The Queen's Oranges

by House, Gregory

  After his usual hospitable welcome at the Gryne Dragone, Ned took up his courage and knocked on the old doctor’s door up on the second storey. Once more the willowy, red haired Nerys ushered him into the arcanely appointed room. She made a most attractive door warden and Ned would have asked her out in a trice, if she didn’t have the twin disadvantages of being the fearsome Captaine Gryne’s favoured daughter and Dr Caerleon’s apprentice in the craft. Those were enough to make even the bravest lad tremble in his boots.

  “Master Bedwell you’re late!” A rasping cry greeted his entrance. Ned swallowed nervously. He had learnt from previous visits that catching the old astrologer by surprise was impossible. Whether it was a trick accomplished with spy holes or real magick, it was still daunting.

  The doctor impatiently waved him in and pointed a bony finger towards a carefully scribed parchment. “Another hour and your predicament would have been irretrievable!”

  Ned’s mouth was suddenly as dry as a desert. Some may claim that this dramatic statement was just a mummer’s act, as the player’s at the Inns practised to aid the mood for the audience. That may well be, but it was still effective. Bending over the indicated paper, he saw that it was covered in strange symbols. Some, he thought, were in Arabic, while others looked similar to the script labelling the containers at Williams the apothecary. Together with the arcs and annotated geometric lines, which he suspected may have be calculations, the chart made an impressive piece of work, and in its own way held a beautiful symmetry—though what it all meant he hadn’t the faintest inkling.

  “You, Master Bedwell, are remiss!” The bony finger swung back towards him like the accusing pointer of sin. “I expected ye here three days ago, afore the Vespers bells, rather than feasting!”

  Ned gulped nervously at this accurate review.

  “Your indulgence, gluttony and carnal temptations almost ruined my calculations, Bedwell!”

  That sounded very peevish. Didn’t the astrologer know that Ned had been busy divining plots and conspiracy? A guilty angel at his shoulder reminded him that the night of the venison feast he had seriously considered that a visit to the doctor was in order. But anyway, how did he know of the feast? Either through the talents of his craft or his intelligencer network rivalled Emma’s.

  The black robed astrologer pulled back his hanging sleeves and shuffled parchments around on his cluttered table, pulling five more towards him, muttering darkly of threatening conjunctions and stabbing at notes with an ink blackened finger. “You stand in great peril, in the cusp between two powerful influences, each one balanced in the symmetry of the spheres. If they tip one way, disaster and ruin stretch out grasping claws to pull you down. If it sways the other way, then it is possible that you may tread Fortuna’s path.”

  Ned nodded thoughtfully. That seemed to be the story so far, if you survive, you win.

  Dr Caerleon twitched up a set of dividers from the table clutter and pointed to another pair of astronomical parchments. “Beware Master Bedwell. these two have crossed your way before! Both were a prominent threat last year. They are so again. One may save you, the other threaten your life!”

  The astrologer was certainly correct there. He recalled both charts as belonging to those twin banes of his existence, Don Juan Sebastian and Skelton, though which was more of a danger was difficult to say.

  “If dire portents weren’t enough, according to this set of calculations,” the astrologer waved towards a further pile of scribbled sheets several layers deep, “these coincidences predict that between the Compline and Vigil chimes, unless you make the right choice, you’ll be dead!”

  “What!” Ned was expecting and hoping for discussion of differing option as had happened last year, not this escalating series of warnings culminating in his imminent demise if he made a mistake.

  “What happened to each person makes their own future?” That may have sounded shrill and nervous, but by the saints in heaven he certainly felt it.

  Dr Caerleon’s brows came together into a frown and he shook his head gravely. “That my lad is always true. The stars can predict some but not all. Fate and chance still play their parts in the crystalline dance of the spheres. However all these charts are beginning to lock into fixed patterns. When that is so, your options of choice correspondingly diminish.”

  Ned slumped down into the nearest stool. He wasn’t fool enough to want the sugar coated comfits that astrologers usually doled out, but this was more than a lad could take. It appeared the stars themselves conspired against him! Then he recalled his earlier argument with Mistress Black. Well damn him, he was right. He’d been so in the beginning and he was doubly so now. If he could he’d shake his fist in defiance at the constellations. Red Ned Bedwell was a man of parts, skill and cunning! He’d faced down the Cardinal’s men, Norfolk’s and the Queen’s. As a gambling man, he wouldn’t have put a bent groat on his chances last year. Yet here he was, hale and relatively hearty.

  He gave a shrug, shedding the plaintive whining of his daemon, and straightened up. If it was his time, he’d damn well wasn’t going down without a fight. “I care not for augury, doctor. My fate is my own. So what can I do to frustrate the plans of my foes?”

  Perhaps the old man had been waiting for just this statement. The hint of a knowing smirk tugged at his lips and Dr Caerleon slowly nodded, pulling several more sheets out from his cluttered table. “As far as the stars allow, I discerned that five men are embedded in this perilous conjunction. More hover on the edge, but tis these five that are crucial. From interpreting their signs and influences, they are all ambitious. One chart is in the ascendant, if I read it correctly a man of great learning and power, at the peak of Fortuna’s wheel. He is ruthless and formidable. I believe from their association, he in a manner, directs the rest.”

  Ned frowned. He had little understanding of the methods of divination used, but that sounded uncannily like Sir Thomas More.

  “The rest of these charts display the signs of strength and power. They would be men of position, and at least one, I think, has the imprint of Royal authority.”

  That was a risky claim to make. It implied that Dr Caerleon had consulted the Royal horoscope. Ned already knew that the astrologer had been forced to do so last year, and as a man already officially dead, the punishment for this act of treason seemed pretty irrelevant. On another level it also gave him an inkling of how far the doctor had delved into forbidden areas to divine Ned’s future. That at least was reassuring.

  Dr Caerleon put aside what could have been More’s chart, and spread out the other four on a space that Nerys had quickly cleared on the table. The astrologer muttered quietly as he marked off a scale on one of the charts, then pointed to a shared pattern of figures.

  “As I said earlier,” Dr Caerleon tapped at the charts sharply and frowned even more darkly at Ned, “I see in these four great dangers for you this night. All are conjoined, and having referred to your chart, I fear they encompass your death, Master Bedwell.”

  Definitive word from the Crystal Spheres on his approaching demise didn’t exactly encourage confidence in Ned despite his previous affirmation.

  “From this chart it very confusing. From what I can ascertain, each must have a different motive for your destruction.” Caerleon looked positively offended as he waved a hand angrily across the charts. Whether it was the difficulty of the work or the stymieing of his future plans, Ned could not tell. More disturbing news—those wanting Red Ned dead multiplied from two to six. What, did they breed like maggots?

  Ned wryly peered at the incriminating astrological notations. Wasn’t there any good news at all? “Doctor, any man may face his enemies with confidence if he knows their weaknesses. Can you find any?”

  The old physician raised one eyebrow and began to shuffle, once more, through the myriad charts and scribbled notes. Ned tried not to let the long search dampen his spirits. His daemon didn’t help by listing dozens of great men who’d succumbed to prophecy. His better a
ngel attempted to inspire him by reminding him that all these events were, of course, written up by philosophers as moral fables after the said timings and deaths. Perhaps they may have been exaggerated? As inspiration, it failed.

  Ned was at the point of jumping up and running from the room when Dr Caerleon gave a triumphant cry and pinned a symbol with his finger. “Aha! I knew I’d seen it! This is their only mutual flaw, Master Bedwell, and your only chance! All these men are prey to the canker of distrust. The stars indicate they are so disparate that cooperation is only out of the shared bond of interlocking interest.”

  That wasn’t much to base any plan upon. And for another thing, it also implied a closer acquaintance between his enemies than he was hoping for. So that was it? Trust? Ned was painfully aware that if he wished to live out the night a few more questions needed answering, but how to discover such elusive answers from an unpredictable Dr Caerleon?

  The actors at the Inns would insist that such a revelation required some earth shattering pronouncement such as a peal of thunder or the low toned voice of a prophet wreathed in sulphurous fumes. Instead Ned had recalled the two salvaged coins and unwrapped them from within his kerchief. Some may call what he was going to try pure hedge wizardry, and Ned Bedwell, apprentice lawyer, a modern man in learning and knowledge, may have been expected to sneer at it as unfounded superstition.

  If…

  If it wasn’t for a childhood spent in the fields of Essex. It was old Will Acton, a man of many skills and prodigious thirst. The local justice and the parish priest both loathed him, supposing he was the root of the villagers disdain for lawful authority and their missing tithes. The people of the village thought differently, and if they lost anything like a beast or had a problem to solve, then it was his door they’d come knocking on first. He had an uncanny ability to help out. Well, one day he showed a young, inquisitive Ned how he did it. A pray to St Michael and two fresh willow branches held loosely in his hand and, as if by magic, they pointed the way to the stray lamb, or hinted at a solution to a rancorous dispute. How amazed Ned had been at the success of this simple method, and it was that memory that caused him to put the two mismatched coins onto the charts. “Dr Caerleon, you are an astrologer of great experience and deep learning. I realise this could be considered a petty request and maybe not worthy of your talents, but could you tell me where these were bound?”

  The old doctor gave the proffered coins a deep frown and made a ‘tsk tsk’ sound before nudging the coins away with his quill. “Master Bedwell, scrying is not my skill.”

  Ned spirits sank. Well it had been worth a try. He started to pick them up but abruptly Caerleon’s lean hand shot out and, grabbed his arm, halting the move.

  “However there may be one who does.”

  Ned tried to pull his arm away, but the old astrologers’ grip was as strong as iron. “You have sworn me three tasks, Edward Bedwell and before Twelfth Night has come you will redeem one. Swear it now!”

  Caerleon’s eyes sparkled under his grey bushy brows as if kindling fire from the very air. Ned felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand stiff and straight like a boar’s bristles. His angel screamed for him to escape while his whispering daemon hid. Ned wrenched his arm free and glowered at the physician. “I swore once Caerleon. I’ve not broken my pledge! If I live your three tasks are still my bond.”

  The astrologer lent back and stoked his beard, a wintery smile on his face, and called out in a commanding tone. “Nerys!”

  For the second time the astrologer’s assistant stepped forward. During these consultations Ned frequently forgot her presence. For such an attractive girl she had an uncanny ability to fade into the background. That was the reverse of her father. When Captaine Gryne strode into a room everybody knew it, though frequently those inside tried to leave by any available exit. Debt collection could be a socially challenging occupation.

  Nerys picked up the pair of coins and thoughtfully rubbed them with the tips of her fingers. “These were hidden in an orange.”

  Though Ned’s hairs still quivered with a tingling apprehension, he forced himself not to succumb to Caerleon’s player’s tricks. So with the coins still covered in the sticky juice, Ned considered that a pretty safe guess. However he gave a brief nod and maintained his polite, distant interest.

  “They was several more.”

  Another safe guess.

  “They was in a wicker basket.”

  Oranges were usually carried that way.

  “They was travelling in a boat.”

  Well, of course. They did have to come from Spain.

  “They was goin’ down the river.”

  The common form of transport in London.

  “They was goin’ into a castle.”

  There were a few castles on the river. Ned could name a dozen, Bayard castle for one.

  “They was goin’ into a room.”

  This trick was getting threadbare. Of course it would be in a room.

  “They was going into a iron shod box.”

  Yes, that’s where most sensible people keep gold and silver. Ned felt the cold prickling at the nape of his neck and a shot of sparks as her green eyes looked deep into his. Suddenly his mouth tasted of flat iron as Nerys’ words echo in his skull.

  “Ye was sittin’ on the box.”

  He shivered and restrained the impulse to cross himself. It was an uncanny gift and according to the church, tainted by association with the Devil.

  “Ye knows where that box is.”

  It was not a question, and he could hear the certainty in her voice. Somehow according to Nerys, Ned had already seen where all the gold was going. He shivered as both his angel and daemon promptly scurried into a deep, deep hidey hole.

  It was a very distracted Ned who made his farewells, and he was still in a shocked daze as he sat down in the common area of the tavern. He couldn’t even recall if he’d paid Dr Caerleon, though he supposed he must have. The last words of Nerys continued to buzz around his head like an annoying insects. No matter, he had other business to transact.

  A request to the pot boy brought Captaine Gryne sauntering over to his table. He sat down, and from the way the bench bent under the impost, it might have been a green sapling rather than iron–hard, aged oak. The leader of Gryne’s Men had earned his position by his strength and size. He kept it by the cunning mind that the fearsome scarred visage hid.

  “Aye Ned, wot ye be wantin’?” Gryne growled.

  Most sensible men would tremble at that tone. Ned however had learnt to listen for the inflection of tolerant amusement. He’d gained the impression that Captaine Gryne looked upon the antics of Red Ned Bedwell in the same manner as a courser of hounds would a stumbling puppy; eager, amusing and showing possible promise.

  “Tonight I need all your men at the Ruyter before sunset.”

  The master of mercenaries tugged on his long, forked beard and frowned deeply. “Nay Ned. Canna do it.”

  “What! Why not?” That wasn’t even close to the answer he’d been expecting. He’d always got on well with the fearsome Captaine, and made a point of paying cash and a bonus for the services of his men. It didn’t do to have him as a creditor.

  “I can double the pay!” Thanks to recent circumstances he could draw on adequate funds.

  “It’s nay the gilt Ned. All the lads are bought and paid fo’—none left.”

  That was grim news indeed. He’d hoped for a sizable reinforcement. At the long face Gryne patted Ned on the shoulder in rough sympathy. “Seein’ it’s ye’self, Red Ned, I’ll let ye have four men t’ keep ye well. But just t’ be sure, can ye pay now, all ye owe?”

  Ned gave a wry smile at the request. News of his chances after dark had spread pretty quickly, not that he could accuse Gryne of avarice. The mercenary contractor was careful with his reputation and gave good value for the gold. The four extra men could be depended upon to give their blood in his defence—until circumstances terminated the contract. A dead man’s gol
d bound no one

  With good grace he emptied his purse onto the table. If he fell tonight he wasn’t going to need it and debts were debts. One collection of coins refused to spill out like the rest, rather landing in a soggy splodge. Damn those children and the oranges at the Boars Head. It’d be just like Emma’s foundlings to pull such a trick—slipping a squashed orange into his purse! Damn the little scurriers. He’d tried to be friendly, even generous, and now his coin was covered in this sticky residue.

  Ned pulled out his eating blade and tried to pry the coins apart. It was not a success. The juices had set into a dark, sticky goo, refusing to yield to persuasion, and to add to the frustration, his hands were now covered in the dark excretion. Gryne watched the performance with mounting amusement, and made the odd comment about a how he’d known a few gentleman who’s hands could stick to gold but usually someone else’s.

  Resolutely Ned held on to his temper. It wouldn’t do to let a child’s cozening enrage him so, and continued with the messy task. That was until he freed several coins. Then he slammed his hands down and cried out in shock and surprise.

  Damn him for a measle brained dullard. He wasn’t fit to be an apprentice village idiot. How could he have been so blind! The golden coins stuck together by the black orange excrescence weren’t his! Well they were, sort of, but not really. They were part of Belsom’s bribe!