The Queen's Oranges

by House, Gregory

  Ned grappled with the mechanical operations of plot and treachery. They had Queen Katherine’s support and patronage, so that must be worth something, if only for the gold Her Royal Highness could amply provide. Gold was always a useful adjunct to treachery and the lifeblood of any plot, but the sinews of the beast needed men and more than the retainers of their supporters. They were just the loud clamour to add weight to any demands. More importantly for any success, it required the armed presence and authority of a recognised official, a man who could command and enforce obedience in a time of tumult. In fact a man, who could instil compliance from the frightened city and a distracted Parliament, and most importantly, one who had access to and standing with the King’s Majesty.

  That list was pretty small. Norfolk of course headed it, but in this instance it was inconceivable that he would be stupid enough to ally himself with his estranged wife, so he was struck off. Charles Brandon, the Earl of Suffolk was next. He had a Tudor sister as his wife and both of them loathed Anne Boleyn enough to help a plot along. Suffolk could easily claim sufficient backing and authority for the act. However it was commonly known that his wife, Mary Tudor, was known to resent Queen Katherine slightly more than her brother’s current mistress.

  So to Ned only one final name was left on the list, a man of ambition, talents, connections and totally devoid of scruples, in fact a man who had used the previous disturbance of the Evil May Day riots to enhance his own reputation. A royal official who already had the city in a panic over his raids and whose servants were panting after Ned and his friends. Sir Thomas More, the Lord Chancellor.

  As the outline of the plot formed into a giant shape in his thoughts, his daemon took one look and hid, terrified of the apparition. Ned himself would have trembled if he hadn’t been struck dumb with the horror of the plan. Parts and details may have been missing. However the shadow of the beast was enough. He had a fair idea as to the purpose and movement of the terror. Now all he had to do was find a way to halt it. Though how, caught as he was between terror and anger? The looming beast was a–snuffling around and the wrong move would bring it roaring down upon them all.

  When the first messages arrived of the approach of a troop of armed men crossing Temple Bar and heading for the Bishop of Bath’s Inn, Ned grimly gave the order for withdrawal. Emma may have been inclined to argue the decision but one look at what Ned was engaged in stilled any comment. He had pulled out his brace of pistols and was checking them over on the table. If this was just a rescue mission for the Oranges, then they were still able to act. If, however, it was with a warrant for arrest, he wasn’t going to be caught unprepared.

  Messages continued to flow in as the armed party paced closer to the Stafford abode. Those pleas for help became more urgent and closer together as the distance lessened. Still Ned continued to withhold aid, until the last messenger burst in the door panting from the sprint.

  “What’s going on? I call for help and nothing happens!” Then an irate Meg Black caught sight of Ned lounging at a table by the fireplace and her fiery passion transformed from mild anger to fury. “Well damn you for a cowardly measle, Ned Bedwell. I’d never thought you so craven as to deny a call for assistance! I suppose I should expect no less from a liar and a cozener!”

  The sheer disdain of her insult almost had him flinching in reaction. Instead he made an effort at nonchalance—after all there was an audience present. Ned dropped his feet from the table and sat up straighter. He noted with some annoyance that Emma was attentively watching the exchange with a quietly superior smile. Damn these insufferable Black women. “We cannot contend with them so I gave the command to hold off.”

  Well at least his reactions were improving. He dodged the hurled tankard with an inch to spare. It was a pity that the second one collided with his shoulder, drenching his doublet. He really had tried to be reasonable. None could fault his restrain. However at the realisation that his last good dress doublet was soaked and probably ruined in the service of an ungrateful Mistress Black, Ned jumped to his feet with a roar. “Well damn yourself, Meg Black, for a conceited fool!”

  He gestured wildly towards the street and the increasing number of faces craning around the door, eager to take in the entertainment. “You want blood on the streets? Go and stop them yourself, but don’t blame me when they haul you off to the Tower!”

  To no one’s surprise, his call for restraint was met by a chorus of disdain. Londoners would back anything, even a sheep in a cassock if it meant they could watch a fight. Worse, Meg took this shallow crowd as a true measure of support for her righteous stance. That wasn’t good. It may start off as a bit of street theatre, but the mood of the city was too fragile for it not to surge into a full blooded riot, and as far as Ned could see, that would be a perfect cover for whatever mayhem the Stafford’s had planned.

  Enough was enough. Patience was a distant memory and it hadn’t been the best of days. This argument was getting them nowhere and he could see more than enough eager ears ready to report any interesting gossip. He picked up one of the pistols and fired it into the lintel above the door.

  The sudden roar accompanied by the distinctive gout of flame and smoke had a most salutatory effect. For one thing, it halted Mistress Black’s exhortation for riot in mid flow, and secondly, the crowd of eager supporters evaporated before the sulphurous smoke had cleared, leaving Meg very much alone, covered in a spatter of dust and broken splinters.

  Ned put the discharged weapon back on the table and sat down, beckoning over one of the tavern’s pot boys. “Mistress Black, would you give us the honour of your company for a firkin of sack?”

  It was not really an invitation especially after the roar of the pistol. Mistress Black brushed off some of the dust and fragments from her shoulders, and appeared to choke back her rancour, before stalking into the common room of the tavern, a figure of suppressed rage expressed with every step. All eyes in the room closely observed her approach anticipating an explosion, especially Tover the taverner who was busy moving tankards and cups out of her path. With stiff dignity she accepted the proffered beaker of wine and took a careful sip, all with her baleful gaze locked on Ned. Another time he would have been very worried. Now matters had passed well beyond the fear of Meg Black’s approbation. Anyway he was tired of dealing with the unbalanced humours of women. They were flighty and unpredictable. What did worry him during the whole performance was Emma’s amused smile. Whatever the source she kept it close and secret.

  Ned inclined his head closer and spoke in a soft and reasonable tone. “My apologies for the distress, Mistress Black. I but sort to keep our business private.”

  That received the slightest nod of acknowledgement, but the red light of anger still burned in those blue grey eyes. If there had been a mirror, his eyes might display the same intensity of feeling. He didn’t feel the least remorse in showering her in plaster chips and lath. Now a chamber pot that would have been even more satisfying! Ned was quietly satisfied. His shock tactic had worked and even better, Gruesome Roger was elsewhere. As his daemon suggested, ‘Hawks’ might have taken the use of the pistol very poorly.

  “That party of retainers would be More’s men. I think they have a part in this affair with the Queen’s Oranges. However I recently learned that the Lord Chancellor has picked you and the vessel out as his special choice of quarry.”

  The signs of Meg’s anger had diminished just a smidgen. Just maybe there was a hint of curiosity there. Time for the adroit use of flattery. “Your work with the Orange Watch has been amazing. You’ve forced them to delay their preparations for over half a day and pushed them to reveal one of their hidden allies. Now they have to march around in public to each of their co–conspirators and deliver the instruction—that will take time.”

  As far as Ned was concerned, that was even better than stopping the flow of the oranges completely. At each visit the subverted noble would have to be a fool not to realise he was now openly marked. Treachery and plotting in
the concealing shadows of anonymity were one thing. In the full glare of countless gossips, spies and retainers, the traditional rewards of treason gained a new measure of respect.

  To Margaret Black, that sensible course of action seemed to be beyond her realms of common sense. She put down her wine and stood up. “No, Ned Bedwell, you’re wrong. I’ll not let them traipse all over my city unhindered!”

  With that firm declaration, she walked towards the door. Ned just sat there in angry shock. Damn, she’d done it again, ignored reason and his rightful commands. If Meg Black had been a soldier, he would have been within the Usages of War to shoot her. As tempting as that may have been, he resisted. His angel applauded the restraint.

  Instead he slammed the empty beaker onto the table, leaving a spreading spray of shards and jumped to his feet. Well he wasn’t bereft of sense and duty. Ned waved Ouze over. “Go and watch over that headstrong shrew. If it looks like she’s going to get into trouble, just drag her back to the ship, preferably unconscious!”

  His retainer appeared to have trouble with his face. The muscles were twitching all over and Ned’s anger darkened as Ouze left with the distinctive sounds of poorly suppressed snorts.

  “What?!” Ned had spun around to catch the purveyor of a chuckle, to find Emma sitting there still with that smugly knowing smile on her face.

  “I’ve heard honey works better than vinegar, Ned.”

  It took a few moments thought for her meaning to sink in. He was inclined to frown with superiority and give a biting retort. He didn’t. Instead he gave a low bow and took his leave muttering loudly to the effect that a bear trap would be more useful. It was amazing what forbearance a man could display when he wanted to keep drinking excellent ale and eating venison pies.

  ***

  Chapter 24. Priests, Punks and Passages, To Petty Wales, Morning, 9th June

  Ned stood under the projecting eave of a bakery, munching a fresh loaf and watching the band of armed men trying to march to the Bishops of Bath’s Inn. It was a progress measured in inches. Their passage to the head of Milford Lane was contested by jeering children and conveniently stalled wagons, along with hundreds of the surrounding parish’s idling loungers drawn by the rumour of entertainment. As promised Meg Black had been busy. Belsom’s sergeant at arms from the previous night led the marchers in their truncated journey. The poor fellow had the resigned look of any soldier given a ridiculous duty, as he directed his men to assist in moving a mired cart loaded down with barrels of fish. To Ned all that was required to make this the perfect scene of a players comedy was the scarlet plumes and half armour of Sir Belsom. However their glorious leader was strangely absent from his chance of martial glory.

  The view was terribly amusing, men in half armour and livery struggling to pull a wagon from the mud to the colourful imprecations of the carter and the counter productive suggestions of their audience. He’d seen enough. Dusting his hands, Ned strode off. He had graver affairs to deal with. The distraction of Meg Black’s foolishness must have been the reason why he ran full tilt into the friar. Both of them came to a shuddering halt, and Ned’s sword became entangled in the priest’s grimy habit.

  “Get off me, you miserable piece of carrion!” Ned lashed out with the back of an open hand and pushed the fellow into the muddy ditch that carried the street’s filth. He’d a difficult time with priests and plots, and now this stumbling oaf almost tripped him up into the crud of the road. The friar must have been young, for he recovered quickly and nimbly skipped over the reeking ditch and turned towards Ned, almost as if he was about to return the compliment with one of his own.

  Instead he bowed in supplication and spoke in a trembling voice. “Oh forgivez me greet Lord, my humblest apologiez.”

  Ned snarled a reply and strode on. It may have been five paces or so before the jangling bells of his memory pushed past his anger and affront. There was something wrong with what had just happened. It was difficult to sort out the jarring irregularity, and then in mid stride it came to him. That friar fair reeked of oranges! The spicy tang was all over his habit. For only a handful or so of men in London could that be possible, and one of them was that Spanish upstart, Don Juan Sebastian.

  Ned grabbed his escort, ducked into a nearby lane and peered back towards the stifled progress. He could see the supposed friar hovering at one edge, closely watching the efforts to clear the road. Yes, it must be him! That stance shouted of poorly shrouded arrogance. Ned choked back the impulse to sprint after the Spanish swine and challenge him there and then. It wasn’t easy—his wounded honour and pride clamoured for retribution. Somehow the pain of his clenched grip on the sword hilt pulled him back towards the shores of reason. No, this was his warrant to escape More’s attention, no matter that Meg ungrateful Black didn’t deserve such loyalty!

  So what was he to do? It seemed that Don Juan Sebastian hadn’t recognised Ned. Well he did look somewhat better dressed than the last occasion in the woods by Grafton Regis. Otherwise the Spaniard would have bolted out of sight. Ned frowned. Maybe the foreigner had just seen another one of the despised English strutting past. He couldn’t challenge Don Juan Sebastian—Skelton had been very emphatic regarding that. The northerner wanted the Spaniard in his hands. A kidnapping wasn’t going to work either. He didn’t have enough retainers. As for cony catching ploys, they were unlikely to work. Don Juan Sebastian had been in London too long to fall for the usual tricks, so that left trailing.

  Ned pulled his remaining retainer close and gave him a few instructions then sent him off to Emma. He really had to hope for the best. Will the Butcher was wonderfully intimidating and he had the useful knack of looking like he was measuring one up for jointing and boning. But when it came to more complex matters Ned had to admit Emma’s rag tag of children left most of Gryne’s men plodding well behind. So now he had to rely on the Bee Skep’s owner and hope that her quirky sense of amusement encompassed his plea. The request seemed so humiliating after his abrupt departure. Ned reminded himself that he was, after all, a gentleman, thus honour and gentility were his watchwords.

  So Ned took up a more useful position for observing the actions of his prey, covered by a screen of stalls. It had a good view of the supposed friar. Now with a closer and longer look, it was apparent that the Spaniard, although superficially a good imitation, succumbed to many of his embedded affectations. For one thing his left hand frequently sought the hilt of an absent sword, while his stance spoke more of years of accustomed arrogant disdain much more than was natural in any friar. Don Juan Sebastian should have spent more time watching the players at their performances in the tavern courtyards. They could have taught him a thing or two about appearance.

  It seemed that Ned wasn’t the only one to recognise the disguised friar. Another pair of fellows walked up and greeting him, though he seemed somewhat less than pleased to see them. They fell into discussion which very quickly descended into an acrimonious dispute. Ned was intrigued. Neither of the newcomers was acting in a subservient manner towards the Spaniard, while Don Juan Sebastian was adopting those same haughty gestures Ned remembered so well. His daemon provided one credible interpretation of the scene. Don Juan Sebastian felt those he was engaging with were little better than sheep humping peasants.

  Ned wished he could get closer. The distance was too great to hear them over the hubbub of the street and Don Juan Sebastian’s ‘friends’ had their caps pulled down, shrouding their features. Then Ned noticed an impromptu street game starting up next to the Spaniard and one of the children was Emma’s diminutive messenger. Good, so his plea had succeeded.

  After some minutes of animated discussion the meeting ended and Don Juan Sebastian strode off, clearly upset. As expected, the Spaniard didn’t notice the children’s game that shifted in his wake tagging along. In the meantime the two newcomers pointed towards the continuing struggles of the armed band and engaged in some sort of exchange. Whatever it was, they seemed happy enough and headed off towards Fleete Str
eet. Well Ned had little choice. Of the two, the Spaniard was the most important, but he was already marked. These two had displayed sufficient knowledge of the plot to engage Don Juan Sebastian in argument and enough standing to send him away in a huff. Ned was torn as to duty or desire. Currently he lacked an escort and revenge beckoned alluringly. However reason warned him that despite Skelton and a healthy desire for retribution, right now the damned Spaniard came second. So reluctantly Ned set off, trailing after his latest prey, the two newest players in the plot.

  That reluctant task soon turned into a very interesting journey across the city. The pair weren’t that hard to keep in view. Though they had the common dress of well off artisans, their caps were ringed with a gaudy red velvet trim and one of them had decided on an extra piece of show and attached a couple of iridescent feathers from a peacock. There was a tingling certainty that he’d seen one of them before, but his memory slid away from any useful connection. Their trail, once across the bridge at Fleete Ditch proceeded uphill to the gate then plunged south towards the river by Blackfriars. From there, starting with Puddle Wharf, the pair visited a number of riverside merchant’s yards. Each call lasted no more than a few minutes. Ned may have been overly suspicious but after each call, the taller of the two seemed to gain paunch in his doublet. The most interesting stop was at Albrecht’s haunt, the Steelyard. The taller one with the feathers stomped out, clearly unhappy. That gained Ned’s undivided interest. Silently Ned cursed in mounting frustration. If only he’d kept his escort! Damn Meg Black and her wilful ways. A snatch would have been simple, but no, his temporary livery men had been sent off to protect Mistress Black, again! Cursing himself for a soft hearted fool, Ned continued his stalking along the riverside.

  As he could have predicted, the pair halted by Smart’s Wharf and Peacock Feathers ducked into the Customs House. Ned was very tempted to sprint for the vessel, if it wasn’t for the chance of scaring off his prey. There was still an incessant demand from his daemon to grab Peacock Feather and his friend, then squeeze some truth out of them. They knew Don Juan Sebastian and maybe Albrecht and possibly about the Ruyter. By all the saints if he had a few men and a Rack or the Boot, he would have done it already and damn the consequences! Ned pressed himself against the wall and pulled his cap down, grinding his teeth in anger. He couldn’t do a thing around this part of the city—he was too well known by spies and pursuivants.