The Queen's Oranges

by House, Gregory

  It was a leisurely walk through the various gates to the office of the Master of Ordinance and Rob Black had a chance to regain a measure of calm. Ned considered the sudden wrath of his companion and approached the following question with due care and caution. He didn’t want his friend to explode again before the watching eyes of the Tower bustle. “Has Sir Welkin been more difficult over this problem, than say the King’s prior officer?”

  He could see that Rob Black was making a visible effort to quell any further out bursts. His large hands clenched with bone crushing force and his breathing sounded like the great bellows used to power the furnace. Steadily these signs diminished, until only a vein in his forehead twitched in a regular beat to betray his suppressed emotion. “This Master of Ordinance is a grubbing measle, who gouges us at every chance! He’s been a sore trial to my uncle!” It was a short and simple statement and from the tremble in his voice it held back a torrent of piled grievances.

  Ned felt that he had better draw out a few stories very cautiously, just to get a feel for the coming interview. “Tell me some of those difficulties.” Ned brought his hands in to compress a small space in a gesture of restraint.

  Rob Black’s eyes narrowed in concentration, seeming to review and sort his memories. Like many large, amiable lads engaged in the artificer’s trades, Rob was considered to be a bit slow in the mental dressage that philosophers and university doctors seemed to feel was the only measure of intelligence and ability. Because his friend didn’t perform the intricate tricks and jumps that such thinking required, he was dismissed by the learned as an oaf. However Ned had seen him at work last year. It wasn’t that he couldn’t leap the hurdles and obstacles of philosophy. It was just that he felt that they were irrelevant, so bypassed them to find his answers.

  “The first was the commission itself. He claimed that it required a longer perusal since it was signed by his predecessor. That cost Uncle Jonathon a fee of five gold angels.”

  Ned kept a bland face. To him that sounded a fairly standard perk for the position. Any official would do the same.

  “Then he claimed that weighing the bronze for the demi cannon in the Tower required a further charge. When we checked the measure before it was loaded, it was down three hundred pounds! Thus more delay and more fees to find the missing metal.”

  Ned had to admit that the new Master of Ordinance had some very novel methods of fleshing out his post’s fee.

  “Finally, this past week Ben Robinson vanished and Sir Welkin has refused to provide another clerk to check the casting unless we pay a ten pound bond!”

  Ned winced in sympathy.

  “Then the measle demanded we provide the keys to the foundry store so that, as he claims, he can check our inventory to ensure the safety of the King’s commission!”

  You could hear the rumbling anger in that last tale. Sir Welkin certainly had worked out all the points of leverage for his position and the ten pounds bond that was enough for a gentleman to live on comfortably for a half a year. As for passing over the keys, Ned was sure that the Master of Ordinance had already planned a bit of stock adjustment from the Foundry. Not by himself of course, he had probably already sold on the rights to a cousin or a business acquaintance.

  “What of Sir Edward Guilford, the Master of the Tower Armouries. He’s said to be a fair man.”

  Rob Black’s frowning countenance grew sorrowful as he shook his head. “Aye, he is, but old Sir Edward is afflicted by the palsy and leaves most of his work to his son–in–law, Sir John Dudley. He’s tried to help and sent letters on our behalf to the Privy Council.”

  Ned gave another wince. That route could take weeks or even months, and if Sir Welkin had a patron on the council or court connections, then years could pass before a resolution.

  Ned was a young man of these times. He’d seen enough of life in the kingdom to understand the basic fundamentals of patronage and obligation. It was the driving compulsion of the kingdom’s gentry. They fought, schemed and bribed their way into a royal position. No deed was too unsavoury to consider. According to the rumours at the Inns of Court, some were suspected of utilising the Italian skills of murder by poison or plague. To foreigners this fierce passion was a surprising mania, since it was common knowledge that the posts weren’t well paid. In fact, frequently the remuneration was niggardly and unless you had a cousin or ‘friend’ in the staff of the Privy Purse, payment could take years.

  But it wasn’t the lack of ready money that drew men like bees to the honey pot. It was, in some cases, the hunger for status and the ability to lord it over their friends and relations. Ned had noted this was especially prevalent amongst the wives and daughters who found titles an advantage in their continual game of one–up–manship. However keeping the rest of the family happy was not the main reason for virulent competition. It was the potentially lucrative rewards of office that did it. Power, influence and leverage.

  As with Mistress Black’s customs officers, writs gave a man opportunities to ‘oversee’ transactions, or ignore irregularities and selective blindness or appropriate zealousness could pay back many times over the expenses of the office. Sir Welkin must have gone to no little expense to gain his title, so the man would be keen to claw back as much of the cost as soon as possible. Unfortunately for Rob Black and his uncle this involved leaning on the Foundry at its many ‘official’ checkpoints, though from the sound of it, the fellow had gone well past what could reasonably be expected. That was a risky practice. Any man with too rapacious an appetite chanced someone he lent on too heavily spreading out a few angels to ‘remove the inconvenience’. His Uncle Richard always maintained that the harvesting of ‘gifts’ was like coppicing a wood—take just enough and there would be plenty left for later, be greedy and cut it all now and your chance of future prosperity was slim.

  Those reflections were for another time. Rob’s revelations of the new workings of the Ordinance commissions brought them to the door of the Inner or Caesar’s Tower, where he had to once more flourish Cromwell’s writ before they were grudgingly given entrance, and a guide as well, a short fellow with a grey grizzled beard and a humble demeanour that just screamed ‘old’ family retainer. The hobbling ancient led them straight to Master Robinson’s room in the north–western corner on the ground floor. Ned found that rather curious. He would have thought that a gentleman like Sir Welkin would have preferred the grander office in the Brick Tower that came with the accommodation and the title. He felt a small surge of hope. Perhaps Sir Welkin was a more practical man like Ben Robinson.

  The revelation came soon after their guide had beaten loudly upon the closed timber door. A voice muffled by the thick oaken boards directed the knocker on the door to go hang and stick his head in the privy, cursing that he’d given orders not to be disturbed. Their guide was a valiant and long suffering fellow, for he gave them a mournful look that spoke eloquently of years of unrewarded service, before renewing his assault louder and with a significant rattling of the hinges.

  In due course the portal abruptly swung back, sufficient to allow the head of a gentleman to protrude. Well it had to be a gentleman, didn’t it? Only a man of means could acquire such a well developed red nose and florid face. That must have taken a vast quantity of very expensive sack to produce the result, or so Mistress Black claimed. Ned wondered if the gentleman also had the gout. Learned doctors discoursed that a red bulbous nose was typical of a choleric nature and as a consequence, encouraged the painful affliction. And as everyone, knew those afflictions didn’t engender an ‘open and loving nature’.

  “Damn you for a pot bellied, clot eared, measle Bottoph! I said no interruptions!” Red Nose bellowed, as his suffering minion waved a hand in the direction of Ned and Rob. Red Nose swung his crimson suffused visage towards them like the ponderous tilt of a siege engine. It took no skill at divination to see that in Red Nose’s view, previous meetings with Rob Black hadn’t gone well. The gentleman behind the door fixed his visitor with an eye gl
azed stare and drew in breath to continue his vigorous discourse.

  Ned hadn’t time for this display. Nor was he in a particularly tolerant mood. His bruises from yesterday ached and he was still angry at Cromwell’s cozenage with the writ. So rather than endure another tirade he unfurled the parchment and thrust it under the prominent proboscis. The red glazed eyes narrowed suspiciously as they inspected the document.

  Ahh recognition! The coming torrent paused and what Ned assumed was the face of Sir Welkin Blackford underwent the most fascinating transformation. Whereas, on first sight it was bright of hue and flushed in colour, the blood seemed to instantly drain from his cheeks which acquired a pale pasty complexion. The open mouth primed and ready for a bellow also snapped shut with a visible click. Then without any further word or signal, the head retreated and the door slammed shut.

  Ned had seen the reactions of a few men when writs were presented and Sir Welkin’s was intriguing. His minion however seemed to take such receptions as part of his daily burden, for he gave the briefest of resigned shrugs and then once more returned to thumping the door. Ned couldn’t be sure but between the echoing thuds, he could have sworn he heard brief snatches of a conversation behind the door. Whoever it was and whatever it was about was difficult to ascertain, but it sounded heated.

  A few minutes later the door was once more opened. However instead of the expected Master of Ordinance, a lady emerged from the room. To Ned’s growing surprise, it wasn’t any common punk or strumpet. From the gentlemen’s overheated appearance and closed privacy, Ned had automatically assumed that he must have been engaged in a very intimate discussion with a girl of ‘generous affections’. This lady was as far from that class as was possible, and if Ned was any judge, she was pushing close to her sixth decade. Any thought of immodest acts were probably out of the question by age, if not by rank.

  As Sir Welkin’s visitor imperiously swept past, Ned wrenched off his cap and dropped into the lowest courtly bow he could manage in the narrow passage. Her costume alone merited that. In a city were the sumptuary laws were regularly ignored, it was usually difficult to judge a woman’s social ranking but with this lady there was no such ambiguity. The cloth of her dress was of the finest silk weave and the abundance of expensive trim decoration screamed High Court. Ned caught a glimpse of a gold locket and cross suspended from a necklace of pearls just before he made a close inspection of the stone floor. This lady reeked of the aura of old wealth and title, the sort that made the Royal House of Tudor look like parvenus.

  After this surprising exit Sir Welkin waved them in. He seemed a lot calmer than before, though he made frequent dabbing motions around his throat with a grey looking kerchief held in his left hand. Originally Ned had considered the possibility that the new Master of Ordinance had taken this room due to his desire for ‘a hands on approach’ to his position. Well he had sort of been right. Hands had definitely been laid—on every single book and record of the office. They were scattered across the room everywhere, as if by a clerk in the manic throes of St Vitus Dance. If that disorder were not enough, the corners of the room were packed with piles of discarded wicker baskets, full of the drying remnants of fruit peel and heaped pulp fragments. The best description he could think of for this scene was frenzied.

  Since he had arranged the interview with Cromwell, his ‘good lord’ and master, Ned had dressed very carefully that morning, putting on his best slashed doublet with the exposed red velvet, and his finest white shirt. But as soon as he stepped inside, the shirt stood a forlorn hope of remaining white while his expensive dark blue hose just might survive the visit. The entire room and all its contents were covered in a fine layer of black dust that seemed to fountain up wherever he stepped. As for sitting, well that was chance that had to be taken. Ned cautiously moved next to a heavy iron strapped chest and shoved a collection of loose parchments aside to create at least a semblance of a perch. For some reason, Sir Welkin twitched nervously as Ned dusted the worn oak top before he assumed a seat.

  He also noted with detached interest a very finely engraved pewter ewer and two chalices on a bench next to small wickerwork basket full of fresh oranges. Their spicy aroma was heavy in the air. Despite the mess, Sir Welkin certainly didn’t stint on luxuries. Oranges from Spain were pricy at present, being well past the end of their season. Meg Black had complained of their scarcity since the declarations of hostilities with Queen Katherine’s nephew, the Emperor Charles V. Adopting the know it all guise of her profession, she claimed the fruit were an excellent remedy to the fevers and ague. Ned wisely refrained from comment. However he had ensured that he was conveniently present when the last batch was prepared for medicines and comfits. The bitingly tart taste was well worth the afternoon’s forbearance.

  “Sir Welkin, I am Edward Bedwell. You have seen my warrant of commission.” That was delivered very blandly as a statement of fact. Actually Ned had made sure that the Master of Ordinance had only time enough to register the King’s Privy Council seal. The experience of previous assignments had shown him that surprised recipients were too shocked to inspect his documents closely—thus saving needless hours of explanation, clarification and obfustication. Another useful ploy was that if he acted as if he had authority, older men were quite ready to concede it. Perhaps the surprise of his presumption set them adrift in confusion. No matter, it was an advantage and he meant to use it.

  The gentleman in question gave a brief nod of acknowledgement, though his hand continued to dab at his chin in an almost nervous manner while he viewed the refolded warrant with as much loathing as a snake.

  “Various matters have come to the attention of the Privy Council.”

  Once more this was a very safe statement though whether this matter in particular ever graced their bench was subject to debate. But at the suggestion of the Council’s interest, Sir Welkin started shuffling papers around. “I…I assure the Council that all particulars of my office are being sorted out! The last senior clerk has left it all in such disarray! It…it will take several days to find anything.”

  The handkerchief fluttered like a torn sail in a storm, as Sir Welkin shuffled through the first pile of papers to hand. “I…I can personally assure the lords of the Council that the King’s powder has been fully accounted for, down to the last firkin!” With that declaration he triumphantly seized the topmost sheet and waved it like a banner rallying fleeing troops.

  Ned found that prompt disclosure very curious. Every profession had its own peccadilloes and dodges. It was a fact of life. Ned hadn’t even started to prod or poke and Sir Welkin had automatically claimed all was above board. He made a mental note to ask Rob about the place of gonnepowder in the workings of the Ordinance Office. “I am sure our Sovereign Majesty and the Privy Council will be pleased to receive that notification.”

  Ned was sure they wouldn’t have a clue what it was for, but if Sir Welkin was keen to list potential irregularities in his newly acquired tenure, who was Ned to stop him? So he put on his blandest court functionary face and continued probing. “Sir, it is in part regarding the disarray in this office that I am here representing our Royal Sovereign’s interest.”

  This caused quite a response. The handkerchief dabbing of his neck increased and Sir Welkin eyes widened in what could have been interpreted as the onset of terror.

  Ned suppressed any inclination to smile. So far so good. “We have received word that your clerk, a Master Benjamin Robinson, has disappeared. That is of concern and I’m charged with his recovery.” Simple and true to a point.

  For the Master of Ordinance, it seemed to be more than enough as he began to rattle out excuses. “The…the fellow was a disgrace! I mean, good sir, look at the mess he has left me with. I…I haven’t seen him for days. Damn him to the Devil’s care! Robinson has left me in this wrack!”

  Even for one so young, Ned had gained a reasonable amount of experience from the Courts at winnowing truth from facts. The Master of Ordinance was the perfect examp
le of a worried official. His claims appeared to hold a healthy measure of fear, evasion and was overlaid by the indignation of the honestly put upon. Whatever the reason, Sir Welkin felt very bitter towards the vanished clerk. How and why would require further delving.

  “Sir Welkin, when did you last see him here?”

  The royal official almost trembled in consternation. His hand clenched the now grimy kerchief. “Ahh, four or so days ago. The fellow has left the most terrible confusion. I had to engage another clerk to handle his commissions, at great expense to my own purse!”

  Ned nodded sagely. That would be the one he kindly offered to have supervise the demi cannon casting at such an exorbitant charge. Considering the new Master of Ordinance’s current track record, he had no doubt that the new clerk was a cousin, and on presenting his bill for expenses to the Privy Purse, the clerk would magically transform into twins or triplets. At this point in the conversation, Ned could make a fair prediction of the future; all and any irregularities were about to be placed in the unresisting hands of the missing Ben Robinson. “Isn’t his lack of presence unusual? I was led to believe that Master Robinson was a commendable royal servant, zealous in his duty?”

  Sir Welkin shifted his attention to Rob and they exchanged fierce glares of mutual loathing. Ned began to see why prior discussions between them had gone so badly. “Hmmph! A cozener’s sham, sirrah! The Ordinance was in terrible disorder before my supervision!”

  That was an interesting description of the well organised office and records Ned had seen here just a few months ago. Rob Black strained forward and Ned could hear the grinding of teeth, as his companion suppressed the outburst of a denial. Sir Welkin also noticed the rising tension and took a half step back, nervously watching the artificer.