The Cardinal's Angels

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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. As an added precaution, maybe also 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 damned 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.

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