The Queen's Oranges

by House, Gregory

  It was at this point that the powder merchant Somersby became visibly upset. “Upon my soul Mistress, this is the best powder available in the city. I absolutely guarantee it with my sworn and solemn bond!”

  Ned poured the clutched handful into his open palm, allowing most to cascade back into the barrel. He slowly nodded and pursed his lips. Yes, that pretty much proved his concerns and matched Rob’s suspicions. The heavy coating of black dust left on his hand was powdered charcoal, the other main constituent of the dangerous mixture, and in this case in far greater proportions than was required. Once more he shoved his arm into the barrel until his fingers could touch the bottom and scooped up one more handful. Slowly, before them all, he allowed it to cascade from his opened palm. Rough textured, weighty, some what gritty, and perhaps too sandy for black powder? Ned dusted his hands and gave a brief signal to their retinue.

  Two of Gryne’s men stepped forward and firmly grasped Somersby. The powder merchant immediately began gabbling about the problems of transport, still loudly proclaiming the quality of his goods. Ned finished wiping his black hand on the fellow’s wide expanse of velvet brocade. After all it was only fair that someone else have a share of the cleaning expenses.

  Meg Black swung a threatening glare in the direction of the quivering merchant who it appeared was suddenly alone. His minions had scarpered out the back door. Ned considered sounding the horn, but with the gibbering collapse of Somersby there seemed no point. The man was almost a puddle on the floor, moaning about the quality of goods these days and that he wasn’t to blame.

  Meg strode across the aisle and bent over the prostrate victualler menacingly. “Master Somersby, it would appear that you intended to deceive us. That insult could only merit a suitable recompense!”

  That was almost a purr with just a touch of whip. The merchant reacted appropriately and bent lower with hands clasped in supplication. “No, no, merciful Mistress…it isn’t so! Tis been so difficult to get top grade powder of late. This is all I could find!”

  Here was a very interesting claim, thought Ned as he lent closer and put his mouth by the merchant’s ear. “Now, now Master Somersby, I am sure you didn’t mean to cheat us with adulterated powder. Surely it was Master Lyttlefield who supplied this reworked mixture?”

  “What? Why, why yes, it’s just so! I was cheated, swindled by that cozener. Please believe me! I’ll drop the price to ninety pounds a barrel, as…as a sign of my good faith!”

  Considering how loose and light the powder felt at the middle of the barrel as well as the four inches or so of sand at the base, Ned doubted that each held more than forty pounds value at best, and even that would need to be sifted and re milled. He recovered his blade from one of Gryne’s men and buckled it on. “I think it is still over priced, Master Somersby, but you could be of help in another matter and maybe Mistress Black will forgive this error.”

  The cony–caught merchant twitched and trembled while a host of further excuses crowded his lips. Ned casually drew his poniard and placed the blade at the base of the fellow’s ear. “I believe the penalty for fraud is clipping, Master Somersby.”

  It was the only kind of cony trick that was really possible with the Gonne powder—cut it down with charcoal remix, and up the weight with sand. Cheap, effective and only discovered by a thorough check. Silently he sent a pray of thanks for the advice of Rob Black and the Doutch Gonne artificers. He wouldn’t have known any different. Then betwixt one word and the next the situation changed.

  “What ‘as we ‘ere? I sees all this to–ing an fro–ing at Morgan’s Lane by m’ friend, Somersby’s place, an’ I asks m’self, what’s all the rustle an’ bustle, an’ why’s m’ good friend Capt’n Gryne nay seen fit to tells me of ‘is doings?”

  The call echoed in the open space of the warehouse, not overly loud, but clear and penetrating with a slurred hiss to the words, a practised voice that overly hinted of menace and anticipation. You wouldn’t think the gentleman sauntering in had need of such a skill, since he called the bear and bull baiting every week. Volume and invective ruled there rather than the timbre of possessed poise and command. Ned shivered in apprehension. It was not a voice he particularly wanted to hear, certainly not in this part of Southwark. Straightening up, Ned carefully sheathed the blade.

  “Sirrah be gone from here. This is a private matter!” Mistress Black’s accusing finger had swung around to take in the newcomer.

  Ordinarily her commanding tone would have subdued any common riff–raff, not Canting Michael though. He controlled the eastern half of the Southwark Liberties and prudent men paid him black rent for protection and safety, or else they awoke in the middle of the night blanched with terror at a visitation. It was said that Canting had bitten the fingers off one man who had refused, and fed others to his bears and dogs according to some rumours. No matter whether they were true or distortions, Canting Michael was a man to beware of, and when his tall cadaverous shadow darkened your path, it was usually best to pay up and move on fast.

  Twisting up his courage Ned spoke. “Canting, the lady is right. It’s private. We’ve asked Somersby a few questions and will leave in peace. We’re not trespassing on your domain.”

  The intruder ignored the warning and took a few more steps towards them, followed by a dozen men. Canting was technically still outnumbered, though Ned knew the Southwark chieftain’s reputation in a brawl. His palms felt suddenly damp and sweaty. Canting was one of those men who held a grudge a very, very long time even where one didn’t exist. As the man’s piercing gaze pinned him down, Ned regretted his outburst. Silence may have been better. He swallowed a stubborn lump of air. Nevertheless he walked forward until he was in front of Meg Black, hand on sword and stood in that half forward crouch recommended by Master Sylver.

  Canting stopped and smiled, at least with his mouth. His eyes stayed that cold, icy blue without warmth or animation. “Why’s bless me, tis m’ old friend, Red Ned. Tis bin a long while since we met. Still haven’t forgotten the last time, ‘ave we lads?”

  So friendly and persuasive, Ned felt the chill hand of terror grip his spine. Canting obviously hadn’t forgiven or forgotten. “Canting, it was a bet fairly won. We’re square on it!” Fairly maybe, but a stupid one none the less, and too dangerous either way, his better angel primly remarked.

  “Ahh Ned, twas indeed, but I’s lost two hundred angels on that bout an’ I’s not a forgiving man. I feels tis time to settle the wager, the way it shoulda bin.” He gave a lazy wave and his escort moved forward, loosening knives and cudgels.

  Their own contingent did the same, while the suddenly ignored Somersby crawled as fast as possible towards the concealing shadows. Ned could see no way out of this short of blood, preferably not his, and was about to call the reinforcements when a thunderous clap stilled all the preparations for mayhem.

  What in all the blessed saints had happened? All eyes swivelled towards Mistress Black. She held one of those new pistols in her hand, a good deal smaller than the pair that Ned still had. The weapon was pointed towards the roof and a long plume of smoke coiled through a shaft of mellowed light. Having got the attention of the gathering, she held the smoking pistol down over the open barrel of powder and rewound the spring. Ned wasn’t the only one to gasp in shock. What in all the saints was she thinking! One spark and adulterated or not, they’d go to meet the Final Judgement. “Canting Michael back off! If you want Red Ned, you’ll have to wait another day. For now he’s mine. All I want from Somersby is to answer three questions, then we all leave, alive and unharmed!”

  The ruler of east Southwark took a half pace forward, until he saw that Meg Black had lowered the pistol to half its depth into the powder, and her hand was clenched, finger on the trigger. Canting’s smile broadened into a grin. However his eyes stayed cold and calculating. “You’re a bold roarin’ girl, too good fo’ the likes o’ Red Ned, but if’n I pulls back what’ll folk say o’ me? Too much the cur an’ I loses respect.”

&
nbsp; Meg seemed to consider his question. Ned silently prayed that both of them would see reason. He had no desire to end his days so soon.

  “I suppose you could say you yielded to a lady’s honour. Otherwise they’ll not find enough of you to think anything.”

  That got Canting Michael thinking. Good, anything that took up time was fine by Ned. He briefly considered reaching for one of his pistols, but the sudden movement might make Meg Black slip. No one wanted any terminal distractions. Gruesome Roger was the closest to the bold Meg Black. So far he was still frozen, hand on cudgel. Ned tried to meet his eyes and silently convey a plea and warning.

  “Are y’ not afeared of standing afore the Lord God so soon, life still untasted an’ your sins still fresh an’ unrepented? Are y’s?” Canting always did have a religious bent. He would have made a good priest if his tastes in entertainment hadn’t been so diverse, though such predilections seemed not to stop the progress of some bishops.

  However Canting’s philosophical reasoning wasn’t the best path to try. Mistress Black gave a very bitter laugh and a bleak reply. “Unless we solve two deaths by Sunday, the Lord Chancellor will have us for heresy. I think I prefer this to the burning faggots at Smithfield.”

  Ned thought her summation was definitely on the darker side of dramatic, though on the whole he couldn’t disagree with her reading of the situation.

  “So that be ‘ow we stand.” Canting Michael paused and gave the apothecary’s apprentice a wry grin with lots of teeth, then slowly waved his men back. “Somersby, come on out, y’ milksop. ‘elp the sweet lass or I’ll ‘ave the devil take thee. I remembers my debts, mistress. Ask Red Ned.”

  Canting Michael gave the brief gesture of a bow, turned and walked out of the warehouse. Ned’s hands were dripping with sweat and shook with a slight tremor. “Ahh Meg…could you please withdraw the pistol very, very slowly.”

  Where had she hid it? Not in that damned satchel of hers again! Ned, seeing movement to his left, pounced on the escaping Somersby and dragged him out from a concealing pile of sacks. “Master Somersby, we will make this brief, or should Mistress Black delve into the powder again?”

  That got an emphatic shake of his head. Well that was all to the good. If Ned had been near terrified out of his young life, then it was a wonder this tub of lard wasn’t a smear on the floor. “The powder! Where did it come from? Speak truth mind you.”

  “Lyttlefield, Lyttlefield. I have an arrangement to take a portion of each shipment!”

  “That’s a lie, Somersby. Each barrel is marked off when it leaves and when it arrives!” Ned once more pulled out his blade and caressed the skin of the trembling man’s cheek.

  Somersby’s eyes strained to follow the trailing point, almost jumping out of their sockets. “No…no believe me. I swap ten barrels in every shipment with ones I have already cut. It’s the truth!” That last was almost a wail as the pointed tip tickled his ear lobe.

  “What’s the proportion?”

  Somersby was shaking so much he pushed himself on to the blade and squealed in fright as blood trickled down his face. “A quarter! A quarter! I swear it upon my soul!”

  It was probably more like a third, but no matter. That was close enough for Ned. “Have you sold any barrels in the past fortnight?”

  That was the first crucial question. Just to ensure a degree of truth, Ned dug the blade in a smidgen.

  “For the love of God’ mercy! No, no not for the past month. Couldn’t. Another company started up by the Tower wharves. They have all the city trade, I swear it!”

  Now that piece was very interesting. Ned bent forward closer to Somersby’s bleeding ear and whispered threateningly. “That sounds like a lie. I found a dozen barrels with this mark loaded on a ship, a Hanse ship, no more than five days ago.”

  Just to put the powder merchant in the right frame of mind, Ned skipped his blade past the man’s face until the edge was lying across the nose. If he sneezed, Somersby would need both hands. “It wasn’t me!”

  If sheer terror was any gauge that could almost be the truth.

  “I was warned to keep away from the ships and the trading yards. They’re marked out!”

  Now that was very telling. You needed connections and muscle to impose a ban.

  “Who was it?” The facts in Ned’s mind were beginning to slot together. Somersby paused and licked his lips. That alone spoke volumes. The man was more afraid of his rival than the blade before his eyes. “I can’t! He had a royal warrant. It’d be the death of traitors!”

  That may have been enough. If Somersby wouldn’t give the name by now, it was useless to press further. Ned, however, had been wrong in his first assumption. It wasn’t muscle. It was worse. It had the imprimatur of Royal authority.

  “Thank you for your assistance, Master Somersby. You have been most helpful.” Ned wiped the blade clean of blood and replaced it in the sheath. Then he lent even closer, and in a spirit of chance and mischief, gave the powder merchant an option, just for kindness. “As a sign of our gratitude, see me at the Ruyter on Smart’s Wharf on Monday, and I’ll have a dozen barrels for you at fifty pounds a piece.”

  Ned patted the relieved powder merchant and retreated with the rest of their retinue to the waiting boats. As an afterthought he had one of the suspect barrels of powder grabbed, just in case. Master Somersby could reclaim it next week—if he wanted. Canting Michael, it seemed, had been a man of his word. Then so had Ned. Mostly.

  The row back to the ship was very quiet. Gryne’s men were probably relieved not to be blown up. However all the way Gruesome Roger gave Ned the most curious of regards, not that Ned gave it much attention. He was otherwise occupied, doing his best to still the trembles that occasionally swept across his body. The whole episode had been too close, and he really hadn’t known how far he would go for the information that he needed. Strangely, it was Meg Black’s grim example that had steeled his nerves and silenced the better angel of his conscience. He hadn’t realised how badly the whole affair had got to her. That she’d risk the fate of suicides relying only on God’s mercy was a chilling thought. Very silently he promised that no matter what it took, he’d see that she was spared the fate of heretics.

  But one question kept on bothering him and when they were almost across the river he cautiously pushed himself closer. “Where did the pistol come from?”

  Perhaps it was not the question she was expecting for her brow furrowed in confusion. “Rob gave it to me this afternoon. He begged me to have it, just in case.”

  So another discovered treasure from the hold. It did make sense and Ned gave a silent prayer, thanking his friend for forcing his notoriously stubborn sister to listen to sense for once. However that reminded him of another duty awaiting as soon as they got on board. So he better make a few preparations. “Meg, I am sorry about the argument earlier. When we land I think that Rob and Emma will need your guidance. Could you go and help them please?”

  Meg Black sat there in silent thought for a moment, then lent across and kissed him on the cheek. Ned was so surprised it took awhile to register what had happened, then he put his hand over the spot and turned away. Meg sat back and smiled, but Ned didn’t see it. His conscience was stricken by guilty, sinful thoughts, and not just those engendered by the kiss. He actually wanted Meg out of the way not only for personal safety. Instead another dark motive, prompted by his daemon, held sway. Ned wanted a long, private talk with Albrecht Hagan, without witnesses or faint–hearted allies who may intervene. This powder affair had rankled his temper. Too many people had lied to him, and after Somersby, his better angel was banished to the nether reaches. So none cajoled him about how he’d failed to tell Mistress Black the dread import of the oranges. Considering her actions this afternoon, it could be best if that secret was kept close for now. Anyway, his daemon reminded him, by tomorrow she’d undoubtedly have another cause with which to berate him.

  ***

  Chapter 21. Dark Thoughts in the Night, The R
uyter, Night time 8th–9th June

  The cool breeze of the late evening was refreshing, if only the same could be said of the pungent aroma of the river. It wafted into the shipmaster’s cabin via the open shutter. Ned sat on the only chair with his feet propped up on the trestle table, sipping from a leather mug of ale. His thoughts were more crowded than the jostle of a market day fair, however, if pushed for confession he had to admit the upper most one wasn’t revenge or mayhem or even the memory of a loosened bodice. Rather thankfulness and a full stomach. Mistress Emma had been considerate enough to send a supply of provender and drink to the impounded ship. It certainly made his watch a pleasant endurance.

  Despite the present satisfaction, Ned was afflicted by a mounting series of quandaries. At three days until he had to present himself to the Lord Chancellor, he still didn’t have a solution to the foul act committed in this very cabin. Now suspicions, he had them a plenty, but no red handed culprits, and as if that wasn’t enough, the matter of the Queen’s Oranges was for the moment, stalled. And his more recent duty of finding the Spaniard, Don Juan Sebastian, had barely started and like every other damn lord he’d been forced to serve, that had to be sorted by the 12th June as well. Some courtly wit had once observed that troubles never rained upon one as gentle dew, they poured as a torrent—how true that was.

  In a way it was a pity that prudent consideration had overtaken his sudden inspiration regarding the Hanse agent. Once back aboard the vessel he’d forgone an immediate interview. It may have given great satisfaction to vent his terror and frustration from the sojourn across the river onto someone else, but his training and intuition had blocked that savage anticipation. Instead, he’d kindly thanked Albrecht for his accommodating assistance, and suggested that the Hanse go back to his lodgings at the Steelyard. Ned had even managed to press a few of Gryne’s men on him as bodyguards in this perilous affair. The startled merchant had shaken his hand vigorously, commending him as a fine lad, while his action won a surprising kiss and kind words from Meg Black for the solicitous regard of her friend.