts told his that he must be there before the ink dried on any treaty.  For Wolsey to prosper, then he must be seen with the powers of Europe.  Instead Henry had chosen to send that preening ingrate, Suffolk, as well as the simpering would-be philosopher, Sir Thomas More.  And what use were they?  Neither had the reputation or weight of experience needed to gain for England a place at the bargaining table.  How could either hope to get anything more than mere crumbs as a reward for His Majesty’s great efforts.  How could they know of such subtle nuances as Margaret of Austria’s distinctive cough just before she yielded a point?  How would they conduct those quiet but oh so useful talks at feast or hunt with important lords and princes?  Yes, he’d seen it all before, Royal Ambassadors, puffed up in velvet and cloth of gold, and too blinded by huberous and glittering promises to see the traps clearly laid in their paths.  For two men, supposedly  so beholden to him for their titles and advancement and previously so garrulous in his praised, he had received little regarding their embassy, scarcely a word or a letter in report.  And as with His Royal Master’s, this infectious silence sounded a dread knock upon his heart.  England would rue the day he was not present.

Frustratingly he was shut out, relying on minions, as the powerful made their own arrangements without him, reduced to the pitiful expedient of agents in the curtain shadows.  And the King said nothing refusing his requests.

His exclusion was a public slight and who knew what secret deals were being hatched, maybe even a compact bringing both the Valois and Hapsburgs against an isolated England?  In an attempt to stem the stampede, he’d penned a missive to His Majesty as a reminder of his diplomatic expertise and in returned received a curtly dismissive letter from Gardiner, his former secretary, asking him, the Chancellor of the Kingdom to be more specific as to his inquiry.  Gardiner!  He had raised that ingrate to the position he now held.  Bishop Gardiner owed him everything.  It didn’t need an astrologer to interpret that sign.  The King was drifting away, his ear full of the whispers and innuendoes of those at Court eager to gain preferment and wealth.  The Duke of Norfolk was one rival already much too close to Henry and, as uncle of Lady Anne, he would relish any chance to gain the chancellor’s title.  Thomas Howard already held the reputation as a man more devious than a serpent and twice as dangerous.  And this situation was steering towards the perilous.  Wolsey knew from du Bellay’s letter and other’s since that he wasn’t the only one at risk – the English Church was also in the butts as a target.  Previously he had played up its vulnerability as a useful goad to Campeggio, and satisfyingly, the Italian’s letters to the Apostolic See had proved the worth of that tactic.  He recalled one part with particular satisfaction:

“The Cardinal alone stood between the Church and its subjection. It was owing to Wolsey's vigilance and solicitude that the Holy See retained its rank and dignity.  His ruin would drag down the Church!”

True, very true.  How could Pope Clement ignore the crisis?  He snorted at the memory. That would be easy – the Florentine was quick enough to favour needed allies, though afterwards he had a discriminating tendency for selective ‘forgetfulness’.  One prime example that still rankled was the English gift of ten thousand ducats.  In desperation the Holy Father had begged for assistance, a petition to his faithful servant, the King of England and his valued loving friend, Cardinal Wolsey.  Clement had pleaded that without it, the papal armies would wither away before the Imperials.  That was not a happy recollection.  The subsidy had come close to ruining him.  The Commons in Parliament had almost revolted over openly shipping that much gold out the Kingdom.  And of course later Clement had ‘forgotten’ his English friends – typical! 

Then the deceitful Italian had pulled his culminating cony catcher’s trick.  While Clement knew full well the Annulment Commission was in session, His Holiness sent several letters via Imperial messengers, withdrawing its validity and recalling the case back to Rome!  Wolsey wasn’t a fool.  He’d tried to misdirect the missives and his agents had stalked every route in Europe to forestall their posting.  God’s blood, all to no avail!  Why was it that his dealings with this Pope were so cursed by an ill star? 

That thought didn’t solve his problems and concentrating on it only brought on a pounding headache.  If only His Holiness had succumbed to that illness earlier this year.  That would have left his apostolic legate free to declare judgement on the whole case sede vacante before they’d elected a new pope.  As he’d found before, the vacancy period between pontiffs always brought up a host of possibilities and removed a legion of obstacles.  If only Clement had died!  Wolsey instinctively crossed himself at that remembered wish.

In normal circumstances such an evil thought would be roundly banished to the nether most parts of the soul, chastised and discarded.  Suddenly an edge of frantic desperation gripped him and held the thought up to the light of speculation.  Perhaps?

Hmmm Perhaps?

Perhaps, it wasn’t so…evil?

Wolsey’s eyes narrowed and his fingers rubbed at the seal ring on his right hand.  Was it a temptation from the arch fiend?  Or an angelic inspired revelation?

In the past, priests who had brought the throne of St Peter into disrespect, had been opportunely removed by the provident hand of God.  So, what if the Almighty chose to work through the agency of rebellious lords, conniving cardinals or convenient illnesses?

Sin or saviour?  As of this instant, it was well lodged in his thoughts.  Not even a barrel of Gonne powder could dislodge it, as its suppleness, justice and symmetry beguiled him.  He mused on the interminable failings of Pope Clement.  It was a very long list that started with the Sack of Rome and Babylonian captivity of the Pontiff by the Imperial army, then descended through the pervasive spiritual spinelessness and calumny of political debacles.  While no man could be perfect, that status belonged only to the Son of God, this Pope had taken the Patrimony of St Peter to a state lower in esteem than a harlot’s chastity.  Clement had failed in his duty!  He’d done little to reassure a distraught and desperate flock, made vulnerable and confused by the religious conflict between that heretic Luther and the Church.  More importantly, he had shown niggardly regard for the true friends of the Holy See.  Wolsey tapped his fingers on the heavy beam of the over mantle, almost a Te Duem in rhythm.  It was a grievous sin to encompass the death of another.  Dare he act on the impulse?

He had done so before in the case of the Duke of Buckingham, playing upon the King’s fears of a rival to the throne, and the suspicious links to Richard de la Pole’s Yorkist plots.  It had taken little effort to tease and distort letters, confessions and coincidence until Buckingham fell to an executioner’s axe.  But, temptation twitched another smouldering thought his way, a new Pope would solve an accumulation of problems, both here and for his potential backers.  Francis of France would not be too distressed and the debts of several French prelates beholden to him now pushed the consideration onto firmer ground. 

Of course in the current balance of power Charles V had to be considered.  Wolsey had been promised the Emperor’s support at the very next Papal candidacy, not that the guarantee had held firm during the last Convocation of Cardinals.  This time he’d make sure he had more leverage, like perhaps easing the vexations of Katherine of Aragon and bringing low her rival.  Bur first, Pope Clement VII had to receive his heavenly reward for services rendered.

Wolsey made his decision in an instant.  His high position had been attained solely by interpreting the Royal will and fearlessly acting on inspiration.  He turned to Cavendish and snapped out a command.  “Summon Master Smeaton at once!” 

Then seized by the moment he strode over to his table and began to draft a new series of letters.  The first was to the English agent in Rome, Master Casele.  The fellow had frequently mentioned that Clement had more enemies than a dog had fleas.  The most useful among these would surely be Cardinal Colonna.  He was a man with a finely honed sense of revenge.  Reports had it that twice he’d tried to kill Clement.  If not Colonna then Francesco della Rovere, the Duke of Urbino, would welcome a chance to dispatch the former Medici cardinal.  That Italian nobleman made it a point of honour to have no living enemies.  Wolsey reflected on the long list of papal foes.  One of these should be able to fulfil the deed if given enough incentive.  As Chancellor, the wealth of the Kingdom was available at his discretion, but this required a more subtle touch.  Several thousand gold angels withheld from the King’s recent devaluing were still at hand and were innocuously secreted for just such an emergency.  A quiet chuckle and crooked smile broke upon Wolsey’s face at the aptness of this image.  Yes, gold greased the wheels of state, and made men amenable to suggestion.  Thus chests of golden angels could wing Clement to his eternal rest.  Ahh choke on that Giuliano Medici.  A Cardinal’s angels will bring you down!  This, however, was only two sides of the triangle, a plan and a means to implement that plan.  Still missing was a cat’s paw.  Now who could be employed in this manner?  The smile returned to his lips – ahh, of course, Campeggio.

Despite his wavering, Campeggio could be very useful.  The Italian had frequently expressed his reluctant compliance with the instructions from Rome and had discretely conveyed his willingness to repay his good friend, the English Cardinal, for his generosity.  The Italian was a martyr to two main afflictions, the first being gout.  Always anxious to try any new remedy available, Wolsey’s own physician, Dr Augustino, was frequently called to attend him, and thus accordingly was privy to many complaints and “confessions” from a man in pain and suffering.  So Wolsey now knew of the second and greater cross carried by Cardinal Campeggio – his insatiable pack of children and assorted relatives, all begging constantly for preferment or position.

His own patron angel must be guiding his thoughts.  It was so easy to see a path wrought by solicitude and inducements to bring the errant Cardinal onside.  One member of Campeggio’s staff in particular had proved amenable as a conduit for influence, the Italian’s son and personal secretary, Rudolpho.   For a “consideration” and “evidence of friendship” via the sweet reason of those tinkling “angels”, young Rudolpho could easily sway the old Cardinal to see the benefits of an ‘English’ point of view and the advantages of a Clement–less future.

As for the King, this was perfect.  It gave Henry a chance for public pomp and mourning at the sad demise of our Holy Father, and would additionally keep him distracted for a month or more.  Largess and ceremony always played well to the grumbling Commons as well.  Conveniently it opened up a need to summon his faithful Chancellor as diplomat and potential papal contender.  Good, very good.  However before that could happen, he needed certainty and leverage, both here and abroad.  He had to break his enemies and ruin the pretensions of that cursed woman.

Like any man of sense and prudence, he had his spies spread through all the great households, usefully ferreting out secrets and treachery.  One recently discovered gem of knowledge could solve this annulment impasse and bring Lord Rochford and his daughter around to a more submissively obedient frame of mind.  He had to move fast – his pursuivants had warned of other stalkers in the household.  Even better it could be made to look as if he was aiding Katherine and thus, gain Hapsburg support.  Then with those two knocked out, his hold on power would be firm enough to dangle a protégée before the King.

If only he had another sign.  The sight of ‘golden angels’ wetted men’s appetites as evidence of an earthly reward, but to be more certain  of success, he needed something more divinely sanctified than the coiners stamp, perhaps even metaphysical?  Where could he gain that guarantee?  Wolsey pondered this problem, idly twisting a ruby ring.  Dare he risk it?  It was said that there were more diviners of the future in the Holy City than clerics.  Clement wasn’t the only one who wouldn’t set foot outside his door until the heavens had been scrutinised for portents.  So how to use that penchant?

Once more his own angel whispered inspiration.  The fates were rallying to his aid.  Didn’t he have his own bonded diviner, a scryer of the heavens, a fellow famed for his accuracy?  Yes he did!   But now was a dangerous time to utilise the fellow’s arcane services.  Norfolk’s spies had sniffed too close before now. 

And again his angelic inspiration revealed a path.  The good doctor’s charts and book had proved vital in removing that annoying Buckingham with a charge of treason.  Once more he could play on his knowledge of His Majesty’s “concerns”.  Utilising those cunning implements, he’d have those twice damned Boleyns muzzled and brought to heel by fear. Yes!  His growing certainly flashed firm resolution through his soul.  Not even the quivering warnings of his daemon could halt it now.  Wolsey shook his head to silence the seditious whispers. 

With a new confidence, he returned to his pile of correspondence and pulled out the latest letter from his secretary, Thomas Cromwell.  This was the second time today he had considered its import.  The warnings were clear.  Norfolk was snapping at his heels.  Thomas Howard, the slippery as a snake Duke of Norfolk, had his clients spread throughout the court, eroding Wolsey’s standing with every scurrilous whisper.  Now with the Blackfriars debacle, Queen Katherine had raised her banner of war and when a Castilian swore dire revenge, it was best to believe it.  His enemies were gathering, and not even his own household was safe.  Cromwell wrote of treacherous rumours and advised swift action.  Wolsey held the letter as if weighing it’s import on the scales of decision.  Yes, his angel cried, now was the time!  Now for the tool!  Cromwell would have been perfect.  He’d proven an astute and loyal retainer, though at this juncture, his many talents were better employed watching over the skulking rats at Court.  Fortunately there was another servant, steadfast and true, a man also used to the darker moves of statecraft, a sharp blade to match the alluring whisper of his Cardinal’s angels and, moreover, one who had experience in setting the traps of treason.

“Your eminence?” 

Wolsey put down his quill and smiled at his kneeling servant.  That familiar shock of grey just like the coat of a badger, brought back an older memory.  His eyes sparkled with a gloating satisfaction – yes it was the glowing hand of an angel guiding him.

“Ahh John.  I have a task of some discretion for you.  Tis time to return to London.  Dr Agryppa has a new commission to fulfil.  As well, there is another affair, an acquisition touching close to the King’s honour that requires your certain skills.”

“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 and 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!

Check next week I'll put up chapter 1