The Queen's Oranges

by House, Gregory

  “Our company is launching a trade flotilla before the end of the month and it requires sufficient powder for ‘protection’.”

  This was received with polite and very attentive interest. The defensive needs of trade, with its ready money, was always preferable to tardy government payment. “Of what grade and quantity, Mistress Black?”

  The lady in question frowned then and waved Rob forward. It had been unanimously decided he was to be the master artificer. He pulled a folded parchment from his doublet and read off a list. “Enough coarse meal powder for ten demi–culervin, thirty sakers and a hundred of falconets and robinets, as well as fine serpentine powder for three hundred of harquebus. So at my estimate that would be one gross of large barrels of the coarse, and a dozen barrels of the serpentine, all water tight and proofed, as well as a thousand yard of slow match.”

  It was indeed an impressive list, sufficient to arm a squadron for a serious ‘trading’ expedition—one that may be expecting to meet fellow traders on the open sea, whom it was anticipated would be reluctant to bargain, so that the armed edge of ‘mercantile’ leverage would be required to clinch a deal. The quantity had been suggested by Rob as an adequate amount to whet interest, if not overwhelm it in the prospective flood of gold.

  At the request their host flattened his few grey tufts in growing anxiety. “That…uhm, that’s a substantial request. I...I am not sure it’s possible.”

  He finished very weakly and visibly cowered as Meg’s haughty frown deepened and her tone dropped to one of displeased menace. In fact he shouldn’t have been able to meet any request at all, since this was supposed to be the King’s powder to the last grain. But the fellow had costs; carts, boats, manure rakers, barrel makers, charcoal burners, import duties and licences for sulphur, wear and usage on the oxen and of course, bribes for the surveyors of the Privy Council. When taken together it must all rack up to a substantial amount. As for payment from the Royal purse, well Ned had heard of one petitioner who had waited ten years for recompense from the King’s French wars. So anything to lighten the burden was eagerly grasped at.

  Meg Black dropped the cover of her spiced orange pomander and positively glowered at the powder mill governor. Ned tried not to smile in amusement at the fellow’s quivering reaction. “Sirrah! I was assured that you would be able help. My intelligence is that you have over two hundred barrels ready in your stores!”

  That had been an estimate from Rob via the Gonne artificers on what should be ready to ship each month and then some. It didn’t pay to keep expensive and chancy powder sitting around. The panic and distress of Master Lyttlefield was truly a sight to witness—so much potential money and patronage at risk. Emma pulled on Meg’s sleeve, distracting her from the next bout of intimidation and once more they went into whispered consultation with much nodding of heads and pursing of lips.

  Finally Meg imperiously waved over Roger for a brief whisper and then marched up to the cowering Master Lyttlefield and unveiled the slightest of smiles. “I will concede that a purchase price of one hundred and ten pounds per barrel would be acceptable. However we must have them by the first tide next week!”

  The governor of the powder mill had to visibly restrain himself or else his poor fringe of hair would be plucked clean. “Mistress…please. I cannot! On my life, all two hundred and fifty barrels are paid, sealed and bonded to the King’s service. They have to be signed for at the Tower within three days. It is impossible to replace them in so short a time. To release even one would have Sir Welkin gaol me for treason!”

  Now that was interesting, thought Ned. More so was the wail of despairing greed as the governor watched his almost two thousand pounds stand up and make to leave. As a last attempt to capture the departing fortune, he fell upon his knees and clutched the hem of Meg’s dress. Gruesome Roger of course did what he does best and loomed over the poor distraught mill governor, making the sort of menacing growl that turned the stomach to water.

  “I beg…I beg you mistress. Have pity on a poor man. It is a difficult situation.” Then came the final gamble just as they reached the door. “I can find fifty barrels!”

  Meg paused, foot hovering over the step. “What price?” Meg’s casual reply held just enough of inquisitiveness to give hope.

  “One hundred and fifteen pounds a barrel…Mistress?”

  Even Ned could hear the battle between greed and hope in that answer. Meg gave a small, half turn and inclined her head, snapping out her final offer. “One hundred and twelve, Sirrah! At that, it must be available this week, if not within two days and I warn you Master Lyttlefield, if you are playing me false, my partners and friends do not forget insults!”

  With that Meg casually detached a hefty purse from her belt and dropped it on the floor next to the quivering governor. Ned winced at the gesture. Forty shillings were in that purse, over five golden angels worth, gone. His better angel tried to console him with whispers of duty and friendship, but it was still five angels! In the meantime he tried to figure out how to account this as an expense to Rob’s uncle. He also prayed that the way costs were mounting this week would slow down, or else it would soon surpass the value of the illicit cargo, or the demi cannons. At the gesture, Meg and Emma continued their haughty progress out of the manor, leaving Roger as their factor to settle the details of the unofficial trade.

  Meg’s retainer caught them up by the time they boarded the barge. He had a very savage grin plastered all over his face that boded very well for their ploy. However the restful charade was over, and with a sorrowful groan, Ned returned to his old companion the long timber oar. He was really going to regret this day now they had to make London before the None chimes.

  ***

  Chapter 14. Aldgate, Plots and Peril, The Bee Skep Tavern, Evening, 7th June

  Ned stretched, suppressing the whimper that naturally tried to escape. So much rowing in one day. All he’d wanted was a pleasant cruise up the river, to idly shelter under the spreading boughs of a willow and sup on dainty delicacies while listening to the sweet song of the robin. Well not really, sneered his shoulder daemon, but neither did he expect to labour so hard over the oar. The trip back had been at the best pace possible for a dozen weary men. Even so they still passed all the other boats and barges travelling towards the city. When they’d finally drawn up, exhausted at Steelyards wharf, at the ringing of the None bells, Ned knew he had to summon a final spurt of energy for the next stage.

  It had actually been a very short argument, not really up to the expected standard of Mistress Black and Ned felt somehow cheated, as is if he’d been covey–catched like a farmer fresh in from the country, snared with the shell game. He took another savouring slurp of his tankard of fine Bee Skep double ale. Ahh, better in him and here, than at Richmond! The Bee Skep tavern at Aldgate was clear across the city from the Steelyards and as his better angel soothingly reminded him, Mistress Emma couldn’t be blamed for the machinations of her cousin. Though his wicked daemon did try and float the suspicion that Meg Black had planned to come here all the while.

  However it transpired he was still looking forward to the roasted haunch of venison that Emma promised as a reward for the labour, and being ensconced in a private room at the second floor of the Bee Skep was safer than many places in the city that sprang to mind. This was the first time he’d been up here and it was a real eye opener, a large well appointed room with walls painted depicting a hunting scene. As for the furniture, she had more than in the sparse manor of Master Lyttlefield. Three carved and pierced cabinets were set around the room along with a serving board displaying the pewter plate and silver gilt candlesticks. Tavern keeper and alewife Emma had as much on show as the average goldsmith. She must have some very respectable and well paying clients. The tavern was sited close to the northern fringe of artisan trades and workshops. It was probably used to host fraternity and association meetings for the fletchers or armourers, although considering her friendship and familial connection with Mistress Bla
ck, there were other more heretical possibilities. After all even non conformists had to meet somewhere.

  Ned put all niggling thoughts aside and tapped on the table. It was a very relaxed gathering that, at Meg Black’s insistence, included their hostess, Mistress Emma Shepherd who radiated good humour and a flashing smile while she chatting animatedly with Rob. Ned in the meantime was trying to figure out a way to corner the tavern mistress for a quiet talk of his own. No doubt since she visited the palace regularly she was bound to have heard all sorts of interesting gossip. It had nothing at all to do with her pleasing aspect or those sparkling eyes, or so he assured his angel who at the moment he pictured as looking primly unimpressed. However…

  His daemon quietly reminded him of Emma’s very close consorting with the ever vengeful and cunning Mistress Black. That association instantly troubled Ned’s tranquillity along with his prior nagging suspicion. Ned had the distinct impression that somehow he was about to be outfoxed again. In vain hope, he gave Mistress Black a very inquisitive stare which she ignored. As his daemon said, she’d pull her jape when she was good and ready, no doubt at whichever moment was deemed the most embarrassing for him.

  The small assembly stilled and Ned found himself the sudden focus of attention. Nervously he cleared his throat and started what he thought of as the official part. It wasn’t strictly necessary and he suspected that it may even have sounded pompous. However he felt it lent a more serious and respectable tone to their meetings, and anyway it gave him an excuse to play with some of his training. “I call the Company of the Cardinal’s Angels to order! First the Company extends a grateful welcome and bountiful thanks to Mistress Emma, our hostess.”

  The lady in question smiled and gave a brief, slightly ironic curtsy. Ned had found it always paid to be generous with praise, doubly so to the person providing the repast. They could all smell the venison cooking in the kitchen below. The rich aroma set one salivating in anticipation.

  “Last year our company was founded by dire circumstances, when we were drawn into the plots and machinations of the powerful. Through luck, our friendship, and the grace of divine providence, we won through.”

  That seemed to go over well. The others muttered agreement, though Mistress Black’s raised eyebrows caused Ned a moment’s concern. Whatever could she object to in that?

  “Now I fear that due to misfortune and murder we are enmeshed once more.” Ned suppressed the overwhelming desire to glare meaningfully at Meg Black. It probably would’ve helped their present prospects if Mistress Black didn’t continue to trade in heretical literature. May as well wish for a visit to the faerie realm, since the trade had the unofficial blessing of her patron, Lady Anne Boleyn. Ned wasn’t a fool—he knew that it was that heretical connection that had saved them from Wolsey, Norfolk, and Cromwell last year. He just hoped that it was enough this year.

  “As you all know, we’ve only a few more days to solve the murder of Joachim and his nephew before Mistress Black and I have to present a report of it to the Lord Chancellor.”

  This was met with a pursing of lips and frowns. It was an unpalatable and inescapable fact, and despite the needs of the other problems, the prospect of having to throw themselves on the dubious mercy of Sir Thomas More, he hoped might spur everyone to greater efforts and less dalliance, like at Richmond Palace—though blisters and sore muscles aside, the trip had given Ned more time to think on the conundrum of the murders. Everything still pointed back to the ship as the source, and it was well past time that nagging problem was solved. They needed more clues—actually any clues would be a start, so he planned to ask Rob’s help for the morrow.

  Ned gave a slight cough, as the muttering settled, then continued. “We also have another task of greater import, while carrying out the duties of the writ that for now protects us.”

  He couldn’t resist it and gave Meg Black a significant look of disapproval, which she once more ignored. Ned slapped the table with a sudden snap of his hand. “I have discovered that Queen Katherine is engaged in a conspiracy!”

  He would have expected a dramatic reaction of gasps, as well as surprise and praise for his clever work. Actually any kind of reaction would have done. However such never seemed to be his lot in life, or at least whenever it concerned Mistress Black. Emma just quirked a well shaped eyebrow while Meg Black covered a simulated yawn with waved fingers. Worse, the two who he might have expected to count on for manly support, Rob and Gruesome Roger, just looked at him blankly as if he had just told them it was a sunny day.

  As his daemon had direly predicted, Margaret Black, the bane of his life, spoke up. “So what, Ned? This is common knowledge. There’s not a week goes by that Queen Katherine doesn’t plot or plan something. That’s the reason she was moved to Richmond Palace.”

  Her companion in crime, Emma, gave a couple of affirmative nods in support and Ned was left for a moment speechless. Why was it that when he was given a mission, Mistress Black and her abettors always seemed to know more than he did? It was enough to drive a man to despair and believe that womankind really did consort with the devils as the priests so frequently claimed. Ned gave a silent pray for patience and tried to resume his review, a task made harder by the poorly suppressed snigger of Gruesome Roger. Once more he thumped the table with vigour, and he hoped conviction. “She’s a Spaniard and a foreigner. No doubt treachery and deviousness is as natural for them as breathing. However I have a suspicion this is more dangerous than her usual plotting.”

  Meg Black made a semblance of listening attentively, or so he believed until she spoke. “Why?”

  It was her dismissively questioning tone that got to him. He would have glared once more, but what was the point? Instead Ned took a deep breath and launched into a recitation of his evidence. “Firstly, one of the priests attending her was the same ragged friar I had arrested outside here two days ago, and he was clean, washed with a habit worthy of a prior. By rights he should still be in the Bread Street Compter, petitioning the Bishop of London for release and redress. But to be at Richmond, preened and scented, he must have been in the gaol and out faster than a spinning top.”

  This piece of news had them all thinking. Every one knew that the clergy were almost untouchable, except when brought before ecclesiastical courts and then even there patronage could get a case dismissed. Of all his arguments, he felt that was the most telling. Any person tossed in gaol couldn’t expect to get out short of a week, what with petitions and bribes.

  Meg Black ignored this common wisdom and with a flutter of her fingers waved off his words as you would with a pesky servant. “Ned, its common knowledge that the Queen has friends amongst the Bishops. Fisher for one and Stokesley of London have preached a few sermons that were close to criticising the annulment. If this friar was a servant to the Queen, as you claim, then it’s no surprise he’s out so fast.”

  Ned shook his head. There were times when he suspected she was being deliberately obtuse. The ‘like you claim’ was delivered with what was damned close to a sneer. Ned fixed his opponent with singular stare. This time he was right and was determined to persevere with his explanation. Ticking off another finger he began again.

  “Second, the other priest let slip that all would be ready for a great day very soon and the only one I can think of is the King’s petition to Pope Clement. We all know that every noble and churchmen in the land is to sign, so hundreds of them will be in the city.”

  Ned held up a third finger. “And lastly, this plague of friars infesting the city has something to do with the Queen’s plot, I sure of it.”

  Meg Black didn’t look so cocky now, and the suggested link piqued the interest of her hither too silent brother. “Ned, what could the Queen hope to achieve by disrupting the petition? From all I’ve heard, the King’s Majesty is set on it. The plan has been the talk of the city for months, and even if there where several hundred friars prattling on about doom, fire and retribution, it won’t make a difference.”

 
Ned paused. Rob had found the flaw in his suspicions. Preaching alone wouldn’t shift the city or Parliament. Ten thousand friars wouldn’t raise the moral standards of the city one inch and if even a fraction of the rumours were true about their personal habits, it could make the place a second Sodom. In lue of any tangible evidence he gave the one connection he still found odd. “When I was in the Queen’s privy rooms, there were two others, ladies of the old nobility. One was the Dowager Duchess of Buckingham. Rob and I saw her a few days ago in London, and the other one looked like a relation.”

  To Ned’s surprise their hostess gazumped Mistress Black’s eager retort. “That would be her daughter, Elizabeth Howard. They both visit three or four times a week, though John’s been run off his feet to deal with them calling every day. He’s complained that they’ve been at him to find more oranges, as if eight hundred weight weren’t enough for anybody.”

  Ned rubbed his forehead. Something was struggling through the cloying fog of his memory. “This Lady Elizabeth, would that be the wife Norfolk threw out?”

  Emma looked briefly puzzled at the question. “Why yes. The swine tossed her aside a few years ago and now parades around with his paramour, Bessie Holland, the strutting slut!”

  This piece of information opened up a whole morass of options. The Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Howard, husband of the estranged Lady Elizabeth, had been prominent in the efforts to bring down Wolsey over the past few years. One rumour doing the rounds in October was that the Duke had proposed Bishop Tunstall as Lord Chancellor. But the Duke of Suffolk had stalled that and the compromise candidate had been Sir Thomas More. Since then, the knowledgeable set at the Inns agreed that in the spill of power, Norfolk was the real winner and the tipping point had been the support of the Boleyn faction. So in theory that helped Meg Black. However at least one of Norfolk’s minions may have felt a grudge against all of the Company of the Cardinals Angels due to that fracas last year.