The Queen's Oranges

by House, Gregory

  Cromwell gave a short nod of acknowledgement. It was common knowledge that the situation in the German lands was precarious for the Hapsburg Emperor Charles V. Too many of the German princes had come out in open support for the heretical ideas of Martin Luther and like minded preachers. That religious chasm made pursuing Imperial Catholic ambitions…awkward.

  Over the past months Ned had found that Cromwell expected a modicum of worldly intelligence in his servants, so he tried to keep up to date on the to–ing and fro–ing of the burgeoning religious quarrel. Recently their new Lord Chancellor, Sir Thomas More, in his latest tract on the pernicious evil of heresy, claimed that the radical Lutherans were solely responsible for the Imperial army’s disgraceful sack of Rome a few years ago. Supposedly the German Landsknechts were said to have howled heretical insults and threats at the Pope while he cowered in the fortress of San Angelo and sacked St Peter’s, stripping the papal throne. The fact that the army was also made up, in a large part, of devoutly Catholic Spaniards and Sicilians who had held priests to ransom, looted churches and raped nuns, seemed to have escaped the notice of the author. Ned didn’t need a book to see what Councillor Cromwell really thought of that pernicious pronouncement. Ned’s previous work for his new master highlighted his sympathies.

  And so he laid out his second bait. “Also the people of the city whole heartedly backed the mood of the last Parliament. They are dismayed that one, who while born here, has been so aloof to their interests. It could be a useful gesture to show that there are others in the King’s confidence who have a better regard for their fervent loyalty.”

  There, it was very carefully implied. London wanted a patron or a protector and Ned didn’t have to spell out the rewards due to the man who reigned in the excesses of the Lord Chancellor. He’d no doubt that Cromwell had already picked up sufficient hints of the growing dissatisfaction and was preparing his own plans for discomforting his rival on the Privy Council. Then Ned gave what he prayed was his trump card, based on a stray hint from Meg Black. “Lastly, the ship carries a large consignment listed to the Earl of Ormond, for his lands in Ireland.”

  His nominal master paused in thought and his quill feather twitched slightly. Ned said a silent prayer. This should clinch it. The Irish lord with the bulk of the freight had another title, Earl of Wiltshire, Thomas Boleyn, father of the King’s favourite, ahh, companion, Lady Anne.

  After his pause Cromwell seizing a nearby document, and with quill in hand, added a few lines of script. Ned, who could only observe the waving tip as it marched across the page, felt distinctly nervous. His master had come to a very abrupt decision. He would have preferred to give his secondary argument or even his backup pleading than see such a rush of action. Cromwell completed his work and with dexterous skill juggled the seal and wax, firmly imprinting his authority.

  “Master Bedwell.” Cromwell thrust the signed and sealed writ off the table toward Ned who caught it and gave a low bow of thanks. “You are dismissed, but I expect this matter cleared up within the week. The Great Petition to his Holiness in Rome, Pope Clement, is to be finalised this Sunday. You will not bother me again till after that and you have fulfilled the requirements of the writ. Go.”

  Still in a half bow, Ned made his way backwards out of the chamber. The ordeal was over and he had a legal commission to investigate the murders. Let Sir Roderick Belsom choke on that! He even smiled at the officious usher as he strode happily into the midday sunlight, heading out of the Westminster complex. Suddenly the day was looking so much better!

  ***

  Chapter 5. An Unwanted Commission. Aldgate Midday, 6th June

  Ned sat at a table at the Bee Skep Tavern by Aldgate, and morosely took another mouthful of their famous dark sweet ale. Regretfully its taste failed to bring a smile. Instead he once more went over the Writ of Commission from Councillor Thomas Cromwell. This was his fourteenth reading and the parchment still lacked any areas of useful ambiguity. He cursed himself as a fool for taking it, not that he had a choice. Damn Meg Black and her secret dealings! This writ was exactly what he had asked for—except of course that it wasn’t. Cromwell had excelled himself in his deviousness, giving Ned the most amazing commission. He was charged to investigate the foul murder and all and any associated matters to the benefit of the King’s justice. However at the end of seven days both he and Mistress Black were to present the results to the Lord Chancellor.

  Oh very, very clever. If they succeeded then they gave the snub to More. Failure however made them sacrificial lambs, clearly presented as a gift to the triumphant More. And all under the legal sanction and seal of a royal official of the Privy Council. Oh that was just superb. Either way Cromwell won without open involvement. More would be deflected or appeased, and the Hanse would be placated. Thus victory all round—hurrah!

  Ned bitterly reflected on his expendability. Flight to France was looking more and more appealing. However just to make sure Cromwell got his money’s worth out of the ink and wax, Ned was also required to investigate some irregularities within the Queen’s household as well. No mention of what, where or how, but he suspected that further instruction on that particular would be forthcoming from Uncle Richard. Just to complete his dark mood one of those damned friars was howling of destruction and damnation. Even the prospect of throwing another ragged screecher into the Aldgate Compter failed to pull Ned out of the dread fascination of the glaring script on the writ.

  Then after another untasted sip, a large shadow blocked his view of the treacherous parchment. “Good day Ned. How’s the ale?” It was a loud, pleasant voice brimming with friendship and good humour.

  “Huh, what ale?” Ned was jolted out of his morose appraisal by the question and beheld the welcoming grin of Rob Black, artificer at Houndsditch Foundry and the much larger brother of Margaret Black.

  To passers–by, he looked a hefty lad, capable of lifting a horse on those broad shoulders. Rob probably was, but as with most large, amiable fellows, his ability to think was discounted by the populous. However behind those ‘come hither’ blue eyes and bulging muscles, that set the girls sighing, was a very shrewd intelligence, as Ned had found out. Give Master Black any problem involving the mechanical arts and you’d be surprised at his depth of knowledge or his ingenious solution. Anyway he was also a good companion to have beside you in a tavern or a brawl.

  Taking the next seat, Rob knocked the side of the leather container with the back of a grimy hand. “Why Ned, the one you’re drinking in that tankard, you muddle head!”

  Guiltily, Ned dropped the damning document and clutched at the betraying tankard. A small dollop of the brew leapt forth and splattered the table. “Oh…oh, ah this one. It’s all right I suppose.”

  Rob looked surprised and shook his head in disbelief. “You better not let Emma hear you say that about her best double ale or next time she’ll serve you last week’s dregs.”

  It was a fair warning. Ned glanced nervously toward the rear of the tavern in case the aforementioned lass should emerge in wrath waving a ladle. He took another more appraising slurp as Rob walked off to order a round. Given the distraction from his master’s ill considered commands, Ned finally noticed what he’d been sipping. It was a very good draught—possibly one of the best in the city, if the truth be told. The ale brimmed with a deep oaten creaminess and had been served in full measure, so unlike some other taverns he knew, drinking dens that were infamous for their measly vinegary offerings.

  You’d never find Emma in the pillory for sour wormy ale. It was the talk of Aldgate that an ale wife so young was so skilled, and it didn’t stop at her brewing. The food at the tavern was certainly the best he’d eaten in this or any part of the city. Her venison and berry pies were particularly favoured and set one’s mouth salivating at the thought. Then of course her more physical aspects had gained their own audience. A regular troop of prospective swains filled the tables, all vying to attract a figure that moved with such pleasing grace, and those sparkling b
rown eyes that could tear a man’s soul. He’d heard that she was being courted by a foreign lad who worked by Tower Hill as cart builder. All he could say was lucky lad.

  Rob Black returned and plonked himself down next to Ned and refilled his tankard.

  “My thanks, Rob. I didn’t expect to see you this side of Sunday. I heard from Meg that you were going to be busy this week with a bronze pour for some new demi cannon?” Ned hoped he’d got the terminology correct. This was a mystical art to him. Rob came up with so many different processes and names that it was sometimes confusing to keep track.

  In the meantime Rob Black had taken a few moments to half drain the leather jack in his hand and then released a great sigh of contentment. “That does a man good!”

  Rob gave him a very quizzical, sidelong glance as he wiped the froth from his lips. “The demi cannons…it’s curious that you mention them. I have to talk to you about the Gonne casting.”

  Ned felt confused at the change in conversation. He hadn’t ordered any great ordinance. That was for the King to afford. Anyway King Henry had firm ideas on who was allowed to own Gonnes. “What are you talking about?”

  At his waspish reply, Rob seemed to mentally shift his perspective and thumped the side of his head, and shook it then blinked in an effort to join Ned in the here and now. “Sorry it’s those damned hammers. They’re still booming in my ears. Look Ned the pour has been delayed and Uncle Jonathan is in a right state, jumping up and down, pulling out the last of his hair in despair.”

  Ned had met other parts of the extended Black clan and if he recalled it correctly, Uncle Jonathon was the cousin of Rob’s father, who ran the Gonne foundry and fabricators shop, beyond the walls at Houndsditch. He was a friendly fellow, remarkably similar in build and height to his nephew, though once met Uncle Jonathan was rarely forgotten. His booming voice was heard a dozen pace before his ruddy features and gleaming pate strode into view. The noise of his trade had left him almost as deaf as a post so a bellow was his usual speaking tone. But still Ned was lost to the meaning of his companion’s tale and put up a hand to halt the distracted flow. “Rob, Rob! What is this about?”

  The apprentice smith paused for a moment to reorder his thoughts before giving the table a resounding thump. “We can’t pour the Gonnes. Ben Robinson’s disappeared!”

  Once that revelation was out the rest followed easily. It transpired that the matter that had Rob in such a flap was the lack of Master Robinson, the clerk of Ordinance from the Tower. The royal official was supposed to be on hand to verify the casting of a new set of eight demi cannons. The Privy Council, through the Master of the Office of Ordinance in the person of Sir Welkin Blackford, had to authorise the released of several tuns of very expensive bronze for the commission. As usual, the clerk was to be present to ensure that the whole amount was used and not substituted with an inferior alloy. Thus a lack of any Ben Robinson created a difficulty. So apparently Uncle Jonathon had petitioned the Master of the Office at the Tower to appoint another surveyor.

  That according to Rob was the sticking point. Sir Welkin had refused unless he was handsomely compensated for the inconvenience. So as a result all progress had come to a precipitous halt at the foundry until the vanished clerk could be located. Ergo Rob was here asking for assistance. Well actually his uncle was begging for it with the offer of a hefty reward of twenty angels if it could be done before Monday next.

  Well it looked like both Black siblings were again suffering afflictions of woe and as a friend, how could he refuse? And there was also his own debt of honour to Master Robinson. The official had aided them during the Cardinals Angels’ debacle. Since Ned considered himself a gentleman, duty required him to undertake the task. Anyway a purse of golden angels sang a very sweet song. It should be easy enough to track down an errant clerk in between sorting out Meg Black’s difficulty and Cromwell’s assignment. No problems at all.

  ***

  Chapter 6. The Master of Ordinance’s Office, The White Tower, Early Evening, 6th June

  It was late afternoon by the time Ned and Rob made it over to the Liongate of the Tower, hard by Petty Wales. It had taken a little longer than expected since they had to make a few detours off Woodroff Lane, towards St Olaves, due to a virulent dispute between several carters and a score of builders and merchants. Apparently one of the heavy carts had clipped the corner post of some scaffolding and brought the three storey structure toppling down, blocking the road. Even at a score yards distance, they could both see that the small scale disaster was rapidly escalating, with raging dispute and blame drawing in a larger audience. Years of living in the chaos of the city created its own unique set of instincts, and Ned could feel that edgy tremble in the voices of the gathering crowd that bespoke affray, if not bloody riot. He wondered if news of the last nights slaying had tinged the nervous city’s mood, not that that Londoners held the Hanse merchants in anything but the usual loathing reserved for foreigners. Despite that disdain, More’s recent campaign and the rumours of war abroad meant that any event could trigger a repeat of the Evil May Day riots that had seen hundreds of foreigners beaten and murdered by rioting apprentices.

  To curtail the prospect of violence or affray on another front, Ned had sent a message from the Bee Skep via one of the many urchins that hung around the tavern. He’d carefully written a very neutral note for Meg Black, hopefully stalling any plans of hers for precipitous action. He hadn’t gone into detail or mentioned the risks entailed in the acceptance of the writ. One never knew how many hands or eyes such missives passed by. Ned had seen the results of such an error last year with the Cardinal’s letters. All he could hope was that Margaret Black would use some of that common sense he knew she possessed in annoying abundance. He prayed that the headstrong apothecary’s apprentice would withhold from anything violent, like throwing a few of More’s men into the river. In the meantime he had another duty to deal with.

  The grey walls of the King’s fortress cum palace, with its looming suggestion of menace from the tall towers and the dark frowning cavern of the gate, were the same as his last visit. From what Ned recalled from his studies and schooling, it had been built by King William the Conqueror, constructed from a white Norman stone, a visible ‘symbol’ to Saxon Londoners of his reach and power.

  In these more enlightened times under the Tudors, it served more as a reminder of the King’s presence and royal lineage, possibly better than the collection of buildings, courts and palaces at Westminster, whereas those were the usual concourse of royal–commoner interaction, in the way of appeals, writs and judgements. The Tower, sitting on the eastern flank of the city, spelled out the iron resolve behind the clerk’s quill. In the scribe’s parlance, it was titled ‘the buttress of the city’ a sure defence from waterborne threat, while at every Royal celebration, the belching thunder of Gonnes gave the city an added thrill. The darker side of the roiling flash and smoke was an unsubtle reminder to Londoners of its other potential employment, like during the evil May Day riots.

  Ned was surprised to find at the gate that they had the same guard as his last visit. The fellow was still having a good leisurely scratch of his cods, but this time a quickly levelled halberd stated no easy access. To Rob, after a day of frustrations, that must have been the last straw. Ned hadn’t had the experience of seeing his friend angry. He’d heard a brief report of a prior occasion during the Grafton Chase ambush. Since it had been delivered in the sisterly dismissive tones of Meg Black, Ned had to seriously re–edit for a more realistic version. He himself had missed the scene, being a bit preoccupied at the time due to his panicked efforts in badger hole exploration, to avoid the slashing blade of an irate Spaniard. Now he thought about it, even the pestilent rancour of Cromwell’s debts and the grain difficulties which Rob had been unwittingly dragged into, only made his friend ‘annoyed’.

  Well now he had a good opportunity to see it for himself, outside the most heavily protected building in the kingdom. His friend, Rob, was wind
ing himself up into the sort of rage that could see large beams of oak snapped in bare hands and stones shattered at the volume of the roar. To be fair, the guard was doing his best to stand up to the intimidating sight of the over six foot tall artificer who’s twitching clenched hands gave the easy impression that he was in the habit of breaking the necks of oxen as a warm up. It must have been a really bad day for Rob Black to build up to this level of aggression so quickly. Ned supposed that to his friend, the delay at the foundry had implied a slur to his professional capabilities. It was ironic that Yeoman Cod’s Scratcher had chosen the wrong time to sneeringly refuse entry. Then again, thinking was not usually part of the required criteria to stand slovenly at a gate.

  It was an impressive and awe inspiring sight, and by the good lord, if Ned was on the receiving end, then cowering behind a good thick gate would have been his first reaction. Anyway the summer’s day was pushing on, and it was already late afternoon. Ned only had seven days to solve this problem, along with his other burdens of duty, let alone the requested snooping into the Queen’s household. So with a certain amount of reluctance to intervene betwixt a predator and his lawful prey, he stepped forward and unfurled his commission before the wide eyed stare of the trembling guard.

  Ned doubted the fellow could read, but the impressive seal and signature was enough to penetrate his fear glazed expression and send him stumbling gratefully back through the gate for instructions. A few minutes later an officer of the Tower guard casually waved them in. Ned noted with a grin the complete absence of Yeoman Cod’s Scratcher anywhere in view. Ned reckoned it would have been a safe bet that the fellow was cowering behind a good, thick, stone wall till the suffused features of Rob Black had passed from his bailiwick.