The Cardinal's Angels by Gregory House

brawl, then that implied the hand of one or more of Wolsey’s rivals was involved. Ned visibly blanched at the unpleasant implications this presented. Alright, he had used this as an excuse only to escape the threat of exile to France. Until now though he hadn’t seriously considered it. But what if it were true? Oh Lord, why hadn’t he seriously thought about this before now? If it didn’t prove to be a common cutpurse or brawler then he’d be working against men several degrees more threatening than Canting’s known rancour and spite.
    Ned knew caution wasn’t one of his principle attributes. In fact, if he were kneeling in the confessional, and told to list his faults, then impatience and anger, not forgetting pride, would be pretty close to the top. As for lust, the obsession of all priests, well what did one expect—he was young and not a monk. However two nights in the Clink and this sudden realisation helped clarify the rewards of recklessness and he made an effort to blend into the morning pattern of the liberties. So far it had worked and with a sigh of relief, he settled down at a bench fronting a small cook shop just opposite the place Will had suggested as the site of the deadly affray, the Cardinal’s Cap tavern. He paid over a few small coins for a loaf of the common ravelled bread with a bowl of pottage and dove into a needed second meal. The loaf was coarse to chew, but fresh, and the steaming pottage was hot, filling and cheap. Even better, the cook had tossed in a good slab of salted bacon along with the usual onions, cabbage and beans, so it was full of flavour. After the third bowl he sat back and waited.
    Good sense and caution had convinced him that walking into the tavern and gaming den would be a very bad idea, not to mention a danger to his continued good health. So if he couldn’t go in, then he would just have to watch the comings and goings from his present location. Ned knew the stew by reputation. He’d even been in a few times and could recognise a few of the girls, either punks who occasionally worked upstairs, or serving lasses who kept the customers plied with drink. Meeting Will this morning had been a real boon, as stray fragments of the missing night slowly drifted back. Last night’s song had been about Pleasant Anne, the redoubtable mistress of the establishment. She had a fine reputation, a lass of many talents, some of which served as the inspiration for the song’s lewder verses. Leaving a young man’s predilections aside, the rest of Southwark knew Pleasant Anne for the quality of her victuals. So at least one of her girls would be out soon to shop for supplies at the local market. In the meantime, after the rigour of the past few days he needed to rest up. His head still throbbed occasionally and the weight of his satchel had almost set his ribs screaming with pain in the short walk from the bridge to here.
    Ned’s prediction proved pretty accurate. He saw several people exiting the gaming house and stew just before the terce bells. Most were clients wandering off to pursue whatever business or trades occupied their daylight hours, and were of little interest to him. Then after the first cluster, he spotted a familiar figure who strode out carrying an empty basket. Ned smiled in appreciation. How could he forget that lass? What a vision of beauty! She was pert and blond with a cleavage that would cramp a man’s cods, even more so when she stopped and adjusted her bodice to better display her natural advantages.
    Ned slung his satchel over his shoulder and stepped out after his quarry, allowing her to get a good fifty paces or so distance from the stew before he sidled up beside her. “Good day Mistress Bethany. How do you this fair day?”
    It was a tentative greeting to feel the way. At first the punk swung around with a suspicious glare that miraculously transformed into a generous smile of welcome with more than a hint of encouragement. “Why tis Red Ned. I