The Queen's Oranges

by House, Gregory

  So according to that recounting, the Lord Chancellor must be getting frustrated at the lack of success. To Ned it was no surprise that More was now searching for scapegoats in the city. “The list of unofficial calls and the true bill of lading, ahh who’d have it?”

  Now Meg Black was once more looking uncomfortable and pensively pursed her lips. “Albrecht has one copy and Joachim the other.”

  Now that was grimly interesting and somehow very predicable. “I take it that you have not found Joachim’s copy yet?”

  Meg regretfully shook her head. That copies absence could be another clue to the murderers. Ned really didn’t like the way this was beginning to look. More’s threatening presence again edged back into view.

  “Was Joachim or anyone else given a share in the smuggling?”

  Meg gave a short nod. “Well, yes. Since the shipmaster’s co operation is vital, he’s given a share of the texts value, as well as permission to ship his own goods, up to a twentieth of the cargo space. The crew are also permitted up to a fortieth for their own trade goods.”

  Now that was an interesting possibility. It may have sounded callous but at present he fervently hoped that it might have been Joachim’s own affairs that led to his death rather than the heretical contraband. But then that thought led him to the next dangerous question. “Meg, just how many books are there on this ship?”

  It seemed that she hadn’t expected that one since her eyebrows arched in surprise. He hadn’t meant to ask quite so bluntly, but it seemed that once he thought of the question it leapt straight from his mind to his lips, almost unbidden.

  “Five hundred bound books purchased at nine pence each and eight hundred bundles of loose pages at four pence a bundle. They’re sold on at a landed price of three shillings for the books and two shillings per bundle.”

  “Uhhh?”

  “Ned?”

  “Uhh?!”

  “You can close your mouth now, a fly may get in.”

  He snapped his mouth shut. At a rapid calculation the books alone meant a taking of seventy five pounds and for the loose sheets eighty pounds.

  Meg just smiled at the look of amazed crogglement on his face and calmly continued. “Yes, when you actually work out the figures it is very impressive. There’s more profit in a few barrels of books than a hold full of grain, and to think, on the streets they eagerly pay four shillings a book and we still can’t bring enough in.”

  That was one facet of the smuggling of heretical books that Ned hadn’t considered—the incredible profits! How could the Lord Chancellor claim such damnable books were being left on people’s doorstep to entrap the unwary? At four shilling each he had no doubt that any left lying around would have been quickly snapped up for resale.

  Any further reflection on the benefits of book smuggling was shoved aside as the sound of shouting and the violent clatter of metal penetrated the cabin. Ned jumped up and made for the door only to collide painfully with Mistress Black who’d vaulted the stools, scattering the pile of documents in her haste. After a moment or two debating who should proceed first, Ned took the matter into his own hands and shoved Meg behind as he pushed his way through the door. He’d suffer for this presumption later, but right this moment if there was going to be a brawl then he would prefer that Meg Black was elsewhere.

  It had to happen! The crowd outside had the sort of mood that sweated a hunger for mayhem and violence. A quick glance at the dock showed a heaving mass, at least fifty strong, struggling to get on board the ship. Some were waving swords and cudgels. A couple had kindled torches that spluttered red tongues of flame into the night sky. After all he’d seen in the last couple of days, it didn’t need any mendicant friar’s predictions to know how this could go.

  Gryne’s men had retreated to the side of the vessel and one of them had pulled in the plank that spanned the few foot between the vessel and the dock. At least the tide was in and the top of the deck was above the level of the wharf. Low tide would have seen the mob pour straight into the ship.

  The usual cries against foreigners had started. If they were smart the Germans in the crowd would have scarpered at the first snarl. Ned could feel the throb in the warm evening air. Menace and mayhem it whispered—these calls of anger sent a shiver up his spine. If the affray wasn’t suppressed soon, he suspected it could turn into a repeat of the Evil May Day riots. This wasn’t the common crowd out for roistering and mischief like a Sunday parish stoush. If this lot came on board…well, Ned really didn’t want to think about that. He grabbed the sleeve of one of Gryne’s men. The broken nose and grinning face of Tam Bourke swung towards him. “Hold them off! Don’t kill any of them if you can!”

  The large mercenary looked at him dubiously. He had a small mace dangling from his left wrist by a sturdy leather thong while in his right hand was one of the infamous Gryne’s Prickers, a massive cleaver–like blade three feet long. The merest caress from that and they’d need two coffins and a sack for your bits. “Aye lad. Won’t be easy. They’re in a mood f’r blood!”

  He was probably right. The cries of anger and frustration intensified. One bold fellow tried a leap from the wharf, only to be met at his arrival with a solid clout from a cudgel that sent him screaming into the narrow chasm betwixt the two platforms. Ned briefly wondered if the wharf rat could swim, then recalled how close to shore they where. Oh yes, definitely a soft landing—that’s where the effluent of the city tended to congeal.

  He pulled himself up some strange lattice of ropes and looked beyond the surging mob. So far only a few more were joining the rear ranks. The inflamed passions of the mob hadn’t yet begun to flash through the alleys and lanes that emptied onto the riverfront. No doubt the customs officers had fled, though across the way at the corner tavern, a growing number of watchers could be seen cheering on the show. One other with a jaunty peacock feathered cap was running off towards Petty Wales. Ned hoped he was playing the good citizen and summoning the Common Watch. His daemon dismissed that as a fool’s wish. More likely the fellow was off to rouse the riverside gangs like Old Toveys’ Lads or Break Leg John. Just what they needed—eager fellows ready for affray and hungry for spoil. Damn! Once this started they’d have to ring the bells and call out the Ward Muster Companie, like they did at the Evil May Day! That’s when he recalled a tale from his uncle about the last great riot. It would be an act of desperation, but if now wasn’t the time for it, well…

  He jumped back down to the deck and ran over to Meg Black. She’d acquired a hooked staff and was standing by the mast, the very image of a determined Amazon. “The steersman, where is he?”

  She pointed to a short, grey haired man, currently engaged in belabouring one of the attempted boarders with another stave–like weapon. In fact all the crew had joined Gryne’s men along the side, each one well armed. That was surprisingly fast. He would have expected more panic and confusion without the shipmaster to lead and encourage them. Ned gave a nod of thanks, then pulled the fellow out of the defensive line and shouted into his ear. It took a few attempts but finally the man gave a reluctant nod and headed determinedly for the hold.

  Next he grabbed Rob. For a lad who professed an abhorrence of violence, he was certainly enjoying himself. Unwanted boarders didn’t get dropped into the questionable safety of the water. No, instead he threw them back into the mob, knocking over two of three at a time. Ned shouted his instructions and waved his hand toward the aft hold. Rob grinned broadly then left Ned to fill his gap in the wall of men.

  It was now that Ned Bedwell began to understand the terrifying exhilaration of battle. The rioters stood screaming at them until one bold soul would begin the next rush forward. The three foot gap between the wharf and the ship still frustrated their efforts, as did the height. However past the crowd Ned could see a couple of enterprising rioters pulling heavy planks off a warehouse. Soon they’d have a bridge of their own. Time was running out.

  He’d fended of some eager scum with an axe. Master Sylver may not
have approved of his style, though he would have applauded the results. The fellow dropped the weapon, screaming in pain. Hopefully a few fingers joined the axe in the water. Finally Ned received the expected thump on his shoulder and pulled out of the line.

  Thank the good Lord for modern technology! He’d spotted the locked trunks during the search the other night, and now having Rob Black on hand was perfect. He grabbed one end of the engine and helped ease its foot into the stirrup slot by the forecastle rail. Once it was firmly in place, Rob knocked out the restraining wedge with a small hammer and retracted the iron chamber. Perfect timing! The steersman had just returned, burdened with a small barrel which he placed cautiously next to Rob. The artificer barely paused and smashed the lid, scooping the chamber into the black grains. He levelled off the overflow and tamped the open end with a rag before returning to the engine and slamming in the primed chamber. For his part, Ned replaced the wedge and with a firm thud from the hammer, held it tight. The steersman in the meantime threw a canvas cover over the open barrel and dragged it to the other side of the deck.

  It was obvious Rob Black had practiced with his creations. He easily set the tiller and grabbed the lit linstock proffered by his sister then aimed the small engine towards the mob and called out. “Open your mouth and cover your ears!”

  Ned had just got to ‘what’ when the rail–mounted falconet roared forth its fiery challenge, and the air over the crowd filled with a roiling mass of flame shot smoke, reeking of sulphur. The noise! Ned had heard the Great Gonnes fire during celebrations, but that was no help. He’d never been so close to one before, even if it was the smallest at only four foot long. The roar was overwhelming. There was a ringing void in his head that made his eyes and teeth ache. When this sensation finally passed, he lent over the gunwale and called out to the shocked crowd. “Leave! Leave now!”

  As one the silenced mob turned toward him eyes wide in surprise. “That’s a warning!”

  The mob started to mutter. A few of the more prudent slipped away from the back.

  “Reload with shot!”

  The riveted attention of the gathering swung across to Rob Black as he loudly hammered another chamber into place and swung the Gonne back until it pointed fair at the centre of the crowd.

  Ned dropped his voice to a more conversational tone. “I’ve heard that shot at close range does fearful damage. Tears arms and legs off, and fair rips the body apart. It’s said that it can slay several men if they’re closely packed!”

  Rob helpfully swung the muzzle of the Gonne in a slow track across the front of the crowd. Everyone’s eyes were firmly fixed on the tip of the iron tube. It seemed to yawn malevolently in the flickering light. Instinctively they spread out, backing away from the open mouth. Then in an instant the stampede began. Ned was surprised at the prompt reaction—until he turned to look at Rob. His friend had placed the spluttering linstock an inch off the touch hole. The implied threat had been enough. Within moments the wharf was empty. Even the beaten and battered had managed a good turn of speed.

  Ned slumped, sagging over the smooth timber of the gunwale in spent relief. Thank God for family history! Uncle Richard always used to tell the story about how he’d been caught up in the mad swirl of the Evil May Day riots and watched when several of the Great Gonnes at the Tower had fired into Petty Wales in a bid to restore peace. It worked. There was another part of that day’s tale, the rancour with Thomas More. Understandably Ned didn’t want push onto that, not here and not now.

  ***

  Chapter 10. Unwelcome Visitors, The Ruyter, Night time, 6th June

  Ned let out a long drawn sigh and collapsed in the lee of the gunwale, shivering in reaction. That could have been messy—very messy indeed. If the mob had tried to rush the ship, it would have been carnage, though as his daemon commented, how was he going to explain that sort of mayhem to Councillor Cromwell, or even the most pliable of London inquests? Instead of stopping a riot, the trick with the Gonne could have sparked the prelude to a city wide rampage. Anyway that was now a philosophical point. Ned felt it was preferable to face a possible future hanging, rather than a very real clubbed and eviscerated present.

  The rest of the crew and guards took the reprieve in varying ways, from joining Ned collapsed on the deck, to comparing scores with their fellow combatants. Rob Black, however, had slumped over the menacing falconet. He had performed superbly. However from the look on his face, Ned suspected that this was the first time he had ever turned the craft of his hands towards fellow Christians. It had affected the artificer pretty badly. For a change Margaret Black, rather than remonstrating with her sibling for the threatened violence, was soothingly stroking his head whispering beside his ear. Just for a moment Ned felt terribly jealous of that attention.

  It was then that he received his second shock of the night. He could hear the tramp of many feet and the clash of iron echoing in the sudden silence. At a guess it was coming from Thames Street leading to Byllynsgate. Maybe it was the Common Watch. Well better late than never. He’d thank them anyway for the attempt. Ned gave a brief wave to Tam Bourke, who quickly replaced the gangway to the dock. Ned pulled himself up and waited. This late rescue was fairly typical of the Watch—they were well known for their ability to turn up well after the problem was solved. No doubt they would still expect recompense for their tardy presence, something like a twenty shillings reward. He hoped that Mistress Black was taking note of all these extra expenses incurred on her behalf.

  With a pair of lanterns at their head, the column marched on to the dock. In the flickering light Ned could see a lot more armour than he’d expect in the Watch. Maybe one of the under sheriffs had rallied the nearest of the city’s guild or ward muster companies. Well they certainly had been well drilled and from what he could see, the quality of the equipment was pretty good. Even in the limited light Ned was able to pick out that the men marching onto the wharf wore what was called Almain Rivet, stylish armour preferred for the liveries of important lords of court. A glance over towards his friend saw Rob Black perk up with interest as the butts of shouldered pole arms thudded into the timber planks of the wharf in a close approximation of synchronicity. Ned stepped forward, a relieved grin on his face and…

  …the thankful welcome died, strangled in his throat by shock. It wasn’t the city muster, or the Common Watch or even the Mayor’s ceremonial guard. It was in fact the return of Sir Roderick Belsom, Pursuivant of the Lord Chancellor, complete with his master’s retinue, in all its proclaimed power and suggested menace. The guard stood at rest while their commander, Sir Roderick, waddled up the replaced gangplank. He’d taken some greater care with his appearance since their prior meeting. To increase his stature and gravitas, he’d decided that an expedition further into the realm of martial glory was required. Whereas some armour lent a marital dignity to the wearer, Sir Roderick seemed to believe that therefore a lot of armour made one the equal to Sir Lancelot. Obviously the scarlet plumed helmet wasn’t enough. His ‘new’ harness was of the latest style of burnished half armour that Rob reckoned was becoming popular with the professional soldiers across the Channel. It was claimed that it gave protection from shot or blade and when fitted to the man that it was as manoeuvrable as a second skin. Ned remembered seeing one of the King’s great tournaments a few years ago at Greenwich. It had been a spectacular affair and the royal harness was the best that could be made in all of Christendom. Riding like one of the fabled centaurs, the armour mimicked his Majesty’s every move. It was so supple it was said the King could have danced a galliard in it.

  As for Sir Belsom, comparison with his Sovereign’s splendour could only to be expected in the All Fools Day romps. The fellow had sort of acquired a tentative grasp of the thing. After all he was wearing the armour, but with all the grace and style of a jackass in bishop’s robes. In fact, as the Lord Chancellor’s Pursuivant precariously strutted up the gang plank, a bout of suppressed laughter broke out from Gryne’s men, until there before the
m, puffing with exertion, stood Sir Roderick Belsom decked out in the full panoply and awe of five foot of violet sashed, iron clad and scarlet plumed authority. It really was a pity it looked more like a cockerel trying to escape from a kitchen pot or indeed perhaps that same cockerel wearing the kitchen pot. Ned had to clamp his mouth shut with a hand as More’s pursuivant pulled out his writ with a masterly flourish.

  As Rob Black had said before, armour should fit, to be suitable for battle and Ned, under the hard tutelage of Master Sylver, had started donning some a few months ago as his trainer had put him through a gruelling series of challenges. It was quite an effort and required skill, practice and most of all, lots of adjustment of the various belts, straps et cetera, so that you didn’t trip over your own feet. It was becoming evident that in his martial training Sir Roderick had lacked a practical instructor. In fact, if Ned had to sketch an immediate past for his visitor, it would more likely follow this path.

  In Ned’s vision, Sir Roderick had strutted into one of the flashier shops by the Armourers Guild Hall at Moorgate, and pointed out the gaudiest suit with the most embellishments and gilt. And demanded that it should be ready for him by the end of the week—or else. Well you couldn’t fault their efforts. According to Rob, London boasted some very fine armourers, even a few from the German lands. They couldn’t help it if the customer had a vastly distorted view of his well…‘presentation’. The limitations of this human body had foiled their endeavours. Here in the real world, the dramatic theatre of Belsom’s entrance was fast waning as he struggled with his armour. The growing chorus of poorly suppressed sniggers from the ship and the open ribaldry from the audience still lingering at the dock sapped his authority with every chuckle.

  Ned let it go on for a while longer until the ship’s company were rolling on the deck gasping for breath between hoots of mirth. True, it was better entertainment than the inmates at Bedlam, but for all that, by the blessed saints the man was a King’s officer, even if he was a buffoon. Ned stepped across to the struggling, entangled knight and deftly pulled the writ out of his purse. Some unskilled artificer had attached the purse to the sword hanger, no doubt as per instructions. The worked cordovan satchel set off the scabbards embossing perfectly. But the problem was that in his suit of half armour, Sir Roderick couldn’t reach his purse or sword. When he tried, his vanbrace and elbow couter became entangled in his violet silk sash, and then the more he struggled and twisted, the more caught up he became. Ned reckoned his old parish priest would have loved this as a homily on ‘The Price of Vanity.’